Disclaimer: I do not own Red Dead Redemption 2. This story contains blood, violence, abuse, and dark themes. Viewer discretion is advised.

Kieran didn't know what he was going to do at first. With his thoughts consumed by fear and worry, coming up with a plan was like trying to hold water with a drainer. He stayed tied to his post in the stables, averting his gaze from anyone who passed by and keeping silent. It was when he felt his stomach rumble and his throat parched that it sunk in that he couldn't keep silent forever.

He wasn't keen on starving to death, but he didn't want to send the vengeful Van der Lindes after Colm either. He thought about lying about Colm's location, but if so, he'd probably be shot dead or tortured, and nothing would save him from that fate. Colm was probably on his way to Six Point Cabin if he wasn't there already. How long would Colm wait for him? Until the end of May? The middle of June? The end of July? No, he would have had to have moved onto Fort Wallace by then, right? He could wait until June to talk. If he wasn't killed by then.

The intimidating guard they placed to watch over him was just as quiet as he was, never asking any questions or spitting insults. "Smith," he believed his name was. He assumed he was one of the new members. He didn't know all of the Van der Linde gang members, only the oldest ones or the ones the O'Driscolls complained about. The gang was undoubtedly smaller than his own, but he still felt utterly surrounded and outmatched by them. If he could somehow get loose, he wouldn't be able to outrun the gang without Branwen. Even with her, it was a risk. Though he knew Branwen could care for herself, he hoped the mare was safe.

He had overheard whispers of an upcoming train robbery, and when most of the horses were taken out of the stables, it confirmed his suspicions. It didn't surprise him that the Van der Lindes would take a score from the O'Driscolls, again. If the gangs weren't shooting at each other, they were either stealing or sabotaging each other's scores to fuel their rivalry. Though rivalry was putting the blood feud lightly. Though the gang rarely put their hands on him. Smith only did so to force him to drink and let him go to relieve himself.

He tried keeping track of the days, but his exhausted and hungered body sometimes gave out, leaving him to sleep for who knew how long. Of course, he wasn't going to ask. The monotony of how all the days were starting to blend together was mentally grading. There was a change, however, when bright and early in the morning, a new face came to the stables, an older woman with an angry wrinkled face and greying hair.

"Mr. Smith, get that mongrel loaded up in the wagon. We're leavin' before noon."

"Yes, ma'am." Kieran didn't resist being led out of the stables, more so dragged as his bandaged leg had yet to fully heal from the bullet wound. He kept his head low, evading the glares of the gang members as they finished cleaning up their camp. He was shoved into the back of a wagon with other supplies, hands tied in front of him. "Don't try anything stupid." Smith warmed him with a flash of his gun. "Escuella," he addressed the approaching man, "keep eyes on him, would you?"

"Not a problem, my friend," Escuella said as he moved to sit down across from him, knife in hand. "Not at all." Two more gang members got onto the front of the wagon, a woman with dark brown hair running past her shoulders and an olive complexion; her hazel eyes not sparing him a glance.

"I have to ride with this O'Driscoll trash?" she grimaced, not hiding her disgust.

"Look on the bright side Miss Kirk. At least you get to ride with me." The man sitting beside her said with a sly smirk.

"Spare me, Micah," Kirk rolled her eyes. Kieran was surprised with the wagon jolted forwards, and he had to quickly regain his balance. When the wagon reached the edges of the now-abandoned campsite, something sticking out of the ground caught his eye. It was a wooden plank with words carved into it covered in snowflakes that he could barely read: Davey Callandar.

As the trek to the new camp, wherever it was, went on, he kept silent. Staring out at the icy forests and rivers they passed, waiting to see if he'd recognized a landmark telling him where he was. A chill crawled up his back. Not the kind from freezing temperatures, but the kind prey feels when a predator's eyes are burning into its back.

"Hey, O'Driscoll," he flinched as he felt something flick off the side of his face. He turned around to see Micah looking down at him, his frosty blue eyes drilling into him. "You gotta name, or should we keep callin' you 'O'Driscoll'?" They wouldn't be wrong to do so, but he wasn't going to tell him that. "Ah, the strong silent type, I see. Well, maybe just the silent type."

"I heard Hosea say his name's Duffy," Escuella said. "Kieran Duffy."

"It doesn't matter what name his mama gave him," Kirk scoffed, "Doesn't make him any less of an O'Driscoll. What I want to know is," she finally turned back to look at him, a nasty flare in her seething stare. "Did you relish torturing Davey like you did?" The simple answer was no. He didn't enjoy torturing a man who couldn't fight back. But his vote rarely mattered when it came to who was and who wasn't deserving of any kind of vengeance. "You just keep quiet O'Driscoll. It'll make it evermore satisfying when we get you screaming." Kieran couldn't keep her gaze any longer, looking down at the floor instead.

"That was a warning, cabrón." Escuella nudged him with his boot. "If you got any kind of sense, you'll start talking before it gets worse for you." Kieran didn't need to be told that to know the only thing keeping him from a horrible death was Van der Linde's order. Though no matter how worse his situation could get, he made no plans on failing Colm again.

Gradually, the snow around them grew thinner and thinner until blades of grass and packed dirt were visible underneath the summer sun. It was late afternoon when the gang finally made camp at an overlook in the Heartlands, dangerously close to Six Point Cabin. He was dragged out of the wagon, and stripped of his coat and gloves before being tied to a tree on the edge of the camp, left to starve. He'd give Colm another three days before he spoke. No, three was too short, four days… But what if he was just one day off? Five days. He could wait five days.

"Now, everyone, put your tools down for a moment." His head perked up at Van der Linde's voice, drawing all the gang's attention. "Come on, gather round, quickly now. I know that things have been tough… but we are far too poor. So it is time for everyone to get to work."

"Get to work and stay out of trouble." Silver Fingers spoke up. "Remember, we are itinerant workers."

"Laid off when they shut down our factory to the north. Now, get out there, and see what you can find. Uncle, Reverend Swanson… no more passengers." The gang chuckled at the jab. "It is time for everyone to earn their keep."

"There is a town a little way down the track name of Valentine, livestock town. All mud and morons, if I remember right. That seems a decent place to start."

"And we need food, real food." A bigger man with a top hat interjected, "That means every day, one of you."

"And remember," Van der Linde came out of his tent with a small wooden box, placing it on a nearby barrel, "whatever it is that you find, the camp gets its slice. Now be sensible out there." He waved his followers away to return to their duties. The speech was certainly different from Colm's delivery, but similar with its message of supporting the gang.

He was given a broad view of the gang's camp and the members themselves from his new position. Having days with nothing to do but stand and watch, he could see they weren't the same as the O'Driscolls. They argued and fought like the O'Driscrolls, but they would beat each other to a pulp. Most of them did their fair share of work without having to hold a gun to each other's head and threaten their lives. They were willing to help one another with chores and jobs without screwing each other over and shooting each other dead.

That was about where the differences ended. They still robbed like the O'Driscolls and killed like them, too, if the blood splattering their shirts told Kieran anything. Their compassion was only reserved for themselves, with their scorn for those they deemed deserving being more dangerous than a loaded gun. Though, he didn't blame them entirely for their hatred of him. He was more than understanding of the rage that came with losing a loved one the way they did. It could make anyone do the ugliest acts imaginable.

The first two days were uneventful for the most part. Kieran spent most of his time staring at the same patch of grass, listening to the gang's footsteps and conversations, ignoring the gnawing pain in his gut and his dry throat. So, he didn't notice the person approaching him until their shadow loomed over him.

"Look at you…" the sultry voice of a woman drifted to his ears. He glanced up to see a green-eyed woman wearing her short blonde hair in curls. "You ain't so scary," she puffed on her cigarette. "I thought O'Driscolls ate babies… you look like a baby." He couldn't tell if that was supposed to be a compliment or an insult. However, the curl of her pink lips suggested the latter. "You learned how to speak yet, or are you just a coward?" She scoffed when she got no answer and flicked her cigarette at his face, pulling out a started yelp from his parched throat. "Just a coward then." She walked off, and he let his head sink back down. Another pair of footsteps edging closer made him reflexively tense and look back up.

It was another woman, one with long brown hair running down her shoulder in a braid and freckles decorating her rosy cheeks, a cup grasped in her hands. He usually saw her reading if she wasn't doing chores.

"Here you go," she offered him the drink in the gentlest voice he's heard in what felt like forever, smiling sweetly. He was only given water about three times a day if they remembered to, and never by her. No matter how sorely tempted he was to drink, he knew better than to blindly take anything disguised as a gift if he could help it. He'd rather have a dry throat than drink poisoned water. Despite his thirst, he kept himself from taking a sip. She frowned. "C'mon, I know you're thirsty." The encouragement only made him keener to reject the offer. She sighed, tapping her finger on the cup in thought. She dumped the water out onto a nearby plant.

"Look," he watched as she went to the same water trough that the rest of the gang used and dunked the cup inside it before walking back over to him. "I didn't do anything to it. I promise," She held out the cup again, a hopeful glint in her emerald eyes. Now, he wasn't confident about being so skeptical. Unless all the gang drank poisoned water, she was telling the truth. Sighing heavily, he took a chance taking a sip. He was greeted with refreshingly cool water. He quickly downed the entire cup, enjoying every moment, knowing it wouldn't last long. He sighed contently, a "thank you" nearly crawling out of his throat, opting for a grateful nod. Her smile returned.

"You're welcome." He made a mental note to get her name.

The next woman that came his way wasn't so kind. He could tell right away by her charging footsteps. The smell of freshly cooked stew in the air.

"I've met some of your boys before," her rough voice was low, hiding the hate inside her that her heated glare could not, tightly gripping a plate of stew. "You must be hungry," his stomach answered for him. "Well, I'll leave this here then." He wasn't too surprised when she poured the stew onto the ground though it still hurt to watch. "In the dirt." She mushed the still steaming food into the ground, face red and eyes pink. "Where those other O'Driscolls left my husband." She stormed off. He wondered if she could have been the wife of the recently deceased Callandar brother or a widow of a different man entirely.

When he woke up on day three, something felt off. Maybe it was just the emaciation making him feel so anxious and on edge. He lifted his head, neck tensely creaking, and scanned around the camp. With the camp being less occupied than it usually was, it didn't take him long to find the one pair of eyes locked onto him. Van der Linde stared him down from where he sat in his tent while Kirk and a man that looked frighteningly familiar talked to him. Finally, after a long pause of him rhythmically drumming his two fingers on his knee, he nodded. The pair left camp with a pep in their step. It was in the afternoon, with most other members still out doing jobs when they returned. Kieran could tell by the hefty footfalls heading his way.

"It's your lucky day, O'Driscoll," The jest was also a pretty good clue. He felt the animosity radiating off the man before looking him in the eyes. He'd seen similar eyes in the past, though the honey-brown orbs weren't swollen or gouged out of his head. This Callander was much broader, looking like he could beat most men in a brawl than his brother could have. "Dutch's finally lettin' us have a go at makin' you talk."

"This is either going to be painless for you," Kirk spoke up. "Or so much fun for us. It's up to you."

"We'll give you one chance to talk," Callander said, cracking his knuckles. "Where's Colm O'Driscoll hidin'?" Kieran felt strangled between the two imposing figures, the fear within him that had been buried by hunger and boredom steadily rising. Despite the gnawing terror clawing in his chest, he didn't so much as make a peep, locking his jaw and preparing for what was to come. The punches to the face were as jarring as it was painful, and the jab to the gut would have made him fall over if he hadn't been tied to a tree. He allowed nothing more than a gasp to pass his lips as he shut his eyes and focused on his breathing. He couldn't break now.

"Damn, still nothing," he heard Kirk muse through the ringing in his ears. "You're a tougher son of a bitch than I gave you credit for. Let's see how tough you can be O'Driscoll." His eyes snapped at the click of a pocketknife's blade unfolding. "Hold him up, Mac," he winced as a rough hand grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked him into an upright position against the tree. He could see just how spite-riddled the pair's faces were and how most of the present gang had their backs turned to him. Except for the steely-eyed woman, who stared him down as she ate her supper, and Van der Linde, who leaned on his tent post as he smoked his cigar.

"I shouldn't be so surprised by your 'toughness'" his attention was drawn back to Kirk as she fiddled with the buttons of his shirt. He shivered as his bandaged chest, and bruised abdomen were exposed. "Seems like you're already used to getting your ass beat." She said, tracing the knife blade over the stained bandages, specifically the ones wrapping his shoulder. She cut the wrappings with a swift flick of the knife, revealing his healing wound of scabbed-over flesh. He flinched as the sharp tip of the knife poked the tender spot. "I'm going to go out on a limb and say this isn't the first time you'll be stabbed." He didn't have a moment to process the statement before she jabbed the blade deep into his wound, making him jerk away, only to twist the night deeper. He couldn't help but let a groan slip out as the jabbing pain throbbed again in his already tense shoulder. He groaned even louder when she ripped it out, feeling his blood trickle down his side.

"There it is!" Callander chimed gleefully, "Why don't you put that voice of yours to use? It ain't Colm you should be scared of. It's us." The following punch rattled Kieran's teeth. Though dazed, he tasted the salty blood, and saliva started to pool in his mouth. "Since that question won't do, how about this one," Callander continued, "How long did you bastards torture my brother before you shot him? A couple of days? A week? From the looks of it, you boys had quite the time. You couldn't let your fun end so soon, could you?" He hissed, getting up in Kieran's face, who was struggling to swallow all the gunk in his bleeding mouth. "Did you even give him a fightin' chance? I know Davey ain't much of a fighter, but I know he would've killed the whole lot of ya'll if—" Kieran coughed, spewing out the splats of blood and spit that got caught in his throat and right onto Callander, the fluids dribbling down his angered face.

"S-sorry," Kieran apologized hoarsely as a knee-jerk response, cringing in preparation for another punch. Instead, Callander raised his hand and brought it to his own face, wiping it with the back of his hand.

"Sorry?" he repeated coldly. "Yeah, you're gonna be. Jenny," he didn't look away when addressing his companion, "Grab it now. It should be hot enough." A knowing smirk sprawled across Kirk's face as Kieran watched her walk over to the camp fireplace, and underneath a pot of stew was an iron rod sticking out. She talked with the members at the campfire before picking up the rod. In the darkening purple and blue sky, the glowing amber heat of the branding iron was like a lone star in the night. It was in the shape of a circle with a large 'V' inside, and the closer Kirk walked over with the glowing rod in hand, the more he could feel its fierce heat.

"W-wait, pl-leas-se!" Kieran stuttered, trying to squirm away, but Callander kept him in place.

"Huh, that's probably what Davey said before you chopped off his fingers." Kirk snarked, handing the burning hot iron over to Callander before tracing her hand over Kieran's heaving chest. "Now, where to put the mark we picked out just for you… Oh, here's perfect." she jabbed a bare spot just above the left side of his hip. Then, as his jerking heightened with his drumming heart, she helped hold him still, digging her nails into the fresh wound she had made.

"You keep movin' like that, and you'll mess me up," Callander warned as he lined up the rod, waves of heat radiating from it.

"Stop! I-I'll ta-alk, okay!" he pleaded.

"Too late for that, O'Driscoll." Callander reeled back the rod, ready to strike.

"I-I was wi-ith D-Davey! When he d-died." That made Callander pause, his knuckles turning white around the rod. Kieran swallowed thickly, "Colm wan-nted t-to play po-oker with him, a-and made me ho-old h-his cards when he c-couldn't. Davey won, th-that night. He wo—"

He cut himself off with his own scream that ripped from his throat as the fiery iron burned into his skin with a searing agony he had never experienced. It was the first proper scream he'd given in a while. Finally, all of his pent-up pain and sorrow was let out in a harrowing cry that took all the breath out of him. No matter how much he kicked and screamed, Callander didn't let up, a deathly glare fuming from his glossy eyes. That glare continued when he pulled back the branding iron, and so did the pain. Kieran coughed from the smoke through his sobs, a mixture of blood, snot, and tears streaming down his face. His tearful eyes fell upon the steely-eyed woman, who was now turned around, her meal left forgotten, then over to Van der Linde. The only thing that changed was how dim his cigar's flame was. Burnt skin and burning blood clung to the end of the iron as Callander reeled it back once more, aiming higher.

"The hell are ya'll doin'?!" an enraged voice cut through the night air like an arrow as a dark-haired woman ripped the iron from Callander's grasp. "Are ya'll out of your goddamn minds?"

"What's the matter with you, Roberts?" Kirk snapped back. "You knew this was gonna happen."

"I didn't think you'd go brandin' him like cattle! All his screamin' is scarin' Jackie out of his mind."

"Then leave." Callander countered, reaching for the iron. "And let us get back to work."

"No, you're done." Roberts moved the iron out of his reach. "You're not gonna give my boy nightmares." She looked at Kieran and grimaced. "The O'Driscoll clearly ain't gonna talk, you fools. You've done enough."

"Abigail's right." The newly arrived Silver Fingers agreed as he approached and grabbed the iron from Roberts. Blue Eyes Morgan followed soon after him, pushing Callander and Kirk away. Kieran slumped down, agonized and exhausted, against the tree, as the new arrivals kept the pair away. "Ya'll done enough." Silver Fingers said with a scowl.

"Dutch said we could go ahead and make him talk," Callander answered, which only made Silver Fingers appear more angered.

"I don't give a damn what Dutch said! The boy ain't talkin'."

"But he—"

"But nothin'," He cut Kirk off. "We're not gonna stoop down to the O'Driscolls, or else we'd be animals just like them. I expected you to have your head on straight, Jenny." Kirk opened her mouth but shut it. "If either of you lay hands on that boy again, there'll be more than a slap on the wrist. Now get the hell out of here, both of you." Kirk was the first to leave, turning away and walking off further into camp. Callander stood firm for a moment but relented after glancing at Blue Eyes, then heading out of camp. The old man looked down at Kieran with a pitiful scowl. "Miss Jackson, clean this feller up, please, and Arthur," he handed Blue Eyes the cooling iron, "Get rid of this. I don't care how." With those orders, he went off towards Van der Linde's tent, who had looked away when catching sight of Silver Fingers.

Through the resounding pain and aches, Kieran felt exhaustion hit him like a train, slowing his breathing and hazing his sight. Finally, he passed out without another thought.

~ O ~

Colm stared at the crescent moon in the dark sky full of glittering stars. The sky, along with the chirp of nighttime insects and the nocturnal birds' song, was a calming atmosphere that eased his nerves. The cigarette also helped quite a lot, puffing on it as he rocked back and forth in the porch rocking chair. The creek of the front door opening interrupted the quiet night.

"The kids asleep yet, Dier—" he paused mid-question once he saw who was at the door. "What are you doin' up, Kieran?" the small boy was wrapped up in his blue wool blanket, standing in the doorway.

"I can't sleep." His soft voice replied. "Mammy's feedin' Maeve, and auntie's still out in the barn." Colm nodded, putting his cigarette in the ashtray beside him and dusting off his trousers.

"Come 'ere, lad." Kieran walked over to the man's outstretched arms, picked up the small boy, and laid him in his lap, where he curled up against his chest, wrapped up in his blanket. He started rocking once again. "Why can't ya sleep?" he asked.

"Hmm… I don't know." Kieran shrugged, "I just ain't tired. Too many words in my head."

"What do those words say?"

"They say mammy works hard, and so does auntie, and you too, pappy."

"Is that all?"

"… They also say that I ain't doin' enough. I-I wanna help, so ya'll don't have to work all the time."

"Hey, don't you be worryin' about that," he patted the boy gently on the back. "We work hard, but we ain't strugglin'. Trust me, we're all taken care of, and you help with that. You don't need to be focusin' on work so much. You're too young for that. We need to do somethin' fun. You got any ideas?"

"Hmmm, nothin' I can think of." The boy shrugged.

"You sure?"

"Well, you talk about how much you like fishin'. Fishin's nice."

"That sounds good to me. When you're older, I'll teach ya how to fish."

"I'd like that." The boy yawned, stretching before cozying up to the man's chest. The tranquil quiet returned and added another sleeping soul to the peaceful night.

…

… …

… … …

The moon hung high in a starless sky, with Colm being its only companion as he sat attentively on the cabin's porch. His attention wasn't on the lone silver moon but on the shadowy tree line of the Cumberland Forest, analyzing every slight movement between the dark trees. The light of his cigarette had gone out long ago, though he still let it rest between his lips, forgotten. He didn't look away when the cabin door opened, and a timid voice spoke up.

"Um, boss, the boys wanted to ask if they, uh, can drink some of the booze?"

"You can choke on it for all I care." Colm grumbled.

"Oh, thanks, boss… How long are ya gonna be out here?"

"As long as I goddamn, please. Now stop botherin' me before you piss me off."

"Yes, sorry, boss." The door quickly shut, leaving Colm to be by his lonesome, silently waiting another night.