𝗔 𝗡𝗘𝗪 𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗡

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SHE WOKE amidst a thick enshrouding of soreness; a profuse ache sojourned in her very marrow. She was used to it — to a deep-rooted, distinct feeling that tarried within her muscles, as if iron itself were rotting beneath her skin.

A groan escaped her, the meekness of it not even sounding her own. Her breathing was shallow-taken, like that of a bone-tired runner. These sensations (the way her chest scarcely managed to rise before sharply withdrawing into its threshold; the tremors that commanded her clammy fingers; fissured lips cold and jittery . . . ) she attributed them to a very sick branch of anxiety, which had noisily fermented to unfathomable degrees in light of the recent years.

So she lay there, rigid, while the first yawns of morn withered by: early robins chirring as they broke into flight and soared away like foggy blots in the blue; the clear film of sky strewn with bushy crowds of lethargic paleness; a quaint bur oak, leaves wind-blown; the primal, steady awakening of a cursed world at a heart's thump. And time ticked with raw laziness, freeing body and mind. Her gaze became stuck in the gentle way by which a stream of sunlight flowed into the room from a small awning window. The sight relaxed her.

When she, at last, became completely conscious again, the stiffness in her body had slightly decreased and the sun seemed brighter. She managed to sit up, pale legs outstretched.

She hadn't slept much last night, which came as no surprise. A placid and fulfilling sleep experience was a rare event for her, meagerly scattered throughout her life as if on high demand. Even as a young girl, under such imposing walls like those of the military school —and Riley's familiar presence beside her—, she never reached an orderly sleeping pattern. Now more than ever, it felt impossibly unattainable, for her nights were plagued and haunted in ways unforeseen. Instead of it being a relaxing and calming environment, the blurred phases of sleep were a bizarre state controlled by only the most vituperative thoughts and memories. On those moments of deafening agony existed sensations that were born and woven through the air — like the child of loneliness, staring down from across the room, its face blank and veiled by shadow; and a murmur of warmth, of tan skin and crystal eyes. Ellie always woke up drenched, shiny and with a sickly visage, waiting for the echoes of torture to fade into nihility.

The cycle then repeated itself: She fell back into slumber by thinking of all that she lost and spoiled, only to be woken up again by the same sorrowful pieces.

She grunted. Her head was pounding. Thinking so excessively after this scanty rest was no good. She ran a rough hand across her face, shutting this self-imposed somber cage once and for all. Now, far more neutral-minded than when she woke up, she could study the softly sunlit surroundings in a way she couldn't the night before; clearer, more detailed: loose threads on the mattress beneath her, its thin sprouts lazy and dangling; bare walls of fine maple; a pendant lightbulb in the middle of the ceiling, which at dark bathed the room in a dull shade of yellow, futile now at the feet of the waking sun. More mattresses were laid out across the floor, much too close for her liking. Would've been uncomfortable, had she not been alone. Was this where they kept the prisoners, or the newcomers?

She highly doubted they would give prisoners any mattresses, nor warm bowls of soup upon arrival. She hadn't eaten it, for obvious reasons, but it had smelled heavenly, looked thick and hearty. Her stomach grumbled at the reminder. These people had to be doing nicely to be able to hand out these meals to any arrival. Seemed too good to be true, but she would rather not think about it.

Last night had concluded after intense interrogation: "Where do you come from? What are you seeking here? Are you truly alone? What have you been doing this whole time?". They had also sent this strange old lady to talk to her, who asked peculiar questions and whose honeyed eyes glinted when she replied. She had left with a warm smile and an awkward inclination of the head. Not much else.

Ellie was worried about her diary. She didn't like that it was in someone else's hands, as it encompassed her heart and the vastness of her soul.

It was time to move. She stood up and took the moment to stretch out her limbs, warmth running all over. She ran a hand through her hair and placed some strands behind her ear. There was no mirror around but she knew she looked a mess—eyes rough, dark crescents under. Old, unclean clothes. She needed a shower and something to eat.

She started for the door, pushed it slightly open and poked her head out. The sun struck her face and, in its impact, temporarily blinded her. She had to blink repeatedly to dispel the bang of flashing and the white dots mottled behind her eyelids.

Many a sound were carried about by the midday zephyr. Bustle, livelihood, the sound of normalcy. A thousand shoes over the crunch and crackle of worn out asphalt. Ellie's eyes were very open, unmoving, unblinking. There were so many people, almost too many. With a suddenness befitting a surreptitious street attack, her heart began rushing, pumping with frenzied avidity. She could almost grasp at the knot in her belly. This place was a beast of an entirely different race, and she didn't know if she was ready to claim it. Jackson was rendered infantile, mere child's play at the threatening volume of everything this was. It had been an eternity since she had been near this scale of people—she didn't think she would bode well. Not that it mattered. She just had a hankering for safety and even the slightest semblance of peace.

With a sharp breath she finally pushed the door open all the way. Before she could step out, though, someone closed in on her with immediate action. A tall man—one of the guards, as she remembered, whose face seemed to be permanently contorted into a frown. He loomed over her, pursing his lips.

   "No can do. Stay inside, miss." He drawled, words tangled with a thick accent.

   Ellie frowned. "You guys just going to trap me in here forever?"

   "Miss, we are not against you, I have strict orders to..."

   "It's far past dawn already. Isn't it enough?"

   He looked at her with a strange expression. "You need to use the ladies' room?"

   "No. Just..." Ellie sighed, realizing she was trapped. She just had to listen to whatever these people said, and it exasperated her.

   "Miss..."

   "Don't fucking call me that."

   "Woah, what's going on here, Ronald?"

Her eyes drifted to a guy that appeared out of, seemingly, thin air. He looked younger than the so-called Ronald—Ellie would venture to say they were near the same age. He had jovial features, all unequivocally plain except for the eyes, which were big and angled and lashed in a way that was outlandish for a guy—the irises a most vibrant cerulean. His lips were slightly stretched into a warm, pink smile.

   "Nothing, sir. We were actually waiting for you. This girl over here wanted to come out." Ronald gestured to her with a thick, hairy hand.

"Oh," the guy's eye turned to her. "I'm exactly on time then. Let us go!" He made a beckoning gesture toward Ellie. She frowned, mood soured, and stepped out of the cabin once and for all. The sky was clear and intensely blue—a positive omen of sorts. The stranger said one last amicable word to the guard before turning away and walking to her side.

   "Walk with me," he said, and smiled. It wasn't unpleasant, but it made her uneasy. She hadn't been smiled at in so long, perhaps she just didn't know how to react anymore. It felt... foreign.

She fell into step beside him, and gazed silently around. There weren't many words to describe this place. It was big. Bigger than Jackson by miles. Deadwood's style was poles apart, as if it were the sun and Jackson the moon: buildings raised in red brick and stone, doused in Victorian poise; compact homes capped by mansard roofs and lined with bay sash windows; iron lampposts ranged down the sidewalks, which yesterday night she had seen shed an apricot sort of yellow hue; the streets were wide like a parted sea, clustered by sun-shined people sweeping by. There were signs of work all throughout—from builders constructing brick houses and ladies fashioning clothes inside the storefronts, to butchers and their bloody business and humble farmers working their carts, bellowing out the daily batch of fresh produce. Deadwood had an old-looking sort of aesthetic; a jumble of Victorian sheen and Old West lands. It felt like a living, breathable museum. Ellie looked to the sidewalk and saw a red-faced child skipping about, attached to her mother's hand. Their faces turned to Ellie as they passed, and she felt sick all of a sudden, stomach coiling in itself. This place seemed stuck in time.

   "Not a talker?"

She was pulled from her contemplation. She'd forgotten what she was doing, as lost in that moment as she was.

   "Depends." She replied.

   "Well, I'll do the talking, you don't have to worry. Today you just listen," his eyes gleamed, as if he was eager for what came next. "This," he did a full spin, opening his arms a little. "... is Deadwood. We welcome you." His dark, brown hair was wind-swept. Ellie pursed her lips, not a fan of the theatrics, and said nothing. "We're mostly a fishing town. Yes, we have a little bit of everything but our biggest strength is fishing, thanks to the water that flows from the Missouri river near us. It powers the entire town."

Deadwood and Jackson were similar in that regard—they both used water as a means for electricity. Good. They had electricity. She felt a zap of something light and pleasing course through her at the thought of a warm shower. She didn't want to fantasize too much, though.

"My name is Aaron, and I'll be your guide today. That is, if you do want to stay?"

Ellie opened and closed her mouth, unsure. Was it this simple? The weight of a life-changing decision in one easy question.

Aaron tilted his head. "You look surprised. Well, you completed the errands, came here with the map and Clyvence thought you were in a more-or-less sane state of mind, so... what else is there to take into account?"

Ellie shrugged. "I'd rather make a decision after the tour." She knew that didn't mean much; she was ready to say yes to the barest minimum, and this clearly was not the barest minimum. Nonetheless, she had to be cautious just in case something fishy came around.

Aaron smiled softly. "Very well," he looked at the sun sliding up the horizon. "We are very willing to accept people into our precious community. We firmly believe that greatness is community work. And what is more important in this vulnerable world, than to keep the reminder of our humanity alive within ourselves and others?"

Ellie shoved her hands inside her jean pockets, digesting the words. This guy wasn't so bad. There was a rareness of wisdom in his gaze, and it soaked up his speech.

"So, on to explaining the basics. Please tell me if you need me to repeat anything," he turned his head briefly toward her. "Deadwood works with a family system. There are numerous, and each handles a different, incredibly relevant aspect of the town. We call them 'founding families' because they were the ones that worked steadfastly throughout the outbreak, and essentially allowed us to become what we are today."

What is this? The founding of America?

"Is it really that serious?" Ellie found herself asking. Aaron's head snapped towards her, and his eyes opened wide as if she had confessed to killing Jesus.

"Of course it is!" He exclaimed, making wide-angled gestures. "This is so much better than most things out there. I'm incredibly grateful for the opportunity to live like this."

Ellie let out a small grin. He was right, probably, but the dramatics were amusing. She kept looking at her surroundings, taking in as much as possible while trying to ignore the curious yet knowing gaze of the citizens. Some waved at Aaron with gleeful confidence, and he responded with a wave and smile of his own.

"As I was saying, uh," he seemed to think for a moment. "Oh, right. The families. Well, hereby I explain." They stumbled upon a mature woman's fruit stand, the wooden surface to the brim with colorful edibles. The reddest of apples, bodacious tangerines and oranges and lemons, sliced mangoes and pineapples all ready for the taking. Ellie's eyes almost crawled out of their sockets. Her stomach grumbled painfully. She was famished, having refused the soup last night. Aaron gestured for her to follow him as he approached the sidewalk, heading toward the stand. Ellie hadn't said anything, but she might've just looked that starved.

"Beautiful Meredith, what a bounty today," Aaron winked at her. The woman, Meredith, blushed softly and waved a hand.

"Stop it, you fool," she turned her hazel eye to Ellie. "Oh, and this is your new little bird, is she not?" She smiled kindly. Ellie frowned at the nickname.

"Well, yes, her name is..." Aaron tilted his head and looked quizzically at her. "Actually I haven't asked your name. How impolite of me, really."

"It's Ellie."

"Gorgeous name, is it not, Meredith?"

"Yes, very. Well, aren't you going to get anything?" She gestured at the fruit.

"Two of these, only." He took some apples from the stand, and spun away. "Thank you, gorgeous!"

"You're always welcome, Aaron." They heard as they walked away.

"Catch," Aaron threw one of the apples at her. Ellie, very obviously, caught it. She was malnourished, skin so thin you could see the outlines of her bones, but her reflexes hadn't yet missed. She lifted the apple to her mouth, staring at it like a lone lion drooling for a hare, before biting into it fiercely. It was the sweetest apple she had ever tasted, its crunch heavenly, juices melting on her tongue. Her stomach just grumbled louder.

"Don't worry, you'll get to eat soon," Aaron said as if he had heard her stomach rumble. He took a bite of his own apple, and waited until swallowing to speak again. "That woman was Meredith Greyford. She's one of the senior members of the Greyford family, which is in charge of fruit production. She isn't the head of the family, though; it's her husband, Dante Greyford, as per Meredith's own wishes."

Ellie was very transfixed in devouring the apple; so much she didn't bother replying nor showing signs of listening. 

"Likewise, the Fandeau family handles vegetable production. Alfred Fandeau is the head of the family." He explains as they approach the eastern side of the walls, by some gates. He points. "Down that path you have beautiful, plentiful farms. The Fandeaus and Greyfords live there and most of their produce comes from there. It's all heavily fenced and guarded. The lands of South Dakota are blessed and fruitful, thankfully. Ah, I think you can even see the top of the roofs, there."

Ellie lifted her chin a little. She could see the tippy top of a shingled roof.

"The farm is very close, then." She pointed out.

"We wanted it, well— they, wanted the crops to be here in the first place. Of course, that wasn't posible. This town was filled to the brim with buildings and not much space was left for nature. All that was left was our surroundings, which are, as you can see, full of foliage and greenery and have the gift of growing nearly anything. So the people went exploring, examining the soil, its capacities. They chopped down the trees in a long operation and left the place where the farm now stands bare and ready for the planting. Afterwards they set on gardening and building the families' abodes."

Ellie had already finished her apple, which had done nothing to calm the storm of hunger. However, the feeling was slightly placated by Aaron's story, which she had now found herself more entertained by. There was an enriching quality in the way he described the events, as if he himself had been there to witness them. A sort of eloquence and charisma that sucked you in towards the fountain of others' distant memories.

"However," his back snapped up, straight. "I did tell you that the main crops and production were down at the farm. But we do have a space here for growing things as well, although it is smaller, obviously, and less colorful. It's just to enhance production and allow some easy accessibility until the weeks' produce is sent from the farm." He resumed the walk. Ellie threw the ravaged apple core into a nearby bin and fell in step beside him once more.

"I guess that space is also managed by those families, even though it isn't at the farm?" She asked.

"You guess correctly," he shot her an easy smile. "Seems like you're getting the hang of how this works quite quickly."

   "It's not like it's hard," she shrugged. "What family are you part of?"

   "Glad you asked. I'm a Bardot. The Bardots are in charge of everything relating to newcomers. We're the ones that manage and create the tests for the map retrieval and welcome and manage the newbies; it's why I'm touring you today." He seemed quite pleased with his predicament. "Not everyone is part of a founding family, though. Most people aren't, really. Those just work under the family members."

Ellie nodded, looking down at her shoes briefly. It was a custom.

"Turn here," Aaron said as he cut a corner and went left. "Then, let's see, we have the Lawsons..."

He went on about the rest of the families; there were too many to keep track of and she soon forgot most of the names. Nonetheless, she felt, in a way, delighted with this walk. Being out in the sun, yet within safety. Listening to the tweets of chubby birds that perched on lampposts; the joys and cackles of common folk. It was a vision — one she never fully believed she would witness again.

They passed many a folk that Aaron was more than acquainted with. He seemed to be very cherished all throughout the town, whether it be by rough-faced fathers or gentle-smiling grandmothers, down to the smallest of babes. Ellie just sort of stood around, nodding along whenever referred to as "the newbie".

"Anyway, that over there is the common dining hall. Most people usually eat in their homes, though, but food is always available there." He said as he pointed to a square-ish building (like most in this town) with a big glass pane at its front. From it you could see the large tables and overhead lights, and a small scattering of people hunched over their plates. "You can go there when we finish."

Ellie nodded and shoved her hands back into her pants, the cool midday breeze grazing her dark stumps. She had become accustomed to hiding that hand whenever possible; a newly-formed reflex. Yet she still told herself she didn't care.

"Ah!" Aaron suddenly exclaimed, grinning wide. The loud sound pulled her from her thoughts. "I want you to meet this person, she's the head of the St. James family."

   "What's that family in charge of?"

   "Uh..." he made a strange face and waved his hands around. "Violence."

She followed Aaron's gaze; it was a small house, red bricked, shingled-roof dark. The porch was to the brim with potted plants of all colors, short and tall, thick or thin. There was a woman in front of the steps, working on some wood cutting. She seemed to be the subject of Aaron's merriness. Jet-black curtains of short, layered hair cascaded down each side of her face, the ends spiking upwards. Down the front, some curtain bangs framed her visage, slightly damp with sweat.

"How fortunate it is to see you out of your cave," he approached her with all the confidence in the world. Ellie stayed behind a few steps, frowning. She found these sociable moments where Aaron would approach one of his comrades very awkward. "What's that for?"

"Helping Emma around. She wants to build a birdhouse."

"And you're ever the helper."

"She can't work with a broken hand."

"And why did she ask you specifically?"

"Go and ask her."

"It's because she still likes you, I'd wager."

Someone grunted. Ellie was occupied enough looking at her converse, at the sky and the people promenading about.

"Drop it," she heard the girl say, an irritated rumble to her low voice. "Keep touring the newbie." Ellie's eyes drifted to the two after the mention, and found Aaron's blues staring back at her.

"Yes, well, this is part of the tour," he said matter-of-factly, before beckoning Ellie to get closer. She rolled her eyes and walked a total of two steps forward. Fuck. When was this going to end? "Blake, this is Ellie. Ellie, this is Blake."

Blake's eyes drifted up for merely a second, before returning to the wood. She was pale, very. A striking contrast with the dark of her hair. There was this sleepiness to her eyes, a permanent half-liddedness that gave her gaze a most horrifying sense of annoyance and boredom. The sort of stare you felt judged and mocked by; even if it just simply and unassumingly grazed you for the smallest second.

   "A pleasure," Blake said —voice conveying none of the sort— and grabbed another plank to saw through.

Ellie was silent for a moment, looking at her, at the way the sun landed fiercely on her flexed muscles, big and toned and tight in a way that resonated bitterly within her. She thought of Abby, unconsciously, and a flare of anger weaved through her chest—even though the other wasn't yet as big and most definitely didn't deserve her anger. Ellie didn't bother replying, and looked away with the discomfort evident in her frown.

   Aaron stared at the both of them with blooming confusion. "Well, uh... Ellie, Blake is the head of the St. James family. They handle everything related to defense, fighting, patrolling and attack. Ellie, you told me earlier, when I asked, that what you did best was fighting, correct?"

   She shrugged. "I'm not Bruce Lee but it's what I used to do back at my old place. Patrolling and stuff."

   "Great, then, uh, Blake, she's all yours."

The girl hummed in response, not looking up from her work. Aaron clasped his hands together.

   "Alright, then, Ellie, let's keep going..."

The tour went on and its end soon befell them, to Ellie's delight. Once Aaron had taken her to her new home —a three-story apartment building, red in color, raised on a corner lot in resemblance to the Haussmannian style that prevailed in the Champs-Élysées—, he put a hand to his nape and said:

   "Sorry about Blake. She doesn't talk much, but I swear she's great."

   "It's fine," she felt a bit guilty about having given the impression that she had a problem with her. "I don't really care."

   "Just saying 'cause you looked a bit upset back there."

   "You stop a lot to talk to random people and it's damn awkward," it was a half-truth. That wasn't the reason why she got suddenly heated.

   "Oh," he looked taken aback by her bluntness. Blushing hotly, he averted his gaze. "Sorry... I know what you mean, I guess I should really work on that."

   "Yeah."

   "I suppose this means you're staying, right?"

"Seems like I am."

"Well, then... This town is yours," he made a wide-angled gesture, smiling a bit. "Have a good day and enjoy your new life in Deadwood."

The words hit Ellie's chest. She felt a sudden rush of emotion and couldn't find the words to respond. It seemed she had found a home once again. A new beginning, unsevered by ties. She could, at last, start to fulfill the promise she'd made Joel. A swarm of bubbling feelings choked up her throat. She stared at the ground and simply nodded—feeling that her voice would have shook like crazy had she used it.

   "Alright. Oh!" Aaron started rummaging through his trouser pockets and pulled out a silver key with '3B' scripted on it. "Here's your key—if you have any trouble with the housing, do tell someone from the Maddison family; they'll try their best to accommodate you or fix your problem. That's all."

   "Alright." She took the key.

Aaron gave a brief little wave. She shot him a tight-lipped smile and watched him disappear down the boulevard, the sun on his back. With a sigh, she turned the key in her hand. Her palm was sweating. She put the key inside the pocket of her pants and dried her hands with its fabric, before walking into the building.

It was warm inside. At each side of this narrow hall was a door. 1A, 1B. The floor was a polished mahogany, partially covered by a large, rectangular rug that spanned the entire length of the hall, gold in color. Brass wall lights were installed all about the place, turned off now that the day's brightness slithered in through the glass doors. Damn. Was Jackson even trying?

She walked to the stairs on the far end of the hall and went up to the third floor. 3B... She spotted the door and pulled out her key, suddenly overcome by a rush of excitement she had not felt in a long, dead time. She pushed open the door.

   "Holy shit. Fuck." She lifted her eyebrows, not believing that she deserved this second chance. She ran a hand across her face, as if to wake herself from slumber. This was reality. Giving in to the optimism of the moment, she began exploring the apartment, opening and closing doors left and right, cupboards and tables.

The open space of the living room and the kitchen was compact but no less perfectly spacious. There was this pristine sort of look about it all that she had only seen in the bigger houses of Jackson, like Tommy and Maria's. Most other homes there were rustic in a manner that was nothing but coarse. She moved to the kitchen after testing the comfortability of the Lawson couch and light green armchairs. The kitchen was disjoined from the living area simply by a breakfast counter, three footstools at its feet. The worktops had a sheen look to their purely white granite, and the cupboards were scattered with dishes and utensils here and there. The appliances worked—stove, fridge, blender—and the water ran, from there, all the way to the bathroom with its sink, curtained bathtub and toilet. The bedroom came after it, and offered a soft bed that was big enough for three, a small desk with some sort of sliding chair, a closet and a full-body mirror. All her stuff was on the bed—the backpack, the diary, the switchblade... Everything except all her other weapons. She found the explanation in a note attached to her backpack:

"Here's everything you brought along, except for the guns. Sorry, town rules. But since you'll be part of Blake's crew and they're the only ones allowed to carry a gun inside the town (only one) (except for the members of the family), you'll be getting yours soon. Have a good rest!

—Kindly, Aaron Bardot and the Bardot family."

She frowned slightly and crumpled up the note before throwing it in the small bin beside the desk. She began unpacking and placing her stuff around. Regrettably, she hadn't brought many pieces of clothing. The closet did have some that, most likely, had been left behind by the person who lived here, but the pieces were... not to her size nor style, to say the least. Girly and colorful and at times too revealing. She'd have to wear the most decent ones, at least, even if they were three times bigger. She needed to ask around to whatever fucking family it was that handled this in particular.

The day was still at its ripest and far from falling, but she felt exhausted, her bones almost turning to ash. She sat on the edge of the bed, covering her face with her hands. The silence was something overwhelming; had always been. It allowed all kinds of thoughts to seep into her mind. A bit of Aaron's rambling would've done some good. There was this sprouting feeling of guilt—well, it had always been there since she left the farm, but now that she had finally settled in somewhere else... it slashed and beat at her. Truthfully, she didn't think she deserved this goodness. This haven. The blurred visages of a woman and child materialized behind her eyelids. What she would do to have them once again.

Rebuilding wasn't going to be anything but the most wicked of tortures. She better go eat.

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DEADWOOD

Thanks for reading.