Chapter Text
His fucking arm doesn’t work.
The bruises had faded into an ugly dappled chartreuse, and the places where shackles had rubbed his skin off had since scabbed over and healed into ugly, thick scars, and he still felt exhausted deep to the core of his bones, and he still couldn’t sleep or think without finding himself back in that cellar, strung up like a slaughtered hog, Colm O’Driscoll’s face staring back at him with that awful, crooked grin, but he could ignore all of that and live with the poorly healed fractures and deal with the constant fevered ache in his muscles except his fucking arm doesn’t work.
Hosea had the girls make him a sling from some spare canvas, something to keep his injured shoulder still and his useless fucking arm close to his body. He told Arthur to wear it all the time, except when bathing, and even then don’t move the arm. Not that he could if he wanted to. He could hardly feel it, save for the throbbing pain that beat in time with his heart and the occasional, rather unpleasant, lightning strikes of absolute icy-hot agony that left his vision white and squeezed the air out of him. Beyond that, the arm was heavy. Useless.
Time, Hosea had promised when Arthur, voice laced with panic, explained that he couldn’t move his fucking arm and he couldn’t really feel his fingers either, wounds like this take time to heal.
‘Wounds like this’, referring to the unchanging crater where his shoulder used to be. It was a fragile situation to say the least; if he so much as twisted the wrong way, it was prone to splitting open, bleeding fast and heavy through delicate, damaged tissue. Arthur was still battling the sepsis, burning low with fever that spiked seemingly at random, leaving him a mumbling, sweaty mess, trapped in his cot at the mercy of whatever nightmarish specters his mind might conjure. Despite the fact that it had now been a month since his capture and subsequent return, the flesh was still raw and swollen, red and tender, yielding and fucking irritating at best. The burns of his impromptu cauterization had turned thick and pink, more scar than skin, but for the most part, ‘wounds like this’ were painfully slow to heal and horribly ugly.
According to Hosea.
Arthur couldn’t bring himself to look at it, save for hasty bandage changes and bindings when, inevitably, the wound broke open and started bleeding once again. He barely noticed when it did these days; often, it was one of the ladies, quietly sitting him down to re-wrap his gauze or Hosea angrily demanding he take a break and stop using his goddamn arm.
The goddamned arm he couldn’t move.
By now, the novelty of his injury had worn off. People stopped visiting, stopped sitting with him, well before he was able to get out of bed. After all, there was a camp to run, and folks had things that needed attending to. Arthur didn’t mind much; when Hosea didn’t sit by and keep him company, though he could tell the old man was getting tired of it as well, he had books to read, animals to sketch, and memories to painfully relive like a waking nightmare. Often, the latter two went hand in hand. His journal had been ruined by the O’Driscolls— not that it had been in great shape before— who had thrown his satchel around with reckless abandon, soaking the pages with the liquor and herbal tonics Arthur kept stocked. By the time Arthur was well enough to check, the entire thing had swollen and warped, some pages stuck together, congealed with the ointment he kept on hand for any scrapes his horse might sustain and the pomade that had cracked open. He had yet to buy a new one, yet to replace anything that had been irreparably damaged, and instead was stuck sketching on old newspapers like he was a child.
Arthur was unbelievably thrilled when Hosea finally allowed him to leave his tent, his emergence an act of sheer willpower and spite; a curse against the cot he’d been trapped in, at that point, for weeks, with little respite. His legs were shaky, and he grew exhausted all too quickly, but he did manage to bathe himself and trim the God-awful beard he’d grown, before returning to his tent. He’d grown stronger since— not strong, but stronger— as his injuries healed and he slowly forced himself back into usefulness. Those who noticed his recovery offered shy smiles or pats on the back. Some still treated him as though he were made of glass; others as if nothing had ever happened.
But Dutch? Arthur hadn’t seen him since his return— at least, he’s pretty sure he’d seen Dutch on the night he dragged his dying corpse back to camp to warn his family of the imminent danger. He couldn’t really remember much of that night, or most of the nights after that for about two weeks. What he does know is that in the past month he’s seen only the scantest glimpses of his mentor. Despite the fact that Dutch’s tent stood right next to Arthur’s, mere feet away, Dutch never once showed his face, never popped in to check on him, never offered a tall tale or an inspirational speech about loyalty or faith or some other shit.
Hosea assured him— he’d been doing that a lot lately— that Dutch was simply squeamish and couldn’t bear to see his son in such a state. But here he was, more or less recovered, and still the man avoided him like he were a sick plague rat.
He hadn’t seen Dutch, but he could hear him. Throughout his recovery, that was a constant. He could hear him delivering speeches, a little rougher and quieter than usual, and listen to him angrily storm about the camp like the scantest edge of a hurricane; an omen of something worse lying in wait.
And now? The speeches were gone, replaced with complaints. Dutch snapped orders, assigning jobs two or three at a time, grumbling about damn near everything. How there wasn’t enough food, not enough men, not enough work, not enough money. How he wasn’t sure how they’d make it out of this without everyone pulling their weight. How he just needed everyone to have faith in him when clearly he had no faith in them.
Arthur couldn’t help but feel guilty.
Logically, he knew he shouldn’t. He was injured— damn near dead— and still in only the earliest stages of recovery; he couldn’t be expected to bounce back after a night of sleep and return to his work the next day. But damn it, as he listened to Pearson mumble about an empty stew, or Grimshaw loudly exclaim that the camp was falling apart and everyone needed to work harder, Arthur couldn’t help but feel responsible for everyone’s suffering. Every drunken complaint from Karen, barked from not more than two feet away from his tent, about how much of his work she had to do, every groan from Sean about how he wishes he could lay up in bed for a month, every time Charles had to leave camp before sunrise and return long after dark just to provide enough to keep the camp afloat, the weight in Arthur’s stomach grew. Even Hosea had started picking up the slack, often leaving for a day or two at a time, leaving Arthur to stew in his thoughts.
Some folks, in a deliberate attempt to needle him or perhaps their own type of desperation, were kind enough to bring their complaints to his face.
“Ain’t you been in bed long enough?”
“You’re just as worthless as Uncle now.”
“If you ain’t even got the decency to earn your keep, the least you could do is die.”
He couldn’t remember who had said what— what had been a joke, what had been cruelty, and what had been his own fevered thoughts— but each and every word was lodged into his skin like birdshot.
Worse still was the pity. How he loathed the pity, the way the girls would gawk at him with this look in their eyes as though he were a baby bird pushed from the nest, to how he’d be helped back to bed when they deemed he’d had enough of acting like a regular human being.
So whether his fucking arm worked or not, Arthur had to. Gritting his teeth against the ache in his bones, he pushed himself to his feet. Maybe he couldn’t hunt yet, but at the very least he could handle chores around camp. He had to.
Hosea wasn’t there to tell him to ‘take it easy’, or to shout at him to go lie down, so he didn’t. Arthur went and took on the easiest task he could think of: gathering water. Dip a bucket in a lake. Easy.
Progress was slow with only one bucket, and it pulled at the muscles in his back, but damn it, he filled the washing bins, managing half of one before Karen wrenched the bucket from his grasp, swearing she had extra time and didn’t mind one bit.
Chopping firewood with one hand was difficult, the axe was unwieldy and his muscles screamed at him to stop, but even poorly-chopped wood would burn just fine, right?
“Arthur,” Charles greeted quietly. Arthur startled all the same, nearly catching his thigh with the axe. Arthur, wholly out of breath, could only nod in response. He eyed the pile of wood remaining— he’d managed less than half— and a quiet dread weighed heavily in upon his shoulders.
Wordlessly, Charles took the axe in hand, away from Arthur. Though he may not have meant his glance to be quite so pitying, Arthur shriveled under it nonetheless. Without argument, not that he were capable of posing one with the way his chest burned, Arthur pursed his lips together and stalked off.
His hand shook, muscles worked beyond measure in just the few hours he’d been up and about. Arthur cringed at his newfound weakness and the exhaustion creeping into his bones.
Coffee, then. All he needed was some coffee, and he could get back to work.
He set a cup on the table and lifted the pot with ease. A little planning, he decided. With one arm out of commission, he just needed to plan things a little better. Can’t hold the cup and pour so he uses the table. He silently prides himself on his innovation, though it served only as a reminder of how slow his mind worked these days.
In the next moment, a sharp bolt of pain bit into him. The coffee pot clattered into the dirt, scalding droplets soaking into everything within ten feet, including Arthur. He let out a cry, but bit it back just as quick.
“Son of a bitch,” he groaned, torn between soothing the new wave of white-hot prickling and tending to the burns along his forearm.
“Are you all right?”
He whirled on his heels at the sound of Mary-Beth’s voice, somewhere between startled and embarrassed.
“‘M fine, dropped the goddamned pot, can’t even pour myself a damn cup of coffee.”
She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, lingering for a moment. Mary-Beth’s eyebrows furrowed softly.
“Arthur, why don’t you just go lie down. I- I’ll clean this up.”
“You don’t gotta—“
“It’s fine,” Mary-Beth smiled at him tightly, the dark circles under her eyes prominent even in the blinding midday sun. Arthur felt his stomach drop, his cheeks burning with shame. He mumbled a quick thank you, but rather than retreating to his tent, Arthur merely shambled through the camp, searching for something— anything— he could do.
He worked in silence, grateful that most folks seemed to ignore him as he trudged through camp, offering little more than a pleasant ‘hello’ or a nod of their head as they passed. Bill did make a point of laughing at the sling, needling Arthur with questions of what the hell he was going to do with one arm, but Arthur paid him no mind. He pushed the searing thrum of pain, allowing the bubbling anger to burn away his exhaustion. He’d done these chores hundreds of times, he should be able to do them with his eyes closed, so why the hell is he struggling so much with just one arm?
Feed the chickens, maybe a little too much, wasting feed until Tilly had to step in. Drop sacks of grain at Pearson’s wagon, if a little roughly, until Lenny came and took the sack off of his shoulder. Carry washing for the women, though a few things got dropped in the dirt, until Jack came, goddamned four year old Jack Marston came and took the washing from him because he couldn’t even manage a child’s task.
By mid afternoon, Arthur’s hands shook fiercely, and his heart raced in his chest. He declined a bowl of stew, helpfully brought to him by a tired Abigail, knowing that he’d vomit if he tried to eat. Others needed it more anyways— others who had actually managed to work that day.
For a moment, Arthur sat, hating the way folks whispered about him, glancing over ripe with worry and pity. He watched the men buzz about, filtering in and out of camp with more frequency than Arthur had ever seen, not that he had ever stayed in camp long enough to keep track. Those who weren’t on watch at any given moment were out and about, finding meager jobs and robbing pennies from travelers. Sadie, too, had taken off, returning every few hours, her pockets lined with watches and cigarettes, maybe some cheap jewelry, whatever she could scrounge up from wherever she had been.
Hosea was out on a job. Dutch was out on a job. He couldn’t remember the last time the two of them were in camp— truly a testament to the dregs they had fallen to.
Miss Grimshaw’s shrill yell cut through the ringing in his ears, jolting him from his thoughts.
“Mary-Beth! Oh, where is that useless girl— Mary-Beth! I thought I told you to get done with the mending! What the hell have you been up to?!”
“I’ve been— the coffee spilled, I had to clean the mess, and—”
“That’s no excuse, spilled coffee is the least of our worries right now. You lazy, no-good— That mending pile is atrocious! Ain’t like folks can afford to get new clothes at the moment. See that it’s done by tomorrow morning or there will be hell to pay!”
“Yes, Ms. Grimshaw,” Mary-Beth bowed her head sightly, and Arthur could see the tears brimming in her eyes.
Nausea churned in his stomach.
“And just who in the hell was so sloppy with the firewood?” she screeched, storming into the center of camp, “That is a goddamned disgrace! You fuckers can’t even chop firewood right— what good are you?! Look at all this wasted wood…”
After her too-loud tirade, she seemed to notice Arthur, sitting with his forehead resting on his elbows beneath a tree.
“Mister Morgan,” she said, sending a shudder through him, “If you’re well enough to gossip with the women, you’re well enough to work. Get off your ass- it’s time you started pulling your weight. We’ve no use for petulant children.”
Arthur groaned, “I been workin’, all damn day. Or— or trying to….“
“Well, I certainly haven’t seen any work done, all I seen was you distracting my girls. This entire camp is in shambles Mr. Morgan. We’ve all been taking care of you, it’s about damn time you returned the favor.”
And he got up. Not because Grimshaw was right— were Arthur any less exhausted, he would’ve told her to go pound sand— but because he had to.