be loyal to what matters...
Summer 1832
To the frontier, he was a ghost, a nameless face with a slender figure, bandana shielding his features and the brim of his hat drawn law as to not be recognized - something that seems to be working as he passes the station's community board to survey everything from wanted posters, odd jobs, and advertisements meant to draw in crowds. He ignores some, letting his eyes breeze over others, and only one or two get a lingering gaze as brown eyes scan the details of familiar faces in crude print.
But it isn't the bounties that he picks up on and it isn't the posters that he snatches, jobs best left for someone else to call the shots in his continued anonimity, rather a torn ticket for a fortune teller with the basics - a name, a location, a nominal fee for services rendered even though he knows well enough he could be walking into nothing more than a scam of tables on shaker boxes and some smoke and mirrors to bring the ambiance to light. He has enough - perhaps not to waste, such concerns drawn out of the phantom whispers of greed, but to see if, even on fallacies, there is something to his future only the cards could tell.
It is just as expected as he steps up to the wagon, drapes of bold colors concealing only so much once cast aside, a deep red tablecloth covering any mechanical oddities meant to swindle, and a stack of cards sitting in the center; but what he doesn't expect is the reception, something strangely familiar in the way the fortune teller regards him, squints at him, and, with gears turning in her head, ushers him in. "Here I thought I wouldn't find anyone interesting in these parts and yet here you are, stepping right into my wagon! Will wonders never cease?"
"I think you're mistaken," he corrects even against a flippant wave of her hand as she draws the curtains together and rounds the table, seating herself on one side of the round and all but pushing him, insistent in gesture, to the other side.
"And you think you're nobody, don't you?" She retorts with a piqued brow, already reaching for the cards though her eyes remain affixed on him, above-board and without concealment, but still carrying the dirt and grime of long travels through the plains. It seemed to roll off her shoulders with a simple shrug, momentarily adjusting the shawl she wore - familiar in a bright red, gold in a radiant hue, like something from far away seas. "You'd think you'd know better if someone is going out the way to keep you among the willows, but I'm not fixin' to frump you."
One, two, three shuffles and the cards settled in her hands and one-by-one, they were laid out on the table between them with their backs facing the sky. "Think hard on what you want to know," she said as they were set, one unknown after another, until six had been spread and the cards relinquished to the side, "and we'll see what the future has in store for you."
"You're looking to get out of a bad spot, casting your hopes on distant stars and hoping for something better to come along," she started, flipping the first card over. "You're obviously missing something right now - maybe it is comfort, security and stability, a sense of support that you aren't getting right now. Maybe it is love." The tone of her voice lingers almost like a song as the second card is drawn, the dingy facade of the Empress turned upright, only to preface the wandering hope of the Fool. "But you must be careful, don't get too reckless because, while ambition may get you what you want, foolishness might lead you to trouble, and oh - we wouldn't want that, would we?"
He couldn't say he had wanted the next card either, a hesitant breath taken as it too was flipped and the eyes of Death himself, crooked spine of bone and twisted scythe, stared back at him.
"Don't look so daft," she commented, tapping the card a few times with a long, slender finger made even more so by the hook of her talon-like nail. "Everyone looks at it like a bad thing, but my dear boy, this card just means something new is on the horizon. One thing ends and another begins, and your life may go through a great transformation. What that is may be hard to say, but," she said, drawing out her words again so she could flip over the next card, "watch out for someone strong and successful, and don't let him bully you. He either helps you or leaves you to get on with things yourself which, if nothing else, might be a learning experience." Strength follows up the rear as the last card is flipped, the fortune teller's fingers hooking among each other as her elbows are proped up on the table, an almost mischievious glint in her eye.
"What's so amusing?" He asked after a moment of mulling over the cards, more inquisitive about some over the others, until his eyes had flicked back up to the woman in front of him.
"Oh nothing, nothing," she said, shaking her head, unlacing her fingers and flipping her hand over, her palm bared up to the sky until he had gotten the hint - he still had to pay her, digging out some coin only to set it carefully in her palm. There, however, it remained, and he couldn't help but wonder why just as he couldn't help but wonder the familiarity in a red shawl, a crooked talon, and the almost conspiring smile that slowly painted itself across her face.
"Do I owe you more?"
"No, no, not for the reading," she said, leaning in as her hand clamped closed around the money, "but when you do meet him, tell him baba is watching."
To the frontier, he was a ghost, a nameless face with a slender figure, bandana shielding his features and the brim of his hat drawn law as to not be recognized - something that seems to be working as he passes the station's community board to survey everything from wanted posters, odd jobs, and advertisements meant to draw in crowds. He ignores some, letting his eyes breeze over others, and only one or two get a lingering gaze as brown eyes scan the details of familiar faces in crude print.
But it isn't the bounties that he picks up on and it isn't the posters that he snatches, jobs best left for someone else to call the shots in his continued anonimity, rather a torn ticket for a fortune teller with the basics - a name, a location, a nominal fee for services rendered even though he knows well enough he could be walking into nothing more than a scam of tables on shaker boxes and some smoke and mirrors to bring the ambiance to light. He has enough - perhaps not to waste, such concerns drawn out of the phantom whispers of greed, but to see if, even on fallacies, there is something to his future only the cards could tell.
It is just as expected as he steps up to the wagon, drapes of bold colors concealing only so much once cast aside, a deep red tablecloth covering any mechanical oddities meant to swindle, and a stack of cards sitting in the center; but what he doesn't expect is the reception, something strangely familiar in the way the fortune teller regards him, squints at him, and, with gears turning in her head, ushers him in. "Here I thought I wouldn't find anyone interesting in these parts and yet here you are, stepping right into my wagon! Will wonders never cease?"
"I think you're mistaken," he corrects even against a flippant wave of her hand as she draws the curtains together and rounds the table, seating herself on one side of the round and all but pushing him, insistent in gesture, to the other side.
"And you think you're nobody, don't you?" She retorts with a piqued brow, already reaching for the cards though her eyes remain affixed on him, above-board and without concealment, but still carrying the dirt and grime of long travels through the plains. It seemed to roll off her shoulders with a simple shrug, momentarily adjusting the shawl she wore - familiar in a bright red, gold in a radiant hue, like something from far away seas. "You'd think you'd know better if someone is going out the way to keep you among the willows, but I'm not fixin' to frump you."
One, two, three shuffles and the cards settled in her hands and one-by-one, they were laid out on the table between them with their backs facing the sky. "Think hard on what you want to know," she said as they were set, one unknown after another, until six had been spread and the cards relinquished to the side, "and we'll see what the future has in store for you."
"You're looking to get out of a bad spot, casting your hopes on distant stars and hoping for something better to come along," she started, flipping the first card over. "You're obviously missing something right now - maybe it is comfort, security and stability, a sense of support that you aren't getting right now. Maybe it is love." The tone of her voice lingers almost like a song as the second card is drawn, the dingy facade of the Empress turned upright, only to preface the wandering hope of the Fool. "But you must be careful, don't get too reckless because, while ambition may get you what you want, foolishness might lead you to trouble, and oh - we wouldn't want that, would we?"
He couldn't say he had wanted the next card either, a hesitant breath taken as it too was flipped and the eyes of Death himself, crooked spine of bone and twisted scythe, stared back at him.
"Don't look so daft," she commented, tapping the card a few times with a long, slender finger made even more so by the hook of her talon-like nail. "Everyone looks at it like a bad thing, but my dear boy, this card just means something new is on the horizon. One thing ends and another begins, and your life may go through a great transformation. What that is may be hard to say, but," she said, drawing out her words again so she could flip over the next card, "watch out for someone strong and successful, and don't let him bully you. He either helps you or leaves you to get on with things yourself which, if nothing else, might be a learning experience." Strength follows up the rear as the last card is flipped, the fortune teller's fingers hooking among each other as her elbows are proped up on the table, an almost mischievious glint in her eye.
"What's so amusing?" He asked after a moment of mulling over the cards, more inquisitive about some over the others, until his eyes had flicked back up to the woman in front of him.
"Oh nothing, nothing," she said, shaking her head, unlacing her fingers and flipping her hand over, her palm bared up to the sky until he had gotten the hint - he still had to pay her, digging out some coin only to set it carefully in her palm. There, however, it remained, and he couldn't help but wonder why just as he couldn't help but wonder the familiarity in a red shawl, a crooked talon, and the almost conspiring smile that slowly painted itself across her face.
"Do I owe you more?"
"No, no, not for the reading," she said, leaning in as her hand clamped closed around the money, "but when you do meet him, tell him baba is watching."
SUMMER 1835
He supposes there is no reason for them, a bunch of outlaws, to collect books. They're weighty, heavy, and they take up space for nothing more than entertainment of, if it actually comes to such a point, kindling for an ill-started fire, but he makes the request all the same. Some laugh, some sneer, some complain, but it doesn't seem to matter when they listen - not to him, but to the undisputed ringleader of their brigade.
From fully published works like The Spanish Moor's Tragedy to the stage-worthy prose of John Marston in Antonio and Mellida and the Jacobean tragedy of Catiline His Conspiracy, there would soon to be a library - at least by traveling outlaw standards. Some are worn hardback, other paper copies missing pages here and there, but it is more than any of them have had before and he is quick to find out why.
Of them all, there are only a handful who can make out the type printed on paper or the script written by hand, and perhaps it is bold of him, but he allows himself a moment to peruse the options, to consider the works and their readability, before drawing one out of a worn crate.
It is a book of poetry and he recites it clearly to the land-hardened outlaw from across a campfire, simmering low with embers as the rest of the camp save for those on watch take to slumber.
“Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove, that valleys, groves, hills, and fields, woods, or steepy mountain yields. And we will sit upon the Rocks, Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow Rivers to whose falls Melodious birds sing Madrigals.”
He pauses, if only a moment, to see how he takes to the sudden intrusion of prose before he continues:
“And I will make thee beds of Roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle; A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty Lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold.
“A belt of straw and Ivy buds, With Coral clasps and Amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love.”
His finger acts as a bookmark as he holds the page, standing up to take quiet paces across the short expanse to the other side of a cooling fire that feels like home and yet something more. He holds the book out, letting it fall open in his hands before taking a seat next to him in budding familiarity. His hand reaches out and taps on the page where he had left off.
“Now you – your turn...”
It becomes his turn to sit back, to listen to the soothing tone of Koschei's voice as he reads, silent admiration pointed up at the stars though none hold his attention in earnest.
"The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing for thy delight each May-morning: If these delights thy mind may move," he says and Ash can't help the flutter his heart feels with the rest.
"Then live with me, and be my love."
He supposes there is no reason for them, a bunch of outlaws, to collect books. They're weighty, heavy, and they take up space for nothing more than entertainment of, if it actually comes to such a point, kindling for an ill-started fire, but he makes the request all the same. Some laugh, some sneer, some complain, but it doesn't seem to matter when they listen - not to him, but to the undisputed ringleader of their brigade.
From fully published works like The Spanish Moor's Tragedy to the stage-worthy prose of John Marston in Antonio and Mellida and the Jacobean tragedy of Catiline His Conspiracy, there would soon to be a library - at least by traveling outlaw standards. Some are worn hardback, other paper copies missing pages here and there, but it is more than any of them have had before and he is quick to find out why.
Of them all, there are only a handful who can make out the type printed on paper or the script written by hand, and perhaps it is bold of him, but he allows himself a moment to peruse the options, to consider the works and their readability, before drawing one out of a worn crate.
It is a book of poetry and he recites it clearly to the land-hardened outlaw from across a campfire, simmering low with embers as the rest of the camp save for those on watch take to slumber.
“Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove, that valleys, groves, hills, and fields, woods, or steepy mountain yields. And we will sit upon the Rocks, Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow Rivers to whose falls Melodious birds sing Madrigals.”
He pauses, if only a moment, to see how he takes to the sudden intrusion of prose before he continues:
“And I will make thee beds of Roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle; A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty Lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold.
“A belt of straw and Ivy buds, With Coral clasps and Amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love.”
His finger acts as a bookmark as he holds the page, standing up to take quiet paces across the short expanse to the other side of a cooling fire that feels like home and yet something more. He holds the book out, letting it fall open in his hands before taking a seat next to him in budding familiarity. His hand reaches out and taps on the page where he had left off.
“Now you – your turn...”
It becomes his turn to sit back, to listen to the soothing tone of Koschei's voice as he reads, silent admiration pointed up at the stars though none hold his attention in earnest.
"The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing for thy delight each May-morning: If these delights thy mind may move," he says and Ash can't help the flutter his heart feels with the rest.
"Then live with me, and be my love."
SPRING 1834
It isn't just the screeching of steel brakes thrown into a hard buckle that knocks a number of people, armed guards and leisurely passengers alike, to the ground throughout the quickly slowing carts that tells him something is wrong. It isn't just the rowdy shouting of the ne'er-do-wells, masked, that storm the engine car as soon as they can readily catch their horses up to it, punctuated by the terrified screams of the pampered wealth inside that react to the pop of gunfire meant only to frighten them into submission. It isn't even the kick up of dust and march of boots onboard that shift the balance of the cart ever so slightly while the thieves pry open safety deposit boxes full of unsigned bank notes - easy money if everything goes according to plan.
It is a smell, something that pickles in the air and causes his stomach to lurch despite the bandana kept flush against his own face. Even as he feels someone grab onto his arm, tugging him out of his seat and all but shoving him through the cars towards the back, it causes him to dizzy and stumble, a hand all but slapping across his nose and mouth as he attempts to escape the noxious gas in the air by bowling by seats, past people, through doorways and over connectors; and though he can hear his voice, yelling, rushing him, his departure from the train is less than elegant as he hits the muted ground, crawling until he can crawl no longer, no means of stopping the lingering irritation in his lungs when sparking so much as a flame could cause the whole train to combust, making for untold damages he had no intention to create.
But money isn't what they're here for, what they came to grab even though those with little to their names are quick to gobble it up, shovel it away in a strongbox for later, lifting everything from brooches to pocket watches to wallets. The big haul isn't riches for those with long-dusty coffers, hidden in kingdoms believed to be beneath the sea, and he knows for sure the figure who comes to tower over him, clad in shadows and dusty boots and looking far more skeleton than man, cares little for stolen wealth.
Just what had been stolen from him.
"I came to find you," he states clear enough as he reaches down, hoists him up from the ground, not so much wrestling against what feeble attempts to fight back he tries, rather lifting him back up to his feet.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he says hastily, attempting to gather his balance on his own despite the burning sensation, phantom as it might have been in the open air, that races through his lungs. Unfortunately, it is a balance ill-lived as he hears another gunshot, feels it hit something solid and the grip on his arm loosens only to drop him back down to the ground again.
"What are you doing!?" He shouts, but it falls on deaf ears - not because he can't be heard amiss the chaos of whooping yells and cheers that come from the train or the commotion caused by security's attempts to chase down the bandits or calm down frightened passengers, but because they refuse to listen. It is warranted though he doesn't realize it; doesn't realize that this feud has been longstanding, stemming from a death unnecessary for a soul wanted by another; doesn't know that they're two of the same turned against each other, puppets in an immortal game neither seems to win.
It is all he can do to wait with bated breath for the gunfire to stop, watching the stand off with wide eyes to see who slumps down and succumbs to their injuries first and when he does, when Ivan falls with a croak and a hoarse shout - "What are you waiting for!?" - with the expectation that tears would be shed, he stands, but doesn't move. When Ivan coughs, sputters, adrenaline on high while urgency sets in, there is no push of calm, no presence of tranquility from the one who can give it to him, his boots digging into the ground to keep him standing firm.
And when the killing blow comes, when the blood and gore become obvious against the landscape's dull palette, he doesn't look away.
It isn't just the screeching of steel brakes thrown into a hard buckle that knocks a number of people, armed guards and leisurely passengers alike, to the ground throughout the quickly slowing carts that tells him something is wrong. It isn't just the rowdy shouting of the ne'er-do-wells, masked, that storm the engine car as soon as they can readily catch their horses up to it, punctuated by the terrified screams of the pampered wealth inside that react to the pop of gunfire meant only to frighten them into submission. It isn't even the kick up of dust and march of boots onboard that shift the balance of the cart ever so slightly while the thieves pry open safety deposit boxes full of unsigned bank notes - easy money if everything goes according to plan.
It is a smell, something that pickles in the air and causes his stomach to lurch despite the bandana kept flush against his own face. Even as he feels someone grab onto his arm, tugging him out of his seat and all but shoving him through the cars towards the back, it causes him to dizzy and stumble, a hand all but slapping across his nose and mouth as he attempts to escape the noxious gas in the air by bowling by seats, past people, through doorways and over connectors; and though he can hear his voice, yelling, rushing him, his departure from the train is less than elegant as he hits the muted ground, crawling until he can crawl no longer, no means of stopping the lingering irritation in his lungs when sparking so much as a flame could cause the whole train to combust, making for untold damages he had no intention to create.
But money isn't what they're here for, what they came to grab even though those with little to their names are quick to gobble it up, shovel it away in a strongbox for later, lifting everything from brooches to pocket watches to wallets. The big haul isn't riches for those with long-dusty coffers, hidden in kingdoms believed to be beneath the sea, and he knows for sure the figure who comes to tower over him, clad in shadows and dusty boots and looking far more skeleton than man, cares little for stolen wealth.
Just what had been stolen from him.
"I came to find you," he states clear enough as he reaches down, hoists him up from the ground, not so much wrestling against what feeble attempts to fight back he tries, rather lifting him back up to his feet.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he says hastily, attempting to gather his balance on his own despite the burning sensation, phantom as it might have been in the open air, that races through his lungs. Unfortunately, it is a balance ill-lived as he hears another gunshot, feels it hit something solid and the grip on his arm loosens only to drop him back down to the ground again.
"What are you doing!?" He shouts, but it falls on deaf ears - not because he can't be heard amiss the chaos of whooping yells and cheers that come from the train or the commotion caused by security's attempts to chase down the bandits or calm down frightened passengers, but because they refuse to listen. It is warranted though he doesn't realize it; doesn't realize that this feud has been longstanding, stemming from a death unnecessary for a soul wanted by another; doesn't know that they're two of the same turned against each other, puppets in an immortal game neither seems to win.
It is all he can do to wait with bated breath for the gunfire to stop, watching the stand off with wide eyes to see who slumps down and succumbs to their injuries first and when he does, when Ivan falls with a croak and a hoarse shout - "What are you waiting for!?" - with the expectation that tears would be shed, he stands, but doesn't move. When Ivan coughs, sputters, adrenaline on high while urgency sets in, there is no push of calm, no presence of tranquility from the one who can give it to him, his boots digging into the ground to keep him standing firm.
And when the killing blow comes, when the blood and gore become obvious against the landscape's dull palette, he doesn't look away.
SPRING 1834
He sleeps fitfully, restless, alone. It isn't that he has to. It isn't that he doesn't have the warmth of thick blankets, lush pelts, and an ever-present fire to keep him warm against the cold of night. It isn't that he doesn't have a body to curl up against if he were so willing, a sense of security found even in a skeletal chill.
It is simply that he can't - not yet, not so soon, not as his head continues to swirl with the events leading up to this moment: the fortune teller and her almost forthright, true to word, deciphering of a bunch of cards; the lone lawman, cowboy, outlaw that could have very well left him there rather than take him with them; the absolute end of Ivan in a hastily dug grave, no marker to tell the world where he had fallen, and the beginnings he found himself stepping into, a new sense of freedom found even in his would-be rescuer's ever-vigilant watch.
And he feels the part of the Fool, ever-optimistic about what could be while trudging along in the doubt of the quiet, perhaps subconscious, wishes that had crossed their paths; and as he sleeps, he stirs, he shifts on makeshift accomodations, back pressed firm against crooked and knobby trees, he dreams - not of what could be, but what had been in delicate whisps of clarity, some unsettling while others seem to lull him into a sense of certainty that this is where he is supposed to be.
That this man with eyes of burning coal and shifting form, Death to many they come across and deathless all the same, who didn't leave him behind by the side of a stalled train with the remains of the only family he had ever known, is who he is supposed to be with.
He sleeps fitfully, restless, alone. It isn't that he has to. It isn't that he doesn't have the warmth of thick blankets, lush pelts, and an ever-present fire to keep him warm against the cold of night. It isn't that he doesn't have a body to curl up against if he were so willing, a sense of security found even in a skeletal chill.
It is simply that he can't - not yet, not so soon, not as his head continues to swirl with the events leading up to this moment: the fortune teller and her almost forthright, true to word, deciphering of a bunch of cards; the lone lawman, cowboy, outlaw that could have very well left him there rather than take him with them; the absolute end of Ivan in a hastily dug grave, no marker to tell the world where he had fallen, and the beginnings he found himself stepping into, a new sense of freedom found even in his would-be rescuer's ever-vigilant watch.
And he feels the part of the Fool, ever-optimistic about what could be while trudging along in the doubt of the quiet, perhaps subconscious, wishes that had crossed their paths; and as he sleeps, he stirs, he shifts on makeshift accomodations, back pressed firm against crooked and knobby trees, he dreams - not of what could be, but what had been in delicate whisps of clarity, some unsettling while others seem to lull him into a sense of certainty that this is where he is supposed to be.
That this man with eyes of burning coal and shifting form, Death to many they come across and deathless all the same, who didn't leave him behind by the side of a stalled train with the remains of the only family he had ever known, is who he is supposed to be with.
AUTUMN 1835
It doesn't matter what identity he has worn, what facade he had put up, he is used to the roughness of the wilderness, to the wanderlust, inherent or necessary as it may be to move from place to place, to the struggle of a life that isn't prim or proper or accomodating; but for all of nature's coarseness and callousness, for all the strife and difficulty of finding a new niche to carve, there are moments like this.
Places like this, the ones that polite society pretended they didn't tread when they aimed to maintain decorum, comes with far more than a tent pitched in the wilderness or a rundown, abandoned shack in the middle of winter. There are drinks for the maudlin, food for the hungry caught fresh or as fresh as can be by those making lucrative stops at trading posts to off-haul their wares. There are cards and darts for the competitive and plenty of viewpoints and vantage points to turn the very same into a brawl, cast out of saloon doors and onto rickety deck planks; and where there are rentable rooms, especially those with a flair for luxury that might come at a few more pennies than the rest, promising company though the thigh-high stockings, ruffled garters and rouge-lipped advances go widely ignored for such things better kept between closed doors and the metaphorical flies on the wall.
And for the first time in what seems to be a long time, he sleeps.
He is calm, restful, amiss arms warmed, if not made flesh from what had once been bone, by his own warmth, radiating comfort. He breathes in deep the scent of dust and gunpowder among what whispers of consciousness strike him before he adjusts among strew covers and falls into dreams - no, memories - again, such curious and marveling things from a life lived long ago, forgotten, that he is almost remiss to wake, but they last only as long as it takes for him to feel the weight shift from the mattress, lifting up, and the press of a cold hand against the bare of his back so deeply warm, it feels like a bolt of ice.
It startles him away though he knows it isn't the intention, eyes not cracking open, but flaring wide with a deep breath that nearly rattles his chest. It is still there - the room with its four walls, the fire in the hearth, the green damask wallpaper and patterned blankets, thick, in deep red and him.
"Shh, shh." His voice is calming even in such short syllable and he tries to ignore the flush of worry that comes with the swath of relief - one that suggests there is something unsettling on the horizon, just beyond the confines of the relative safety the saloon with all its voices and commotion and patronage provides. He can hear it - the tone change in the walls, through the wood, how everything seems to settle into quiet submission as one voice roils up above the rest; and though he can't make it out, can't hear the specific words being said or the inquiries being made, he is up on his feet, dressing with quiet swiftness with hopes to avoid notice in creaking floorboards.
They have to move - for whatever reason, be it the law on their tail or something worse, they simply do.
It doesn't matter what identity he has worn, what facade he had put up, he is used to the roughness of the wilderness, to the wanderlust, inherent or necessary as it may be to move from place to place, to the struggle of a life that isn't prim or proper or accomodating; but for all of nature's coarseness and callousness, for all the strife and difficulty of finding a new niche to carve, there are moments like this.
Places like this, the ones that polite society pretended they didn't tread when they aimed to maintain decorum, comes with far more than a tent pitched in the wilderness or a rundown, abandoned shack in the middle of winter. There are drinks for the maudlin, food for the hungry caught fresh or as fresh as can be by those making lucrative stops at trading posts to off-haul their wares. There are cards and darts for the competitive and plenty of viewpoints and vantage points to turn the very same into a brawl, cast out of saloon doors and onto rickety deck planks; and where there are rentable rooms, especially those with a flair for luxury that might come at a few more pennies than the rest, promising company though the thigh-high stockings, ruffled garters and rouge-lipped advances go widely ignored for such things better kept between closed doors and the metaphorical flies on the wall.
And for the first time in what seems to be a long time, he sleeps.
He is calm, restful, amiss arms warmed, if not made flesh from what had once been bone, by his own warmth, radiating comfort. He breathes in deep the scent of dust and gunpowder among what whispers of consciousness strike him before he adjusts among strew covers and falls into dreams - no, memories - again, such curious and marveling things from a life lived long ago, forgotten, that he is almost remiss to wake, but they last only as long as it takes for him to feel the weight shift from the mattress, lifting up, and the press of a cold hand against the bare of his back so deeply warm, it feels like a bolt of ice.
It startles him away though he knows it isn't the intention, eyes not cracking open, but flaring wide with a deep breath that nearly rattles his chest. It is still there - the room with its four walls, the fire in the hearth, the green damask wallpaper and patterned blankets, thick, in deep red and him.
"Shh, shh." His voice is calming even in such short syllable and he tries to ignore the flush of worry that comes with the swath of relief - one that suggests there is something unsettling on the horizon, just beyond the confines of the relative safety the saloon with all its voices and commotion and patronage provides. He can hear it - the tone change in the walls, through the wood, how everything seems to settle into quiet submission as one voice roils up above the rest; and though he can't make it out, can't hear the specific words being said or the inquiries being made, he is up on his feet, dressing with quiet swiftness with hopes to avoid notice in creaking floorboards.
They have to move - for whatever reason, be it the law on their tail or something worse, they simply do.
SPRING 1837
Something feels off as soon as the pamphlet is in his hands and he flips through the tri-folds with caution as if expecting the worst of it. By all accounts, there is nothing strange about it, this advertisement speaking of new ideas and alternative thinking, a brand of new absolution sprouting up from the roots of the old and familiar, but as he looks back to the preacher with the all too clean smile, perfectly polished and plastered on his face, there is an unease that gnaws in the back of his mind like a warning.
"Join us," he starts with considerable charisma, with bravado that is meant to make his words carry to those in earshot, "and even you, my son, can find the salvation you seek." A firm hand comes to rest on his shoulder, causing his skin to bristle even underneath multiple layers of fabric. "The journey may be arduous, but have faith! It is not lost even to those who wander away from the righteous path!"
For a moment, it is a show, a call to those with even the slightest piqued interest, to step up, to grab a pamphlet, to bite the hook that had been laid even in what might have been considered bare bones, but then his attention turns again. It narrows, focuses on the speculative, and Ash is sure he can see between the cracks of what may have been a well-worn facade to most to what lies underneath.
"Verita vos liberabit, filius solis."
The comment settles like a rock that stays in his stomach well into the evening - through the toil of checking traps for food, through harvesting herbs for medicines and the careful processes in which he packs them all away for later use, and it lingers in the air even as it is filled with the growing notes of a fiddled played quietly in their camp, flooding his mind as he tries to sleep under a sleepless, vigilant watch. It brings with it dreams of another place, another time, another identity, and under the towering expanse of stained glass windows that shine bright, red with fire, he can't help but feel trapped, suffocated by air thick with floral smoke and earthly ash.
Abominamentum he is called behind closed doors while robed men, pretending to be holy, count coins, luxuries and riches, so hastily taken from the weak and weary, the wounded, the sick and the poor in exchange for the false hope of salvation. There is no voice to be had, paraded around as a nameless representation of God, and he finds this no different when the congregation found in church walls in the coming days, dressed prim and proper, wearing their Sunday best should absolution come for them amiss church walls, seem eager to give up what they can to the cause; but for what?
"To aid our growth," the preacher says.
"To spread the word," he claims.
"To help," he lies.
And the congregation - they're hopeful and Ash feels it i nwaves from where he sits in the back, slouched low in the pew, but it isn't the audience he focuses his energy on as much as it is the man at the front, back to the imposing cross erected on the throne; and all he feels is cold, all he senses is deceit, the preacher's words awash with avarice that only seems to grow as the hall empties save for one.
"These people don't need salvation," he says to break through the silence, to gather the preacher's attention as he poured over the donation box, gathering up what he could with the expectation that all would be well on their way. He has a voice now - one that he has no problem using - and Ash stands, no lawman himself, but rightly knowing a con when he sees it. "They need you to stop taking their money."
"And what're you going to do about it? It seems strange to me an outlaw would care about what I'm doing," he replied, the stench of decay wafting into the air with each word, strong enough to peel away the illusion of cleanliness among them. He doesn't recognize it - not at first - when it reaches his nose, an eerie odor of death that suggests pocketing coins is hardly the worst thing the man had been guilty of. How much blood was on his hands? How many people had died because of him? How many had been consumed?
Then it hits him hard enough for recognition to set in, for the sickening slurp of flesh following the smack of Baba Yaga's cleaver to reach his ears and the heavy weight of sacrifical pyres to cloud his senses, and Ash is quick to draw his pistol from his belt with an ill-laid shot that does plenty to reveal the preacher's speed when the bullet buries itself in wood instead. The distance is closed much too quick, Ash taking a step back only to find himself tackled over the back of the pew and onto the ground, and in the closeness, he can see things clearer now - the pristine facade covering tattered lips, bloodied flesh and jagged teeth, all sunk into the gaunt, yellowed bed of his face.
"You look a lot different from the last time we met," he says, and when his jaw opens, an inhuman shriek of laughter ripping through the building and deafening Ash's hearing, it opens wide, monstrous and beastly, as if to take a bite out of flesh he had no business sinking his teeth into. Interruption comes quick by the sudden kick of opening doors and his body draws back only to catch a bullet delivered with far more precision than Ash had mustered, turning what could have been a meal into a fight the creature wants little to do with, his body hunched in a more animalistic form taking off toward the back of the church to make a quick escape.
The looks on Koschei's face says it al as Ash stares up at him from the ground, taking a deep breath - of worry or relief, he isn't sure - before he sits up, stands, dusting himself off to no avail when it doesn't get rid of just how dirty his skin suddenly feels.
"I know who he is," Ash says, defeated. "At least I used to."
Something feels off as soon as the pamphlet is in his hands and he flips through the tri-folds with caution as if expecting the worst of it. By all accounts, there is nothing strange about it, this advertisement speaking of new ideas and alternative thinking, a brand of new absolution sprouting up from the roots of the old and familiar, but as he looks back to the preacher with the all too clean smile, perfectly polished and plastered on his face, there is an unease that gnaws in the back of his mind like a warning.
"Join us," he starts with considerable charisma, with bravado that is meant to make his words carry to those in earshot, "and even you, my son, can find the salvation you seek." A firm hand comes to rest on his shoulder, causing his skin to bristle even underneath multiple layers of fabric. "The journey may be arduous, but have faith! It is not lost even to those who wander away from the righteous path!"
For a moment, it is a show, a call to those with even the slightest piqued interest, to step up, to grab a pamphlet, to bite the hook that had been laid even in what might have been considered bare bones, but then his attention turns again. It narrows, focuses on the speculative, and Ash is sure he can see between the cracks of what may have been a well-worn facade to most to what lies underneath.
"Verita vos liberabit, filius solis."
The comment settles like a rock that stays in his stomach well into the evening - through the toil of checking traps for food, through harvesting herbs for medicines and the careful processes in which he packs them all away for later use, and it lingers in the air even as it is filled with the growing notes of a fiddled played quietly in their camp, flooding his mind as he tries to sleep under a sleepless, vigilant watch. It brings with it dreams of another place, another time, another identity, and under the towering expanse of stained glass windows that shine bright, red with fire, he can't help but feel trapped, suffocated by air thick with floral smoke and earthly ash.
Abominamentum he is called behind closed doors while robed men, pretending to be holy, count coins, luxuries and riches, so hastily taken from the weak and weary, the wounded, the sick and the poor in exchange for the false hope of salvation. There is no voice to be had, paraded around as a nameless representation of God, and he finds this no different when the congregation found in church walls in the coming days, dressed prim and proper, wearing their Sunday best should absolution come for them amiss church walls, seem eager to give up what they can to the cause; but for what?
"To aid our growth," the preacher says.
"To spread the word," he claims.
"To help," he lies.
And the congregation - they're hopeful and Ash feels it i nwaves from where he sits in the back, slouched low in the pew, but it isn't the audience he focuses his energy on as much as it is the man at the front, back to the imposing cross erected on the throne; and all he feels is cold, all he senses is deceit, the preacher's words awash with avarice that only seems to grow as the hall empties save for one.
"These people don't need salvation," he says to break through the silence, to gather the preacher's attention as he poured over the donation box, gathering up what he could with the expectation that all would be well on their way. He has a voice now - one that he has no problem using - and Ash stands, no lawman himself, but rightly knowing a con when he sees it. "They need you to stop taking their money."
"And what're you going to do about it? It seems strange to me an outlaw would care about what I'm doing," he replied, the stench of decay wafting into the air with each word, strong enough to peel away the illusion of cleanliness among them. He doesn't recognize it - not at first - when it reaches his nose, an eerie odor of death that suggests pocketing coins is hardly the worst thing the man had been guilty of. How much blood was on his hands? How many people had died because of him? How many had been consumed?
Then it hits him hard enough for recognition to set in, for the sickening slurp of flesh following the smack of Baba Yaga's cleaver to reach his ears and the heavy weight of sacrifical pyres to cloud his senses, and Ash is quick to draw his pistol from his belt with an ill-laid shot that does plenty to reveal the preacher's speed when the bullet buries itself in wood instead. The distance is closed much too quick, Ash taking a step back only to find himself tackled over the back of the pew and onto the ground, and in the closeness, he can see things clearer now - the pristine facade covering tattered lips, bloodied flesh and jagged teeth, all sunk into the gaunt, yellowed bed of his face.
"You look a lot different from the last time we met," he says, and when his jaw opens, an inhuman shriek of laughter ripping through the building and deafening Ash's hearing, it opens wide, monstrous and beastly, as if to take a bite out of flesh he had no business sinking his teeth into. Interruption comes quick by the sudden kick of opening doors and his body draws back only to catch a bullet delivered with far more precision than Ash had mustered, turning what could have been a meal into a fight the creature wants little to do with, his body hunched in a more animalistic form taking off toward the back of the church to make a quick escape.
The looks on Koschei's face says it al as Ash stares up at him from the ground, taking a deep breath - of worry or relief, he isn't sure - before he sits up, stands, dusting himself off to no avail when it doesn't get rid of just how dirty his skin suddenly feels.
"I know who he is," Ash says, defeated. "At least I used to."
WINTER 1837
He is shaking by the time Koschei finds him, not from the cold even though he attempts to wrap his arms around himself, but from the pained sting of dirty hands against stripped flesh. How foolish he had been to go into the woods, to follow voices crying out for help from within its depths, to find himself lost upon haunting shrieks coming from no dicernable direction, the very place weighted with the stench of death and decay born of foul creatures with insatiable hunger.
But where death could have come quick at the behest of gnashing teeth, where he could have met his end as his flesh and bone were devoured piece by piece, it had been a slow hunt, a game of cat and mouse already won by the stronger of beings who toyed with it, played with it, plucked it apart piece-bypiece, strip-by-strip, only to make it watch its own consumption with wide, fearful eyes; and suddenly, he feels like he is in that cage again, swinging back and forth to try and escape, crying in warning while a heavy hand chops apart those foolish enough to hunt for the firebird from which such radiant feathers fell.
"Ash?"
He doesn't move, doesn't blink, staring at the creature in front of him, grey and pale with a gaping hole in his chest coutesy of a missing heart so ice cold, so greedy, that it had transformed what had once been a man into something more. It had been smashed to pieces, an organ so vital to existence, shards sprinkled across snowy ground the only remnants left of the once-preacher with a smile so pleasant, it had been haunting.
"Asa -" he inquired again, a gentle hand nudging his shoulder, voice broken in worry, "- I need you. Get up. We need to leave."
His mind is somewhere else though, stuck, and it doesn't matter that the weight of Koschei's coat drapes over his shoulders or that a blanket is soon drawn around his body or that the ground suddenly isn't underneath him anymore as he's picked up in response to his lack of movement. It doesn't register - not for some time - that he's being carried away this time, not left behind in a pool of his own blood, and brought back to the warmth of a roaring fire, bottles of varying sizes, shapes and colored glass soon clattering about as Koschei looks through them for something specific.
"Tell me. Which bottle?"
It is no surprise that Koschei doesn't know which one to look for, no labels set on the assortment of glass bottles that hold everything from standard medicines to herbal tinctures to that which many might've considered snake oil scams meant to rake in money more than they were to help. Through shaking lips, stammering more so as he tries to speak, he finds the words needd to say something, knowing that if he doesn't, the situation could go from bad to worse. "It is in the-in-the," he stumbles, "light blue, in the reliquary."
And how it sparkles when it is found, how it burns when poured gingerly over lines of torn flesh and open wounds, searing them closed again which, while not healed in full, at least lessens the chance for infection alongside the bandages hastily wrapped around him to cover torn skin. It takes the sting out of exposed layers, but perhaps no more than the bottle of whiskey that becomes pertinent to drowning out the shrieks and screams and laughter that still echos in his head well into the morning.
He is shaking by the time Koschei finds him, not from the cold even though he attempts to wrap his arms around himself, but from the pained sting of dirty hands against stripped flesh. How foolish he had been to go into the woods, to follow voices crying out for help from within its depths, to find himself lost upon haunting shrieks coming from no dicernable direction, the very place weighted with the stench of death and decay born of foul creatures with insatiable hunger.
But where death could have come quick at the behest of gnashing teeth, where he could have met his end as his flesh and bone were devoured piece by piece, it had been a slow hunt, a game of cat and mouse already won by the stronger of beings who toyed with it, played with it, plucked it apart piece-bypiece, strip-by-strip, only to make it watch its own consumption with wide, fearful eyes; and suddenly, he feels like he is in that cage again, swinging back and forth to try and escape, crying in warning while a heavy hand chops apart those foolish enough to hunt for the firebird from which such radiant feathers fell.
"Ash?"
He doesn't move, doesn't blink, staring at the creature in front of him, grey and pale with a gaping hole in his chest coutesy of a missing heart so ice cold, so greedy, that it had transformed what had once been a man into something more. It had been smashed to pieces, an organ so vital to existence, shards sprinkled across snowy ground the only remnants left of the once-preacher with a smile so pleasant, it had been haunting.
"Asa -" he inquired again, a gentle hand nudging his shoulder, voice broken in worry, "- I need you. Get up. We need to leave."
His mind is somewhere else though, stuck, and it doesn't matter that the weight of Koschei's coat drapes over his shoulders or that a blanket is soon drawn around his body or that the ground suddenly isn't underneath him anymore as he's picked up in response to his lack of movement. It doesn't register - not for some time - that he's being carried away this time, not left behind in a pool of his own blood, and brought back to the warmth of a roaring fire, bottles of varying sizes, shapes and colored glass soon clattering about as Koschei looks through them for something specific.
"Tell me. Which bottle?"
It is no surprise that Koschei doesn't know which one to look for, no labels set on the assortment of glass bottles that hold everything from standard medicines to herbal tinctures to that which many might've considered snake oil scams meant to rake in money more than they were to help. Through shaking lips, stammering more so as he tries to speak, he finds the words needd to say something, knowing that if he doesn't, the situation could go from bad to worse. "It is in the-in-the," he stumbles, "light blue, in the reliquary."
And how it sparkles when it is found, how it burns when poured gingerly over lines of torn flesh and open wounds, searing them closed again which, while not healed in full, at least lessens the chance for infection alongside the bandages hastily wrapped around him to cover torn skin. It takes the sting out of exposed layers, but perhaps no more than the bottle of whiskey that becomes pertinent to drowning out the shrieks and screams and laughter that still echos in his head well into the morning.
AUTUMN 1863
It might not be much, but perhaps for the first time, it is something that belongs rightful to them - an expanse of land bought at a considerable sum, space for crops and grazing livestock, supplies enough for a homestead or two, a network of connections made over the last fifty years - and then some - to ensure that those who live on it, who work it to see all prosper through the more trying of seasons, are well taken care of; and for all the hard work that rouses them well before the sun peeks over the horizon, for all the worries of illness and injury that might befall those with less hearty dispositions when a legitimate physician was much too far away for hurried house calls, for all that had been and was to be endured, Ash knows it is worth it.
And that makes it worth protecting.
He isn't alone when they approach, he isn't without a weapon or ammunition as he ensures the coachgun in tow is loaded with the clatter of shells and snap of a closed barrel, but he finds little certainty in knowing that Koschei could be one, maybe two, days out from a situation forming in the here and now, one he doesn't have a bead on even as he steps out of the homestead and onto the porch only to be joined by others who took note. They're friends, found family, fellow travelers. They're outlaws, they're bandits, they're the stranded picked up along the way. They have families to take care of, livelihoods to protect, and it is all Ash can do to exude what confidence and leadership he can with his husband away.
"Something tells me you all aren't here for tea?" As obvious as the comment is when armed to the teeth, as serious as he could intend it in tone, it still earns a roil of laughter from their unwarranted guests.
"Another day, maybe." The point man, if not the ringleader proper, is pointed out immediate as front and center and Ash is cautious to view the approaching party as a distraction more than it is the intended charge, but where he remains standing firm, he nods his head, flicking the attention of his men elsewhere though he knows there are more waiting in the wings, providing cover and enacting patrols to alert everyone at the first sign of trouble that isn't on their collective doorstep.
"What're you here for then? If it is supplies, we've got little to spare," and perhaps even less that he would have wanted to provide to such an imposition on what had been a peaceful evening, "but I'm happy to send you well on your way without any trouble."
"Where is he?"
"Where is who?"
"I really wouldn't have taken you for a saphead, Mary," he said, earning a narrowed glare - not just from Ash who remained positioned front and center all the same, but from those who remained at his side, itchy trigger fingers at the ready for things to go sideways. "You know well 'nough who I am talking about and I'm 'fraid there isn't much more daylight to spare for small talk. I'll leave you and all these kind people alone if you just answer my question: Where is he?"
"You've got no business here, so how about you make like the old woman who fell out of the wagon," Ash said, lifting the coachgun more readily so he could hastily aim if need be, "and move along?"
"Why would I when I'm already on your property?"
It was the sudden crack of rifle fire that caused Ash to snap his head to the side, not so much panic-stricken as he was surprised, and the commotion that was quick to followed turned what had been peaceful grounds into a gunfight. Men found shelter where they could, Ash included, hunkering down as he sought out the ill-cover of one of the porch's support beams. It isn't much, but just as well, it makes him a smaller target to hit, sinking down further only as he hears the shot sink into the wood around him.
Eventually, it all goes quiet. There are sounds - something sickening and squelching, something violent and cruel - but the yelling, the screaming, the shooting has stopped, and he doesn't smell the scent of burning wood as if the bandits had set the ranch on fire. He doesn't know if they've won, but he can only assume they have, proven as he turns and peers around the bannister.
There he is, he thinks, silent watching his husband dispose of the last would-be marauders. There he is.
It might not be much, but perhaps for the first time, it is something that belongs rightful to them - an expanse of land bought at a considerable sum, space for crops and grazing livestock, supplies enough for a homestead or two, a network of connections made over the last fifty years - and then some - to ensure that those who live on it, who work it to see all prosper through the more trying of seasons, are well taken care of; and for all the hard work that rouses them well before the sun peeks over the horizon, for all the worries of illness and injury that might befall those with less hearty dispositions when a legitimate physician was much too far away for hurried house calls, for all that had been and was to be endured, Ash knows it is worth it.
And that makes it worth protecting.
He isn't alone when they approach, he isn't without a weapon or ammunition as he ensures the coachgun in tow is loaded with the clatter of shells and snap of a closed barrel, but he finds little certainty in knowing that Koschei could be one, maybe two, days out from a situation forming in the here and now, one he doesn't have a bead on even as he steps out of the homestead and onto the porch only to be joined by others who took note. They're friends, found family, fellow travelers. They're outlaws, they're bandits, they're the stranded picked up along the way. They have families to take care of, livelihoods to protect, and it is all Ash can do to exude what confidence and leadership he can with his husband away.
"Something tells me you all aren't here for tea?" As obvious as the comment is when armed to the teeth, as serious as he could intend it in tone, it still earns a roil of laughter from their unwarranted guests.
"Another day, maybe." The point man, if not the ringleader proper, is pointed out immediate as front and center and Ash is cautious to view the approaching party as a distraction more than it is the intended charge, but where he remains standing firm, he nods his head, flicking the attention of his men elsewhere though he knows there are more waiting in the wings, providing cover and enacting patrols to alert everyone at the first sign of trouble that isn't on their collective doorstep.
"What're you here for then? If it is supplies, we've got little to spare," and perhaps even less that he would have wanted to provide to such an imposition on what had been a peaceful evening, "but I'm happy to send you well on your way without any trouble."
"Where is he?"
"Where is who?"
"I really wouldn't have taken you for a saphead, Mary," he said, earning a narrowed glare - not just from Ash who remained positioned front and center all the same, but from those who remained at his side, itchy trigger fingers at the ready for things to go sideways. "You know well 'nough who I am talking about and I'm 'fraid there isn't much more daylight to spare for small talk. I'll leave you and all these kind people alone if you just answer my question: Where is he?"
"You've got no business here, so how about you make like the old woman who fell out of the wagon," Ash said, lifting the coachgun more readily so he could hastily aim if need be, "and move along?"
"Why would I when I'm already on your property?"
It was the sudden crack of rifle fire that caused Ash to snap his head to the side, not so much panic-stricken as he was surprised, and the commotion that was quick to followed turned what had been peaceful grounds into a gunfight. Men found shelter where they could, Ash included, hunkering down as he sought out the ill-cover of one of the porch's support beams. It isn't much, but just as well, it makes him a smaller target to hit, sinking down further only as he hears the shot sink into the wood around him.
Eventually, it all goes quiet. There are sounds - something sickening and squelching, something violent and cruel - but the yelling, the screaming, the shooting has stopped, and he doesn't smell the scent of burning wood as if the bandits had set the ranch on fire. He doesn't know if they've won, but he can only assume they have, proven as he turns and peers around the bannister.
There he is, he thinks, silent watching his husband dispose of the last would-be marauders. There he is.
1850s
There is much to know, much he does know, about patience, especially when there is nothing as constant as the stream of time to carry someone from one point to the next. Patience is needed to deal with anything - perhaps everything - there is to endure life on the frontier; patience to tend to crops, to raise livestock, to see homesteads built and barns erected to full stature; patience needed to see to it one doesn't head home from a hunt empty-handed or the passing of seasons better spent indoors; and patience, perhaps the kind he knows most of all, to find that or be found by that which had once been lost.
But where Ash has, comparatively, all the time in the world, Patience doesn't, but he becomes familiar with her all the same - not as a consort of the lawman she troubles so readily, not as the husband of a gunslinger she only knows so familiarly, not as anything other than another face in the crowd, another patron at a bar, another body in to witness the comings and goings of a town that holds no roots. While not a sore thumb, she sticks out all the same as she tries to strike up a deal, some bargain, an exchange of service that may very well be one-sided for all he knows about the conversations that take place.
Perhaps against better judgement, he laughs across his drink when she proves to have more bite than her name suggests when she strikes him with a closed fist only to hit the ground, becoming another voice of humilitation in a bar full of men who gave little credit to those who had been so readily viewed as the delicate and frail, to be protected - all things he had so readily been in lifetimes prior.
And yet, she endures. She sticks around. She watches. She waits for the opportunity to push, to prod, to convince him it is worth his time to go after that which he had pinpointed so readily: Revenge.
He isn't there for the death of Roger Hawley and his men. He doesn't see his husband shot though he cleans out the gore from his clothes in days to come. He doesn't spy the circling vultures, waiting for their change to pounce on carrion in the open sun, but he finds out about it all the same through claimed bounties and word of mouth passing from one less-than-subtle voice to another, the grapevine of gossip as speedy as it can be through loose lips when there is little otherwise to bide the time of chattering hens.
He just knows that in the days to come, can sense it over invisible waves of emotions so strong however as repressed as she attempts to keep them to keep a firm facade when paths cross, the illusion of strength that only becomes chewed at by that which lies underneath, that it didn't help.
There is much to know, much he does know, about patience, especially when there is nothing as constant as the stream of time to carry someone from one point to the next. Patience is needed to deal with anything - perhaps everything - there is to endure life on the frontier; patience to tend to crops, to raise livestock, to see homesteads built and barns erected to full stature; patience needed to see to it one doesn't head home from a hunt empty-handed or the passing of seasons better spent indoors; and patience, perhaps the kind he knows most of all, to find that or be found by that which had once been lost.
But where Ash has, comparatively, all the time in the world, Patience doesn't, but he becomes familiar with her all the same - not as a consort of the lawman she troubles so readily, not as the husband of a gunslinger she only knows so familiarly, not as anything other than another face in the crowd, another patron at a bar, another body in to witness the comings and goings of a town that holds no roots. While not a sore thumb, she sticks out all the same as she tries to strike up a deal, some bargain, an exchange of service that may very well be one-sided for all he knows about the conversations that take place.
Perhaps against better judgement, he laughs across his drink when she proves to have more bite than her name suggests when she strikes him with a closed fist only to hit the ground, becoming another voice of humilitation in a bar full of men who gave little credit to those who had been so readily viewed as the delicate and frail, to be protected - all things he had so readily been in lifetimes prior.
And yet, she endures. She sticks around. She watches. She waits for the opportunity to push, to prod, to convince him it is worth his time to go after that which he had pinpointed so readily: Revenge.
He isn't there for the death of Roger Hawley and his men. He doesn't see his husband shot though he cleans out the gore from his clothes in days to come. He doesn't spy the circling vultures, waiting for their change to pounce on carrion in the open sun, but he finds out about it all the same through claimed bounties and word of mouth passing from one less-than-subtle voice to another, the grapevine of gossip as speedy as it can be through loose lips when there is little otherwise to bide the time of chattering hens.
He just knows that in the days to come, can sense it over invisible waves of emotions so strong however as repressed as she attempts to keep them to keep a firm facade when paths cross, the illusion of strength that only becomes chewed at by that which lies underneath, that it didn't help.