Dutch should've looked for Arthur. We all know that. So here is the comfort he deserves. With fatherly Dutch.

I called the white Arabian Ivory in my game. So that's her name here.


Pain.

Radiating, mainly from his shoulder but he ached everywhere.

He held onto his horse's mane for dear life, one grip stronger than the other. His legs were weak but as tight as he could get them around the saddle. If he fell, he wasn't sure he would be able to get back up.

He had told her to take him home. He trusted her to carry him to safety. His beautiful white Arabian. Someone said she shone like Ivory. So that's what he named her. Ivory. His girl. She would bring him home.

If he could manage to stay in the saddle.

He doesn't know how far from camp he is, only knows he's far enough from the danger he can relax slightly.

He's bent over his saddle, forehead almost pressed into Ivory's neck.

He startles slightly, he can hear shouting. He tenses but it's coming from in front of him, not behind. No gunshots to accompany it. Did he almost run into somebody? Or is he home?

He lifts his head best he can, cracks his eyes open. Not camp, but he can see horses coming towards him.

Is it wishful thinking or is the one in front The Count? He prays to whoever may be listening that he's right.

Ivory slows her gait and relief blooms in his chest. It is The Count. It's Dutch calling his name. And Hosea. John. Charles. Javier. Even Bill.

He can feel his body shutting down in the presence of safety. He hopes they get to him before he passes out. The fall from his horse would hurt.

Ivory comes to a standstill. He sees Dutch slide off his horse before it has the chance to stop. He's running towards him, the others dismounting behind him.

He lists sideways and this time he can't hold on. He braces for impact but his silent prayers are answered and hands grab him before he hits the ground.

He is lowered gently, leaning against someone. The smell of aftershave and pine and home fill his senses. He is leaning against Hosea. He can hear John talking. There are hands on his face. A voice calling to him, tight with concern.

He opens his eyes again. When had he shut them? Dutch is in front of him. His eyes shine with concern, his forehead crinkled in his worry. He's talking, mouth moving, pulling down at the corners into a frown.

He's calling someone. Maybe him. He doesn't know, it's too far away. The sounds, the pain. Fading away into nothingness. He lets it, he wants peace. Rest.

He looks at Dutch's face, worry lines and tired bruises under his eyes. He smiles slightly. He's safe. He can only manage one quiet word before the darkness claims him.

"Dad."