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Arthur Morgan’s dead. Has to be. He’s Fourteen and dead or is about to be.
He just never thought it would be this loud and uncomfortable.
He’s laying on his back, the cold wetness of the ground seeping into his clothes, making him a muddy mess of a corpse to be found in the morning. The sounds of the town are persistent, as always, laughter and yelling continuing in the next streets over. Mocking him, and his situation. Always and forever. Only now, drowned out by an awful whining noise. When had that started? He wonders how long it’ll take for someone to find him, to report his body to the law.
Would it be the bartender, going outside for a smoke and almost tripping over his body? A working girl taking a break in the alley shade? Or another one of the street kids, his few belongings being left for them to loot?
Not that any of that really matters now. Right now all he can hear is ringing, louder and higher pitched than the church bells, and closer than any of them could carry.
Hands were touching his shoulders, and he bucked with what little energy he had left, adrenaline rising to fight off his assailant. Can’t they see he isn’t dead yet? Can’t they wait and then steal from him?
The hands grew stronger, holding him down. He tries to fight back more, letting out a whine as the assailant presses on the wound on his shoulder. This, it seems, works as the hands are removed and Arthur almost relaxes. Waits for the telltale sound of footsteps retreating, maybe even a quiet curse none of which he’d hear over the dissipating ringing noise.
As the world quieted into a muffle Arthur wondered if it was finally over, if he’d be seeing his Ma soon, he could almost cry at the thought. Time seemed to pass in hazy increments, too slow, too sluggish. His Ma, he just wants to see his Ma.
And then there were arms under him, wrapping around his back and his legs determined to take him somewhere. Too real to be the warm embrace of death, too strong and sure as Arthur bucked and yelled and begged.
“Lemme go!” He begged, opening his eyes finally to look at his kidnapper. A younger man, with curly black hair, looked down on Arthur for a split second and back to the street as he walked at a brisk pace. “Stop!” He cried and squirmed, ignoring the fact that his legs felt too weak to get anywhere on his own. He’d worry about that once he got free. “Please!” He tries once more.
Arthur wasn’t stupid, he’d lived on the street long enough to have heard the stories. To have noticed that some of the other kids never came back. Snatched away on horseback or train car, never heard of again except in whispers and cautionary tales told by the older kids. Knew what the ones that came back had suffered. He’s made his decision to wait it out, looking for escape routes as the man walks, ignoring his attempts at conversation. He won’t give him what he wants. He must be getting on a horse, he thinks as they go down the cobblestone roads, Jus’ need to steal his horse when he puts me on it. Get away from him. Doesn’t matter that he’s never ridden a horse before, or the fact that he doesn’t think he can sit up on his own.
Escape, Evade, Survive, Survive, Survive
These are his only thoughts.
And then they reach the entrance of a hotel. And he comes unglued. His fight renewed as he whirled his head around, opening his mouth and sinking his teeth into the man's shoulder and feeling satisfied as the man yelped. He smirks at the man, feeling as if he has won as he begins to be overcome by sweat, his wound burning, burning, burning, limbs and head suddenly feeling very heavy but at least no one can say he didn’t put up a fight. The man's eyes grow in worry and he begins to run, Arthur still in his arms despite it all.
And the darkness overtakes him.
_______________
The hands are back. Holding, Brushing, Hovering.
Hand me the-we can’t let it stay in there any-miracle it ain't infected
It’s hot, his clothes are clinging to him uncomfortably. The ground is dry. When did that happen?
Would’ve been back sooner - Kept fighting me-
He’s supposed to be back with his Ma, Why isn’t she here?
There’s something in his mouth, thick and leathery, a hand on his shoulders, holding him down. He wonders if he dreamt it all, or if he’s doomed to repeat his kidnapping over and over, never getting free.
There’s a sharp, stabbing, and warm pain that enters his wound and he screams around the leather.
________________
He wakes to birdsong and the crackling of a fire, there’s some kind of fancy music in the distance, he notes.
Opening his eyes he looks around. The room is intricately decorated, and detailed crown molding encases the room that is painted a deep red. Everything about the room screams Rich, he knows the place, had been chased down the street by the doormen a few times for ‘Disturbing the guests’. Of course, all he had been doing was watching, dreaming, while his stomach was wracked with hunger pains and his hair coated with dirt and grime.
And he had gotten himself delivered right inside, dirt and all.
Grunting he props himself up on the feather pillows, trying to work up the courage to stand when the door opens. In comes the man from last night, looking every bit like the kind of man who could afford to stay in a place like this. Slicked back hair, an elegant-looking vest, and a gold watch chain to go with it. Everything about him screamed Clean and for the life of him Arthur can’t figure out why a man like him would waste time on him. Why he wasn't dead in an alley somewhere.
He glowers at the man while he makes his way to the chair by the bed.
“Now, Now. No need to be hostile, Son.” He placates, raising his palms in surrender as he lowers himself into the wooden chair.
“You kidnapped me!”
“I saved you, just in time I might add!” The man corrects, gesturing to where Arthur’s shoulder is bandaged.
He remembers getting injured, in bits and pieces. By jumping and trying to save this very man from getting robbed, he’d been shot and potentially kidnapped for it. He groaned, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. What luck he has.
“What’s your name son?”
“Ain’t your son,” He grumbles
“ ‘Course. Still would like to know the name of the brave man who saved my life.”
This guy could lay it on thick. But a part of him wants to talk to the man, figure out his plan, figure out the best way to escape. Another part of him feels safe, safer than he’s felt since his Ma died. And he can’t quite figure out why.
“Arthur. Arthur Morgan.”
“Well, Mr. Morgan. It’s nice to meet you,” He extends his hand “Dutch van der Linde.”
He takes Dutch’s hand and shakes it.