A/N: I'm really sorry for posting so goddamnnn frequently but I have inspiration, and with work etc I'm not sure when I'm gonna get to update in the week so... here you go, and I hope you enjoy. There's some serious tea in this chapter.

-

'It's not easy for me to talk about,
A half life in lost dreams.
It's not simple, it's trigonometry;
it's hard to express - I can't explain.
Ever since my baby went away,
It's been the blackest day.'

~

For the next few days in your new residence, you had been making it your mission to appear either busy, or out – at anytime any hopeful customers had been in the Mayor's home for small meetings. They had all been made aware by Bronte that you had now moved into a room at the Mayor's home – and so now you expected men wanting your service every single time they set foot through the front door.

Well, you had rather had a change of heart regarding the entire thing – you felt now, the most important thing was to try and find a quiet time where you could manage to slip away silently in the night, and hope to evade Bronte's rage in the process.

Alone in your room, the Mayor having travelled to one of the local courts for some kind of meeting with some of the senior lawmen – you had the relief of knowing you would be unbothered for a while.

The sunlight was rich as it poured through the bay window, casting a warm bar of light across the light and airy willow green painted room. Journal in your hand, you had been writing one of your daily entries. Now you seemed to be keeping a log of every emotion – simply because you hoped you could look back one day soon, having escaped, and see just how far you had come...

You had been thinking a lot about Arthur as of lately, more intensely than usual. Your heart ached for him more than it had ever done before. Even in your dreams, he had appeared. You could recall having such pleasant conversations with him in your catatonic state, but not remember what the conversations were upon waking. All you knew was you felt totally at peace, filled with hope and contentment when he saw you in your dreams. It was if salvation had reached you, like a warming radiant light casting over your cold skin.

Chewing your lip gently, you had began to scribble down your thoughts about Arthur in that journal. Even though it was your private book, you felt almost slightly uncomfortable about writing down such raw feelings of adoration and need in there for him – like someone else might see it:

All I know, is when I see him in my sleep – everything feels okay. I cannot recall the conversations clearly, but I know there is such a feeling of safety, as if all my problems will melt away soon.

It feels as if his appearance is a sign, silly – I know... But I like to think it is a sign that this life in Saint Denis, will be over for me soon.

Tucking the pencil into the side of the journal, you bound the book shut and placed it softly onto your bedside table – eyes casting out of the window.

This room was lovely, but you couldn't help but feel it was just a trussed up prison. The dark thought made your gaze fall again, and you felt like your heart was shrinking in your chest. This life you were living at the moment, seemed to be fuelled solely by your dreams and desperate hopes... hopes you weren't even sure could ever come close to being reality.

Little did you know, at that moment as you sat slumped on the bed's side – things were very much changing.

Changing for the better.

-

The ride up to the deserts' just outside of Valentine took a few days up from Rhodes – stopping for breaks and to give the horses' the rest they very much needed after the rigorous and relentless riding.

All the way, hooves clamouring over the dry track, Arthur hung back on Phantom – despite the warmblood's efforts and desires to be at the front of the herd. Micah had lead the way, talking to Dutch all the while. The two of them conversed between one another, and Arthur made no active effort to include himself in the chatter.

When Dutch was with Micah, it was like he became brainwashed. He just wasn't himself at all, and that reality really very much unnerved Arthur.

"Nearly there cowpoke," Micah called from the front, his spurs constantly jabbing into his horse's side while the thing threw it's head about in painful protest. "Got that rifle ready?"

"Yes, Micah." Arthur replied in a flat and tiresome tone. He didn't bother to keep his distaste for the man hidden anymore after all that had happened.

Besides, despite it being the back end of the fall month – the desert sun was still high and oddly hot, overtly bright and blinding, as well as the course sand that whirred up in a cloud of dust and was gritty and abrasive against his face – so Arthur was in no mood to pretend to be nice when he could barely even see where he was going.

"You gonna cover us from that ledge, Morgan?" Micah had suggested, pointing to the rocky formation as they all rode by it, "Means if anything happens, you could pick them off."

Arthur didn't even get a chance to reply at all, as Dutch was quick to interject with his own suggestion.

"No, I want Arthur with us, you never know Micah – they might have other men around lookin' to cause trouble." Dutch advised, glancing back over his shoulder at Arthur, his form bobbing about on The Count's back as the horse made it's shirt-stepped trot, "That okay with you, son?"

"Sure." Arthur replied, shrugging. He didn't care, he just wanted to be there and step in if anything did happen. For all Arthur knew, Micah could've been wanting to set Dutch up. That's what the entire thing felt like.

"Let's leave the horses here." Dutch started, his eyes locked directly on three men just down the sandy hill, stood in the middle of the plain. He narrowed his dark brown eyes, a challenging gleam in his stare.

"That's Colm alright." Arthur observed, swinging out of the saddle, his Lancaster rifle slung over his back. The gunslinger looked to Van Der Linde, who was stood there wordlessly for a moment – just watching the three figures with a vulture's stare.

After a few moments, he had sighed, patting The Count's grey-coat, by the horse's withers – and made those first few steps forwards.

"Come on then, boys. Let's see what this is all about." Dutch growled, his stance was rigid – like a suspicious hound circling an overly friendly group of strangers.

Micah's swaggering walk was overly irritating, and Arthur forced himself to tune out a little when Micah started buttering Dutch up as he usually liked to.

"It will all be fine boss, I really do think Colm wants to move on. Means we can focus on more important stuff..." Micah had chimed, a sneer appearing on his face under his wiry-haired moustache. "Like goin' back to Blackwater and gettin' our money."

Dutch didn't reply – as finally, the Van Der Linde boys found themselves face to face with Colm and two of his boys.

Colm was a slippery looking bastard, stormy grey greasy hair like he had just dunked it in a vat of oil. His face was creased with lines and wrinkles – telling a thousand fearsome expressions and tales of hardship. He had a fairly gaunt face, with a seedy smile that looked about as trustworthy as a sly cat. The whole aura of the man was turbulence, dressed in monotones shades of black and grey – he spelled chaos and danger.

"Dutch." Colm said singularly, nodding his head in acknowledgement of Van Der Linde. Dutch had a furrowed frown on his face, his jaw shifting whilst he looked to force himself to be somewhat civil to Colm O'Driscoll. Arthur stood wordlessly watching on – it seemed best to just let these two men get on with it.

"Colm." Dutch finally spat out, his tone masquerading immense anger. It was clear to see Dutch was thinking about his sweet Annabelle, and what Colm had done to her. For a few moments there was nothing but an awkward and overly pressured silence, that had Arthur wanting to grab his Lancaster rifle. This felt unsettling.

"So what's this talk I'm hearing? You want peace, after all these years?" Dutch finally blurted, cocking his head in a challenging manner, a frown of disbelief on his expression.

"Or is this a trap like that girl you had spyin' on us?" Dutch called out with a brutal tone of voice, and Arthur cringed – looking down instantly... heating Dutch said that felt like someone clubbing him straight in the chest. Arthur gritted his teeth, jaw tensing whilst he resisted the urge to make his first shot in Micah's direction.

Before too long, Colm chuckled, a confused look on his face as he stared between his two men – who also found the statement rather humouring.

"Spy? What girl are you talkin' about, Dutch?" Colm questioned, "If I wanted to send someone out for ya' – it sure as hell wouldn't be some woman." His smile melded into a curious frown.

Arthur just had to glance across at Dutch now, his jaw hanging a little slack whilst it looked as if he was fumbling over what to say next. It wasn't very often the silver-tongued gang leader was left speechless.

"The girl." Micah started, and Arthur glared across and studied the rat closely. He had this look in his beady eyes like he was trying to save the lie he thought he had crafted so flawlessly to Dutch. "The one you were holdin' out at your camp. Don't play dumb." Micah remarked, overly dramatic and cocky in his tone.

Colm's lip curled at Micah's egotistical tone, and the O Driscoll leader spat at the sand near Micah's boots.

"Yeah, I know the one. English girly." He acknowledged, but then started to laugh again – his slow laughter reminiscent of thunder before a large storm. "We kept her – sure, we beat her a little – but she was no spy. Girl couldn't keep her mouth shut for toffee, good for nothin' but a punchbag."

There it was, even spelled out by Colm O Driscoll. The next few seconds were an alarming chime of 'what next?'.

Arthur had glared across at Micah – and it was so gratifying to see the man who had thought he had gotten away with it all, crumbling down. Usually Micah was good at hiding these things under a bold exterior, but even now Arthur was witnessing Micah's expression meld into a look of guilt, and worry about being found out. There a wild look of flight in his eyes... he wanted to save his skin above everything else.

"Alright, that's enough o' this!" Micah suddenly bellowed, finding an excuse to divert distraction from his lies- and started unleashing shots like blinding rain, forcing Arthur to drag himself and Dutch behind a large chalky grey boulder that sat nestled in the dry desert sand.

"Goddamnit, Micah!" Dutch grizzled, something Arthur was admittedly glad to hear. But he knew he would have to wait until after this little exchange of bullets to really soak up everything that had happened.

Nipping up from behind the rock every couple of seconds, Arthur and Dutch easily picked off the men – but Colm was scuttling off like a rat.

"Bastard." Arthur cussed, recalling the way the slimy git had smirked when talking about beating you – and without a second thought, Arthur had matched a shot right through Colm's leg – and the man fell in the sand like a sack of shit.

"Great work, Arthur!" Dutch sounded the most elated he had done in a long time. Whilst his enemy was down, Dutch wanted to be the one to pick him off.

So much for talks of a truce.

Black boots crunching in the sand, Dutch's long shadow cast over Colm who was groaning in agony and crawling his way through the sand.

"Time's up now, partner." Dutch called, loading up his ornate silver pistol whilst he let Colm make those futile little moves through the sand like some partially paralysed animal.

The man looked back up at Dutch, a furious sneer on his face. It was clear he hadn't wanted to go like this, dying by the hand of his worst enemy.

"You wanted peace, Dutch? Huh?" Colm spat, his tone shaky with the shock of being shot, "Well, I woulda' never given it to ya'. You're scum. I just wished ida' killed you when I had the chance-"

There was no time for Colm to deliver his bitter speech, before Dutch had aimed at the centre of his forehead – and blown his skull to smithereens with a single bullet.

The blood and flesh spray had Arthur taking a few steps back, grimacing at the fact he was now caked in Colm's brain matter. But when the gunslinger looked across at his gang leader, Dutch was much the same – but he seemed unbothered by it. In fact, Dutch was smiling with such a sickening delight. It was clear to see then that he wanted this for so long. He wasn't revolted by it, he revelled in it. Colm – dead by his hand.

"Finally." Dutch sighed, a breathy and maniacal air of relief about his tone. He then turned and scanned around the desert, the bodies laid bleeding the sand a deep crimson – but Micah... he was nowhere to be seen – and upon looking up the hill, his horse was gone too.

"Where's Micah?" Dutch quizzed, searching the desert surrounding them for any trace.

"He escaped, Dutch." Arthur started, feeling the reality ground itself in now the firing was over. Already Dutch was looking pissed off and confused as to why Bell would run off. Frowning to himself, Arthur slung the Lancaster back over his shoulder. "You heard Colm... (name) weren't no spy of his."

Dutch looked at Arthur, a pained look of guilt on his face. The gang leader looked down at his blood covered boots, hanging his head in obvious growing shame.

"... So, Micah had made it up..." Dutch figured, and Arthur felt he could've applauded at the fact it was all coming together in Van Der Linde's head – yet all the same it was bittersweet, as Dutch had realised far too late. Looking up with a sorrowful frown, Dutch searched Arthur's grey-blue eyes.

"Why would he do that to her?" he had asked, sounding very ashamed of himself for following Micah's story so blindly.

Arthur shook his head slowly and exalted a large sigh, "Well it weren't exactly no secret he wanted her, Dutch." He explained with a sharp sigh, wiping some sweat from his forehead, "He didn't like that she wouldn't have him... he couldn't bare takin' that rejection."

The two of them fell into a gentle silence. The truth was out finally, and now in a cold pang – Arthur remembered that this couldn't be solved with the fairy tale ending he hoped for. It wasn't as easy as whisking into a known dungeon to save you. He just wished Dutch had seen the truth sooner, and then none of this would've happened.

He had no clue where you were or if you were even alive – and this thought burned him painfully like a brandished cow under the scalding heat of a iron rod.

"I feel such a fool, Arthur." Dutch confessed, leading the way back up the hill towards the horses, "At the time, Micah's story just seemed to... to fit so well, it all made sense."

"It was a coincidental fortune for Micah, just means he had an easy way to get (name) gone." Arthur replied, laying his hand on Dutch's shoulder momentarily.

Stopping by the two tethered horses, Dutch gave Arthur a very sincere gaze.

"We will find, (name). Arthur, and when we do -  she is gettin' a welcome back like no other." He had said, climbing onto The Count's back. The statement was kind enough, but Arthur told himself not to get his hopes up... there was no real confirmation you were okay... and that was a painful enough thought for Arthur to even think about.

"Trust me." Dutch added, seeing the faltering look in Arthur's eyes.

With a quick shout, Dutch set The Count off into a rapid gallop – and without any real need for encouragement, Phantom followed.

The ride back down to camp was going to be a long one, but at least now Arthur had the comfort that Dutch would no longer be strung along by Micah's crafty ways.

And there was a softer, more opulent crazed hope that you may be able to return one day. Arthur fantasised about it all the way back down to Rhodes...

The outlaw just silently prayed that you were okay – and you could soon be back in his arms again.