I kneel into a dream where I am good & loved. I am good. I am loved. My hands have made some good mistakes. They can always make better ones.

(Natalie Wee, Our Bodies & Other Fine Machines.)

Nature towards the north was as beautiful as it was unforgiving. The chill invaded her every sense; the moon hung above, cool and blue, casting sharp shadows across the trees surrounding her. Through forced habit Charlotte Balfour checked for her gun, the string of bullets kept round her belt, and for the hunting knife kept strapped to her thigh.

It wouldn't be right to live so long and through so much, only to be taken by surprise by some creature without any protection within reach.

"Alright, Missy," she spoke to her horse, her voice so quiet she herself could scarcely hear it. "I think it is high time we ladies turn in for the night."

She had been down in Annesburg restocking supplies with her wagon. Unknowingly, she had passed into Murfree Country not far from the hills, seeking more herbs and plants to store over the season should she have need of them. It never hurt to be prepared. It never hurt. Fortunately luck was on her side, and she was left blissfully unaware of the distasteful local folk. Not like she'd been to town long enough at any time to hear the gruesome rumors of the brood - and more recently the gang - who holed up in the area. All she knew to keep an eye out for were the animals of the wild and the plants it consisted of.

Wild mint, yarrow, Indian Gooseberry, wild carrots, Alaskan ginseng, creeping thyme- Charlotte immersed herself in the careful, precise process of tracking down any herb she knew what to do with, if found in a properly large amount. Were the patches too sparse she'd leave them to grow further, noting their location on her increasingly tangled and complex hand-drawn map. The knees of her trousers were caked thick with mud, green and red stains trailing up her forearms. Missy's saddlebags bulged due to the mass of greenery and plumage that protruded from within; the horse had a naughty streak and often had to be chided for taking a particularly interested sniff at some plant or another. Charlotte loved her for it.

Looking once over her wagon full of herbs, food, new clothes, medicine and supplies stocked for the season, Charlotte felt a swell of pride in her ability to take care of herself. She wouldn't be getting sick this winter or dying of starvation, no, she would not. While a certain someone may have taught her the basics of hunting and trapping, she had long been familiar with many other valuable skills needed to make it by, out in the wilderness. She was no stranger to herbology.

They'd been out here quite long, now. Really only a day or two but lord above, if it did not feel so much longer. Time seemed to stretch thinner and thinner every day of her life she spent alone. There was nothing inherently wrong with isolation; she'd grown accustomed to it. But it did...it could have a certain….effect, on a person. Loneliness made you strange.

She started unhitching Missy from the wagon, the horse slumping in relief. The night was long and flush with stars. Wildlife rustled far off in the thick underbrush, the trees swaying to and fro with hushed, quiet sighs. The sky was vast and black and Charlotte found it harder and harder to stay asleep, as of late. After some hours restless dozing she awoke, tossing and turning uneasily on her bedroll, Missy watching her every move with increasingly exhausted eyes. Charlotte sat up.

Something was going on.

A disturbance up the hill. Up, high and far on the cliffside that hung over the wide valley. Not so far from Charlotte, per say, but far from the rest of the world; in the shallow silence of nighttime, the muddled and distant sounds of what seemed to be yelling, maybe even gunshots, echoed out to reach her. One hand flew out to clutch her shotgun. It was barely her business, but she figured…were she mistaken she'd simply come back down to her camp. Impulse tempted her, curiosity tugging insistently at her to stand, to collect herself and investigate the disturbance. She couldn't sleep in the first place. Leaving it lie wouldn't do her any good. Charlotte desperately tried to rationalize it as she stepped over the bedroll and patted Missy, urging her into awareness. "Come on, girl. I know it's late, come on."

Spurring her horse into a quick trot, Charlotte picked her way carefully up and around the hill. She took the long way, careful not to send any rocks or debris sliding down the side of the thin dirt road to alert of her presence. The road was long. Camp seemed to fade farther and farther away, the thin plume of blackened smoke the only sign of the way back. The yelling and hoofbeats grew louder, fading in and out in short bursts before it all but disappeared. She froze in place, knees tight to Missy's broad sides as she listened. It felt like minutes- though could only have been seconds before the silence filled with the sound of a struggle. Charlotte urged Missy into the forest, noting quickly that daybreak was not so far off. Her curious confidence eroded with every step. She'd done foolish things, oh, the foolish things she had done still lingered on her mind and drove her nights into sleeplessness but probably never anything so foolish as climbing towards a mountain before the break of dawn following the sounds of a fight. Who would do that kind of thing? Of course only Charlotte Balfour, the fool on a fool's errand.

She dared not break through the treeline. She heard it, then. Chaos. Gunshots rang out rapid-fire, loud cracks and bangs echoing out across the valley. Light flickered here and there among the underbrush far above. She could see the dark outline of some caves, a tall, stacked hill hanging over the wilderness, framed by an endless expanse of thick trees interspersed with riders on horseback. Quickly, Charlotte dismounted, urged Missy further off into the woods and crouched in cover. Whoever these men were, they were clearly dangerous. Anyone with hands and mouth could be. Those with guns just weren't shy to hide it.

Things quieted for a time. She could scarcely make out two silhouettes up on the ridge, grappling. Grunts and shouts echoed out, made unintelligible by the distance. Charlotte didn't know how long she spent there, hunched over and trembling, straining to hear anything which might guide her where to go. The men still on horseback circles around; she could make out the silhouettes and flashing glimpses of their lanterns just so. They were circling her way, planning to swing down and around. She huddled closer to the tree, and silently prayed that Hashem spare her.

They did not come for her.

Time passed and the violence faded away, the mild sounds of nature filling the air once again. Two silhouettes vanished from the mountain, making their way down. Where was the third?

The men on horses were somewhere off behind her now, circling inwards, closer. For now her only choice was to go towards the cliff and, were she strong enough, to climb. Curiosity gnawed at her just as her instinct for survival pushed her to go up towards the one place the men on horseback wouldn't expect a soul to go; upwards to the site of the crime, where the perpetrators had just fled.

The climb was rough. Stones slipped beneath her uneasy footing; she was a survivalist now, sure, but certainly not a mountain climber. She couldn't take Missy with her much further than the first ridge, where she lovingly insisted she stay put.

The final cliff stretched out before her, this the space where she believed to have seen the strangers walking. Sure and real as daylight, she saw him. The third silhouette. Frail, weak, the beaten man slumped to the ground and slid down to a more comfortable position, lying flat on his back with his gaze turned towards the sun. He was pale, washed out and sickly, with a layer of shining red coating him from the chest downwards; spatters of it stained his lips and the rough surface of his beard was caked with thick, slowly drying blood. Charlotte shuddered to think of what had been done to him. A rattling cough burst from him, interrupting the otherwise peaceful quiet of daylight. The sun rose high over the horizon. He took no notice of her loud, clumsy movements. He was elsewhere; he was giving up. She straightened, rushing from her hiding place in the underbrush to go to him. That cough was...alarming. It sounded all too familiar. With steady hands, she took her neckerchief and pulled it up to cover her mouth. It wouldn't do to catch his illness, no, it wouldn't do at all.

She'd come up here expecting a confrontation, or perhaps a corpse. Not this. Even as well educated as she was in medicine, Charlotte was not particularly keen on nurturing strange, dirty men sprawled on mountain tops back to health.

Still. She wasn't heartless.

He went slack. His body was limp and fragile as she moved to stand over him, quickly considering her options. She might not be able to carry him- getting him onto her horse would prove rather difficult. There was no time to build any contraption on which to pull him by. Then again, he was thin and withered by illness, and she was strong from months of garden-tending and hunting. She reckoned she might even be taller.

Then came the shock. Cold and quick and gone as soon as it came, she knew all at once just who this man was; none other than Arthur Morgan, the man who had taught her to fend for herself in this bloody old wilderness. He had certainly seen better days. This might take the title as the worst, were he lucky enough to live through it. What had he gone through, to come to such a state that she could barely even recognize him? Disease colored his pallid flesh, his face worn and roughened by more than just the weather. Dark bruises wound down his skin in patchy blotches. His left hand held a deep cut across the palm that bled quickly, presumably from grabbing onto a stone or something of the sort. A puddle of crimson surrounded him. This was more than just the aftermath of a fight- this was a broken man, whittled down to the barest functions of life. She whistled to her horse. This was someone who would die very quickly were she to dawdle. Her heart clenched to see her friend in such a state.

She sprang into action. "Mr. Morgan," she urged, a gloved hand firmly patting his cheek and then, "Arthur!"

He couldn't answer. His head lolled to one side, eyes unfocused as he blinked, squinted up at her. He grunted. "Eloquent as ever, I see. Don't worry, Arthur, I'm not going to let you come to any harm. Just please, hold on."

She threw her overcoat onto the ground beside him before roughly rolling him onto it. Thank goodness she'd finally become accustomed to lifting heavy things. Arthur barely stirred. Then, with a strength she hadn't known she possessed, Charlotte pulled him along on the coat down the less steep edge of the hill, whistling to Missy to come around.

The horse obliged. Missy trotted a bit closer, huffing loudly in distress at the scene before her; Charlotte let go of the jacket she'd used to drag him and instead moved to grab her horse's reins, easing her closer. She leaned down and tugged firmly at her right foreleg, pulling it back and in towards her hindleg. The movement tipped the horse at an angle. "Come on Missy, let's go girl." A soft whinny. The animal chose to comply, tilting and tilting 'til she fell comfortably to her side, calmly lying down. Charlotte took a rushed second to cheer her on before turning back to the dying man.

"Your turn. Come on now, breathe deep. This isn't going to be very nice." He groaned once more. She wondered if he even knew what was happening. Then with one great, heaving tug, she pulled him over Missy's saddle, murmuring comforting words the entire time. Whether she was talking to the man or the horse wasn't quite clear. They both seemed to need it.

"Where…." Arthur trailed off, falling into a fit of rough coughing as he weakly clung to Missy's side. Charlotte wanted to be sure he stayed conscious for as long as possible. She grasped Missy by the reins and slowly began leading the horse back down the hill, now more careful of the precarious path and all the scattered, slippery rocks along the way. Her chest swelled with relief once the plume of smoke from her camp came into sight again, along with the promise of her half-full wagon, perfect to transport him in. She'd been right to spend her day so far from home, restocking food and hunting for herbs and medicinal plants- they'd certainly come in handy now. This would be nothing if not near-impossible.

Missy kept on her loyal, obedient way. Arthur barely moved a muscle.

Even as a small child, Charlotte had always lived a very private life within herself. Few came in and few came out. How many years had it been since she'd spoken to her mother, or her father? Her dear late husband had been one of the few allowed in. Even her living space itself was more often than not reserved only for her.

But Arthur was her friend. She trusted him; he had, in many ways, saved her life. She owed him the same courtesy.

Reaching back to check on him, Charlotte took gentle hold of Arthur's uninjured hand and held it between one of her own.