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say-hwaet · 1 month ago

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That's The Way it Is

Chapter 24: The Art of Persuasion, Part I Next Chapter: Twenty-Five Summary: Arthur and you make your way back to Shady Belle, but as slow as you can manage it. Warnings: Mature Themes, Language Word Count: ~7,700

Arthur dismounts his horse and rolls his shoulders as he turns around. “You gonna get off, kid, or do you need someone to hold your hand?”

John scowls at him, sticking out his tongue in typical teenage fashion. “I ain’t a baby, Arthur.”

“Then get off my horse.”

John slides off the horse’s back and tucks his hands in his pockets. He’s such a lanky, scroungy kid. Though he’s been running with the gang for only a year, he’s made quick work of making himself Arthur’s responsibility. Hosea continues to insist that it will give Arthur some character, but he knows that this is an effort to keep him out of trouble. Trouble meaning a woman’s wiles.

Mary drug his heart through the mud when she broke off their engagement. Three years, only to be tossed away with a few simple words. It’s still fresh in his memory, being only two weeks ago.

Hosea and Bessie are more empathetic, an understanding of his plight clearly matching their own to a degree. But Dutch, charming Dutch, simply told Arthur that she is a dime a dozen. Easy for him to say, when he can go from woman to woman so easily without as much as a hello and goodbye. And even though he’s got Susan, Arthur knows it’s only a matter of time before she is cast aside for someone else.

But Arthur isn’t that way. He loves Mary, and he knows it will be a good while before he ever lets his heart open up again.

“Arthur, c’mon!” John calls him. “I wanna get a good seat ‘fore they’re all taken!”

Arthur rolls his eyes. He could care less, they could be in the very back with no view and he wouldn’t mind. He doesn’t want to be anywhere besides back at camp with a bottle in his hand.

But still, he doesn’t want to hear it from Dutch or Hosea if John should complain he wasn’t at least a bit accommodating to the twelve-year-old. He follows the boy as others begin to cluster in a line that leads inside the high top.

As they file inside, he can sense the temperature difference. Of course, with all these people gathered in one place, it’s bound to be warmer. Great.

He feels John tug at his sleeve. “Hurry up, Arthur…!”

Hell, this kid …Arthur grumbles to himself. He lets himself be dragged to a row of seats just behind the front and they sit down at the first sight of two empty chairs next to each other. The seating is basic, most likely furniture donated for the event. Some folks sit on barrels or old tree stumps. He and John are lucky to have the more luxurious choices.

The tent is filled with various conversations and buzzing excitement, the center of the tent bare but not empty of a wordless energy. Arthur feels like he is in the calm before the storm, the many voices like rumbling clouds.

He isn’t sure if this is a good thing, or a bad thing.

And as others hurriedly find a seat, a fanfare begins to play and surrounding lights get doused, leaving only the flames burning in the center of the ring.

A man, dressed in red and black, his leather boots shining like oil, steps from behind a curtain waving as applause erupts. John claps eagerly, Arthur crosses his arms. He will sit and watch, but he isn’t going to enjoy it.

“Ladies and gentleman…!” the man loudly greets, his voice curling with a foreign accent. “This is going to be a beautiful evening. Full of sights, danger, and wonder! You will witness things such as you’ve never seen before!” He pauses to let his voice echo in the large space of the tent and the buzzing hive of guests simmers down. “We come to you from lands far away. Arad, Prague, Moscow. And we’ve done you the courtesy to bring these places to you.” He takes a step back, opening his arms in a welcoming gesture. “So, I give you, The Sclaveni Circus!”

A large cymbal crashes, making John jump. The man steps away as three costumed performers scurry into the center of the ring.

There are two grown men flanking a boy, about John’s age, all wearing face paint and embroidered clothing. They are holding unlit torches, one in each hand, and in a quick, synchronous motion, they hold out each torch straight in front of them.

There is movement in the corner of Arthur’s eye, and turning his head, a young woman, wearing a tiger mask, artfully prances into the center of the ring, carrying a burning torch. Anticipating what comes next, there are soft gasps and awes from the audience.

The young woman, spinning and bending her arms, lights up each of the bare torches. The men and young boy remain still as the tigress carefully tends to each torch.

When she lights the final one, she lifts her mask, only to reveal her mouth, where she extinguishes the flame. Arthur’s eyes go wide at her fearlessness. Does that hurt? Smoke comes from her mouth as though she had just smoked a large cigar and before he can get a good look at her face, the mask goes down again. There is light applause and awe and she bows before fleeing into the shadows of the ring.

Arthur’s attention is back on the other three performers and after a suspenseful pause, they begin to toss the flaming torches in the air. As the torches spin, they light up the space in the high top. They come down and before even having the chance to fall on the ground, the performers catch them with precise agility. But they don’t stay long in their hands, for they are tossed again.

“Woah!” John gasps, letting himself be a kid. Arthur lets himself smile a little, shaking his head. His eyes return to the juggling performance and the performers begin to move. They add distance between each other, still juggling the flaming torches.

And suddenly, as the rattling of a fanfare rings out, one of the adult men tosses his torch toward the young boy. A woman gasps loudly, most likely out of fear for the young lad.

But the boy’s smile remains and without even looking, he catches it, adding to the circle of tossing and catching.

There is a round of applause.

The performance intensifies. The torches seem to defy gravity, spinning faster and striking vivid paths of flame through the dimly lit tent. The audience's collective breath catches as the stakes increase; the distance between each performer grows, expanding the danger with every throw.

Arthur’s gaze, however, keeps darting back to the shadows, seeing the young woman, mask still on her face, as she has her hands pressed together as if in prayer. It is clear that she doesn’t know she can be seen. Arthur isn’t sure why his heart flitters a bit, watching the young boy perform with such audacity and grace, but still lingering on the mysterious woman who had earlier commanded the flames with her lips. Why does she appear so fearful? This duality fascinates him, his own curiosity getting the better of him.

The crowd’s exhilaration builds with each daring toss of the torches, their cheers echoing off the canvas walls of the tent, creating a swell as loud as thunder.

And it isn’t long before the young boy is juggling six flaming torches.

Casting any remaining doubt in his audience, he juggles them long enough to prove his prowess before four of the torches are returned to the other men, ending the performance.

Arthur sees the man in the shiny boots and hat step back into the ring. “Give a hand for the young juggler, ladies and gentlemen!”

The applause is explosive, a storm that breaks free from every corner of the tent, rattling the wooden benches under enthralled spectators. Arthur is tempted to applaud, the raw energy infectious, but he refrains, his eyes intermittently drawn to the masked woman still lingering in the shadows, her body more relaxed and she jumps happily up and down.

The three performers bow and step away. The young boy goes to the young woman and they hug briefly before stepping behind the curtain.

The ring leader takes off his hat and waves it. “Now, we bring you our next act, the strongest man on this side of the Ruby Mountains!”

Arthur feels a sharp jab into his ribs and turns quickly to see John poking him with his left elbow. “Too bad that title ain’t yours, eh, Arthur?”

Arthur shoves John playfully. “Shut up.”

The next act begins, and the crowd's attention shifts to a brawny man lifting weights that seem impossible for even the sturdiest of oxen. It is quite impressive, though being doubtful, he isn’t even sure that those weights are even real.

Apparently, others share this doubt, as from the audience a shout rings into the air. “Those are fake!”

The brawny man looks up into the crowd, his brow furrowed as he lowers the large weight. “Kto eto skazal? Smeyu skazat' eto mne v litso!”

There is a sudden hush, and the ring leader laughs. “What my friend Nikolai here says, is that he wants someone to prove that these aren’t fake!” The man gazes into the audience, squinting his eyes. “Is there a strapping young man who would like to try lifting them himself?” His eyes roam, challenging and mischievous.

Arthur feels a nudge stronger than before from John, who wears an impish grin. "Go on, Arthur. Show 'em how it's done."

Arthur’s gaze hardens as he contemplates the provocation. He’s no stranger to challenges, but he isn’t a fool. He remains seated, shaking his head. “Nice try, kid.”

But John isn’t a quitter. He looks out toward the ring leader and waves his hands. “Hey! Over here!”

As John’s hand flails in the air, attracting the attention they probably should be avoiding, Arthur feels a crawl of annoyance up his spine. Those seated around them turn their bodies and it soon gathers the attention of the ring leader.

Smiling broadly, he walks over to them. “Well, it looks like we have a volunteer! Come on into the ring, good sir! Do not be shy!”

Arthur would much rather tuck his head and leave, but he isn’t one to back away from a challenge. With reluctance, he rises to his feet, casting a sidelong glare at John who is now wearing a satisfied smirk.

The crowd applauds as he makes his way towards the front and into the light of the ring, meeting the ring leader. The man places a hand on his shoulder and looks at him with a welcoming expression. “What is your name, sir?”

Arthur is clever enough to not say his real name. “Henry.”

The ring leader beams and looks out toward the audience. “Let’s give Henry a round of applause!”

The applause breaks out, loud and enthusiastic, as Arthur—now Henry—sizes up the gargantuan weights before him. Their iron surfaces gleam under the circus tent lanterns, each one looking more like a boulder than a tool for lifting. The ring leader's voice booms across the gathered crowd, stirring up the atmosphere. “Let’s see if Henry here can lift these! Let us see if these are truly fake!”

Nikolai, with a confident grin, steps away from the weights. Arthur approaches them, his posture relaxed but eyes sharp, measuring. These aren’t ordinary weights. They are showpieces, designed more for spectacle than practical use. Each one a testament to human effort frozen in iron. He grasps the first weight, marked 100 lbs, a behemoth that most would balk at. The texture of cold metal bites into his palms as he wraps the fingers of his right hand around it, steadying himself. With a grunt, Arthur lifts the weight slightly off the ground, his muscles tensing visibly beneath the fabric of his shirt. A murmur ripples through the crowd, some impressed by the feat, others skeptical, whispering among themselves that it must be a trick. He manages to stand upright with it, holding it at waist level, before setting back down gently.

Arthur moves to the next weight, his face set in grim determination. This one is even larger, its surface marred with the scars of many previous attempts. He bends, grips, and lifts with both arms. The strain is evident as his arms bulge and his jaw tightens in concentration. The atmosphere in the tent thickens with tension, the crowd silent but for the occasional creak of the weights and Arthur’s labored breathing. He steadies the enormous weight at knee level, holding it there as sheer determination fuels him, before finally lowering it back down with a hard thud.

Arthur, panting, nods his head. “Them weights are real, alright.”

The audience claps again, and Arthur feels a firm pat on his back.

Nikolai, eyes wide, shakes his head. “YA ne veryu etomu!”

“Well! I never expected this, ladies and gentlemen!” the ring leader says excitedly. “Looks like we might have another strongman in the making here at our very show!” The audience erupts into cheers and whistles, their excitement palpable in the air rich with the scent of sawdust and popcorn.

Arthur, or Henry as they know him, flashes a wry smile, the kind that doesn't quite reach his eyes. It’s unlike him to receive this sort of positive attention, and he isn’t sure he likes it. Before he can be coaxed into doing something else, he hurries back to his seat.

And he sees John, eyes sparkling, grinning from ear to ear.

Arthur can’t help but feel a little proud.

After nearly an hour of daring performances, clown antics, and animal tricks, there is a sudden hush from under the big top. A couple of the tall burning lights go out, leaving a solitary circle of light deep in the center of the ring. The ring leader steps into it and he removes his hat. “I am sorry to say, that we are coming to the end of our show tonight.”

There is a collective boo from the audience, even John joins in, and Arthur shakes his head, chuckling.

The ring leader gestures for them to settle, his eyes brightening. “but do not worry, ladies and gentlemen, we have one more performance for you this evening. One that is not as dangerous or as energetic. This one will mesmerize you, make you question what is one capable of?” He puts on his hat, pausing for dramatic effect. “May I present, our Artemis from the Bohemian Forest!”

He disappears into the shadows and the young juggler from before rushes in with a pole. He stands in the center of the light, securing it into the ground and twisting some small platform on the top of it. He then runs away. Arthur furrows his brow. What is happening?

Then, suddenly, he sees a pair of bare feet step into the light, and a body follows. A feminine figure, a young woman, the tigress. She wears a costume solely in white, her face painted like alabaster, with intricate patterns of yellow and blue on her cheeks, lips, and eyes.

With graceful ease, she approaches the tall pole, her steps light and confident. As she reaches out to take a hold of it, her fingertips gently caress the smooth surface before gripping onto it firmly. She sets herself on the small platform at the top of the pole, barely big enough to support her hands as she balances with poise and grace. Slowly, she lowers her chest to rest on the platform, barely taking a breath. With perfect control, she begins to bend her back, arching like a bow until her legs extend past her head and her bottom touches the crown of her scalp. The audience watches in awe as she performs this feat effortlessly, seemingly defying gravity with her body's flexibility and strength.

She seems to give a subtle nod, and the young boy returns again, this time with a bow and arrow. He doesn’t offer for her to take it but brings it to her feet. With skilled practice, her toes take the bow and arrow, aligning it with precision that belies the complexity of her position. Arthur watches, his breath caught in his throat, as she draws the bowstring back with a mere flex of her toes, aiming high into the dark canopy of the tent. A hush falls over the crowd, the tension palpable in the charged air.

A sudden flame goes alight, illuminating a prepared target, a single apple on a similar pole, on the other side of the ring.

There is a collective gasp, as now most have figured out what is to happen.

And for the first time, the crowd falls completely silent.

All Arthur can hear is a soft exhale as her feet release the arrow.

It flies across the tent.

And strikes the apple dead in the center.

The crowd goes crazy.

Arthur can’t help but feel a mix of astonishment and he finds himself standing with others, applauding. “Did you see that, John?” he asks aloud. “I ain’t never seen anyone shoot like that!” For the first time in weeks, he doesn’t think about Mary, but lets himself find admiration in a stranger, whose skill impresses even someone like him.

But the young woman doesn’t seem to notice the adoration of the crowd or the once-skeptic outlaw, for she dismounts from her tiny platform, taking the bow in her hand and bowing one time before disappearing into the shadows once again.

***

Arthur takes in a deep breath as he opens his eyes, the light from the morning creeping in through the hotel room window. He feels something soft against his cheek and tucking his chin he sees the top of your head, your dark hair ticking his skin. He smiles, and moves his arm to pull you closer, as though you were too far away from him.

You seem to settle there, blissfully unaware of the morning’s appearance and Arthur wishes that it could stay this way forever.

But it can’t. At least not yet. There’s still a work to be done.

Marston. That fool, too stupid to realize what he has. He’s doing better, finally assuming a role in Jack’s life, though yet to be where it ought. They all share a room now, so that’s progress. All they need is a place of their own and time away from all this mess.

It seems that Hosea has tried all his skills of speech to convince John of the same, but it still seems to fall on deaf ears.

Maybe John doesn’t need smooth talking. Maybe he needs something that Arthur is good at delivering: a solid punch in the face.

Arthur chortles at this, his body shifting slightly.

Then he feels you stir.

“What’s so funny…?” you breathe.

Arthur looks down and kisses the top of your head. “‘M’sorry, kitten,” he says softly into your hair. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

He feels you stretch under the covers, the delicate motion pulling him deeper into the warmth of the moment. "It's alright," you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep. "Was just a dream... something about the circus and an apple."

Arthur's heart catches at the mention, considering he had just dreamt of the same thing. Only, he didn’t realize who was all in the dream and he feels a rush of excitement at the thought. “This wouldn’t also involve jugglin’ flamin’ torches, would it?”

You tilt your head and meet his eyes, blinking softly as you’re still trying to wake up, your brow lowered as you look at him intently. “Yes…?”

Arthur chortles again at the coincidence. “Darlin’,” he starts, covering his eyes with his free hand. “Remember when I told you how we met?”

You nod, eyeing him suspiciously. “Yes…?”

“Well, I think I seen you before that.”

Your gaze sharpens, a flicker of curiosity lighting up your hazel eyes. "Before Hosea found me?" you ask, sitting up, the blanket pooling around your waist. The light from behind you shines through your nightgown and he can see the silhouette of your beautiful shape.

Arthur nods slowly, his marine blue eyes reflecting a seriousness that contrasts with his earlier laughter. "Yeah. It were under that big top. You wore a tiger mask.” He smiles at the memory, the shape of your body as it contorted to shoot that arrow. “You shot an apple. Dead center.”

The recognition fills your expression and you intently look in his eyes. “That was a month before Antek got sick.”

“He was the young juggler.”

Your eyes become shiny with unshed tears. “Yes.” You suddenly gasp, covering your mouth. “You saw my brother?”

Arthur smiles, reaching up to stroke your cheek. “Yeah. He seemed really happy when he hugged you.”

Your breath hitches and for a moment, the old grief knits across your face like a shadow passing over the sun. "I never knew," you whisper, letting your face lean into Arthur's touch, finding comfort in his presence. "After all these years, to think you were there too."

Arthur's voice becomes softer, his hand steady against your face. “Life’s funny that way, ain’t it? All them paths crossin’ before we even know it.” He pauses, his eyes searching yours. “I reckon it's like the stars linin’ up without us ever noticin’ until one day, everythin’ makes a bit of sense.” The room grows quiet except for the birdsong outside the window and the soft sniffing noises you make. You take his hand in yours. “And to think we were dreamin’ the same thing…” he adds.

You nod. “It’s like we were always bound to meet each other.”

Arthur smiles as he sits up in the bed, feeling the warmth of your hands enveloping his. “That’s right, Kit,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand gently. “Bound by fate or some other force we can’t see.” He leans in closer, his breath mingling with yours. The proximity brings back flashes of memories—of things he has done in his life, good and bad, and how each step he’s taken has brought him closer to you. “And I’m glad that I get to live this life wit’chu.”

Tears glisten in your eyes as you feel the weight of his words, the truth and sincerity behind them reaching deep into your heart. You lean forward, resting your forehead against his, and he feels the softness of your skin against his. "Me too, Arthur. Despite everything, I'm grateful."

His hands shift to hold you close and you fall into his chest, resting in the crook of his neck. After such an intimate evening, good rest, and a beautiful morning, Arthur feels more confident to take on the next trials that lay ahead.

For better or for worse.

***

Arthur looks to his left to see you riding beside him, trailing Večer along. She carries several wolf pelts and a legendary buck carcass and you are all on the way to the trapper. Not being an avid hunter, aside from water foul, you were content to stay back and watch Arthur in action, as you so freely told him. He felt like a little show-off, shooting game in front of his woman, and it meant something when you didn’t cringe or cry at the sight of him skinning the animals he killed. Granted, you have a reverent respect for life, but you understand the necessity in these untamed lands. The rhythm of horse hooves clattering against the rocky trail mingles with the tranquil sounds of nature, creating a symphony that is uniquely wild and strangely comforting.

Ahead, the path winds through dense forest that has patches of bare ground from fallen trees and remnants of a fire long ago. Arthur takes the lead as the path narrows, and he cuts away to ride up a hill made of stone. As the hill flattens, there is a small camp with assorted furs. Here is one of the Canadian trapper’s outposts.

Arthur turns to you. “I’ll just be a minute, darlin’.” And he dismounts. Walking over to Večer, he takes her lead and leads her to the trapper’s table.

The trapper, a grisly-looking man in hand-stitched buckskin clothing, nods his head. “Been a while, mister.”

Arthur greets him with a polite nod. “Indeed it has.”

“What do you got for me?”

Arthur gestures to the legendary buck on the shire’s back. “See for yourself.”

The trapper’s face lights up when he gets a view of the animal and he rests closed fists at his waist. “Lookie there! That’s a great find you got.”

Arthur nods, patting Večer’s neck. “How much for the carcass and pelts? All good quality.”

The trapper scratches his chin. “I never have doubts about quality when it comes to your work…” He goes quiet as he thinks it over. “How does fifty dollars sound?”

Fifty dollars isn’t too unreasonable, but Arthur knows what he has. “Sixty-five.”

“Sixty.”

Arthur reaches for the trapper’s hand to shake it. “Done.”

The trapper grins, shaking Arthur’s hand, and looks behind him. “Oh, hello, there.”

Arthur looks over his shoulder and sees you approaching. You’ve always been a curious sort and can’t remain idle for too long. You nod politely to the trapper. “Hello.”

The trapper looks at you up and down, having not seen a woman in a long while. His head follows his eyes and they stop at your bare feet. “Now, I’ve seen everything.”

Arthur too looks down at your feet and chortles. “What, never seen a woman’s toes?”

The trapper shakes his head. “My wife used to go without shoes, just never thought of a civilized woman doing it as well.”

You lift a brow. “Civilized? I think you need to get out more.”

He laughs in response, shaking his head. “I see enough when I go to Saint Denis. You’re civilized.”

You exaggerate a frown. “That’s a shame.” Arthur finds your quick wit refreshing, you just manage to talk to strangers so easily, like it is second nature.

“My wife never wore shoes because she couldn’t feel the earth otherwise. It was like a second sense. Could hunt like the best of them.”

You shake your head. “I’m not a hunter, but I find that I can move freely when I’m not constricted by footwear.” You sigh. “I just wish I didn’t have to wear shoes in the cities. I find them to be more filthy than any swamp I’ve traipsed.”

The trapper nods understandably and after a moment of scratching his beard, he waggles his finger. “Just a minute…” He turns around and goes to a crate underneath one of his work tables. He pulls out a simple pair of moccasins and returns to you and Arthur. He sets them on the table in front of you. “What do you think of these?”

Arthur can see the interest in your eyes and he gently nudges you. Following his encouragement, you approach the table and touch the handcrafted shoes. “I’ve never seen shoes like these before…”

Arthur knows you have, though it’s obvious you don’t remember. He can’t bring himself to tell you. It isn’t really that important and he likes to see the wonderment on your expression.

“They’re native shoes. Some call ‘em moccasins,” the trapper explains. “My wife taught me to make ‘em, though people are skeptical. Goes to show folk’s ignorance. They’re a great shoe. Can still feel the ground but they protect your feet from the nasty streets of Lemoyne or wherever…”

“How much?” you ask quickly, already sold on the idea.

The old Canadian lifts his hand, shaking his head. “Nothin’. Consider it a free sample, that’s how they do it in civilized places, right?”

You let out a chuckle. “Even so, I can’t take these for nothing.”

But Arthur isn’t as reserved, gladly accepting the gift by taking them off the table. “Mrs. Morgan, don’t insult the poor fellow.”

The trapper nods his thanks. “My wife would have wanted me to. They’d be goin’ to waste otherwise.”

Arthur turns and hands you the shoes, placing them in your open hands. “There you go. No more heels and laces.”

He watches you as your smile slowly grows, eyes twinkling at the sight of them. “I think I’d like to go try them on.”

Arthur grins, ushering you with a soft wave of his arms. “What’re you waitin’ on?”

You quickly turn around and hurry over to a stump by the trapper’s fire and sit down, immediately putting the moccasins over your feet.

“She your woman?” the trapper asks casually.

Arthur, still looking at you as you excitedly figure out the buttons that hook into the high part of the moccasins, answers. “My wife, yes.”

Arthur can hear the approval in his voice. “Good for you. I don’t know where I would have been if it weren’t for all o’mine.”

Arthur turns to look at the trapper, with a raised brow. “All?”

The trapper doesn’t miss a beat, speaking as candidly as shooting a breeze. “Well, sure. All four of ‘em. All good in their own way. It seems that I keep outlivin’ ‘em, time and time again.”

Four wives? Arthur about lost his mind when Eliza died and about died when you were lost to him. He couldn’t ever imagine wanting to outlive you.

Arthur speaks quietly, hoping that you don’t hear. “It’d be better if I go first.”

“Oh, so you’re one of those?” the trapper chuckles.

“One of what?” Arthur asks, his voice almost challenging.

The trapper still grins, shaking his head. “Life goes on, mister. It’s better to have a good woman and outlive her than to have never had her at all.”

Arthur nods, silent for a moment as he lets the words sink in. Would he rather have never met you if it meant he wouldn’t have to live without you?

No, his heart answers fervently, as he watches you perfecting the fit of your new moccasins. The very thought of never having known you, never having seen your smile light up under the moonlight, your eyes reflecting the stars; it is unthinkable. Better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.

And he’s loved and lost a lot.

You finish hooking the fox tooth buttons and toss your hair to expose your neck. You lift your head and meet Arthur’s eyes, extending your right foot as though posing. “How do they look?”

Arthur feels a warmth in his chest, rising with the glow of admiration and soft affection. ��Perfect.”

***

It is time to return to Shady Belle. After being gone for four days, Arthur doesn’t want to test Dutch’s patience, not when they are trying to bide their time for the perfect moment to escape. With the money he’s made, a few hundred dollars, and with you riding beside him, you make the long journey back to camp.

It takes about one full day before you cross into the Heartlands, and as you both draw closer to Lemoyne, the deeper the sinking feeling in Arthur’s stomach.

He doesn’t want to go back. He’s never felt so strongly about it. These past few days have been bliss with you, the most peace he’s felt in ages. He wishes the words he’s written in his journal could play before him like a moving picture, just so that he has something more tangible to hold onto until the real moment arrives when you have a place of your own.

“Do you want to stop and make camp?” he asks you, in a desperate attempt to stall just one more day. “We could maybe get some meat to bring back to Shady Belle.”

If you know his ulterior motives, you don’t show it, for you only look into his eyes and smile. “I think they could forgive us if you brought back something for Pearson. I could maybe hunt some duck. I’m eager to see if I still got it.”

Now in agreeance, you both make a detour, riding off the road and to the right on the slope that you just rode through. As far as he knows, you and Arthur are the only two souls in the area.

That is, until he looks ahead.

Near the edge of the cliff, is a man wearing a short-brimmed straw hat, and a blue shirt with a tailored vest. His body is bent, hunched, as he looks through a camera resting on a tripod.

It is then that Arthur recognizes him: Albert Mason.

During his personal exploration escapades, Arthur has come across a wide array of people with unique personalities. Some are more odd than others, but any person that shows an appreciation for nature and manages to survive wolves and crocodiles always serves as a fascination for Arthur. Albert is a funny fellow and there’s never a dull moment, for Arthur has to swoop in and save him before he injures himself.

He doubts this encounter will be no different.

“That man better get away from that edge,” you say softly. “He could fall.”

Arthur chuckles. “I don’t know, he’s kind of a lucky feller.”

You turn to him. “You know him?”

Arthur nods. “Let’s approach carefully. Don’t wanna spook him.” Then he quietly dismounts Montana. He hears you snort but you slide off Odliv and walk around her to meet him. He motions for you to follow with a nod of his chin. “C’mon.” He begins to walk toward Albert and hears you follow close behind. The grass swishes softly beneath his boots, making his steps quiet. He really doesn’t want to spook his friend, as the man is more skittish than most.

Once he is about a couple of yards away, he clears his throat loudly. “Mr. Mason?”

And still, the photographer jolts, but thankfully keeps his feet planted where he stands. He lifts his head away from the camera and eyes Arthur and you approaching. “Oh! Mr. Morgan!” Albert places a hand on his chest and takes a deep breath. “Good heavens, I wasn’t sure I’d see you again. What a coincidence!”

Arthur chuckles, shaking his head at the man’s nervous disposition. "Ain't no coincidence, Mr. Mason. Seems I'm always savin' your hide just in time."

"I suppose that's true," Albert admits with a sheepish grin. He looks at you and his eyes widen slightly. “Oh! I didn’t think you traveled with company, Mr. Morgan?”

Arthur looks at you, offering to take your hand. You do and he pulls you close to introduce you. “Mr. Mason, this is my wife, Kitka.”

Albert's eyes sparkle with surprise and curiosity, an added twinkle betraying his delight in this revelation. "Mrs. Morgan, it is a pleasure to meet you! I must say, Arthur here has kept you quite the secret."

You offer a small smile, nodding towards Albert. "It's a pleasure, Mr. Mason. I’m sure you were quick to find that Arthur is a very secretive man.”

Albert nods thoughtfully. “Indeed. But he’s never strayed from doing me the kindness of rescue time and time again.” He looks at his camera, still positioned and at the ready.

Arthur lets go of your hand and eyes the camera. The last animal he tried to capture was alligators, and while he’s sure Albert managed to get some photographs, he can’t imagine what he’s looking for out here. “Are you…lookin’ into landscapes now, or are you hopin’ something will come and try to eat you?”

Albert chuckles lightly. “Oh, you’d think that, but this time my subject is a little less…abrasive.” He returns to the camera and bends down to look into the lens. “The majestic eagle is too small to swoop me up, and I can get a decent picture from afar.” He takes the tripod and tries to move it, still looking through the viewfinder. “If I can just…get the right angle…” He continues to step backward, nearing the cliff’s edge.

Arthur’s heart catches for a second, seeing the potential peril that awaits the photographer. “Mr. Mason, please, step away from the edge…”

And you gasp at the sound of pebbles falling down. “Mr. Mason, you’ll fall!”

Albert pauses, a frown creasing his brow as he finally pulls away from the viewfinder. He turns to glance behind him and lets out a nervous chuckle. “Oh dear, that was a close one, wasn’t it?” He brushes off his pants, reclaiming his composure. “Thank you, Arthur.” He then nods to you. “And you, Mrs. Morgan. It does help to have two voices of reason.” He looks down and taps his foot on the edge. “Any moment and this could—”

He begins to slip and before Arthur has the time to react, you have reached out and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him away from the edge.

“Arthur was right!” you exclaim. “You’re truly lucky!” You shake your head as you let go of his arm. “Moudrost se snadno nese, ale těžko se získává.”

Albert Mason lifts his head and looks at you with a great curiosity. “I beg your pardon? What did you say?”

Arthur chuckles, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Mason.” Arthur doesn’t know what you said, either, but it might be best he doesn’t know. Either way, you can tell him later. He walks up to the rescued photographer and pats him on the back. “Maybe not test your luck this time?”

After a pause, Mr. Mason nods. “That’s it. I’m going home.” He begins to go to his camera. “There isn’t anything out here that doesn’t threaten my life. Nature can stay as it is.”

Suddenly, Arthur feels a hand take his arm, and he turns his neck to look at you. Your gaze is on the photographer, a glimmer in your eye. “We’re not threatening you, are we, Mr. Mason?”

Mr. Mason stops for a moment, looking back at you. “Of course not!” Then he tilts his head. “You aren’t suggesting you’re about to, are you?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I just thought that you might try your hand at photographing people.” Then you look up at Arthur and he can sense the love in your hazel eyes. “People like us?” You then meet Albert’s eyes again. “Maybe?”

Arthur blinks. You want your picture taken? Like this? in the middle of nowhere? Amongst the eagles, trees, and mountains?

He couldn’t imagine a better place.

Arthur grins at Albert. “Well, Mr. Mason? How about it?”

Albert Mason lets go of his camera setup and rubs his hands together, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "Well, that is a different sort of challenge altogether," he muses aloud, eyes flickering between you and Arthur. "Capturing the essence of two souls out here in the wild...Yes, I think I could do that! Isn’t at all like the portraits I’ve done in a studio or with a backdrop. Why, this lighting is far more natural!” He begins to reset his camera. “After all, I think I owe you two after the many times my life has been spared.” He picks up his gear and follows his shadow, and stopping where the light is best. “Alright.” He turns the camera to face you both and looks into the viewfinder. “Now, I need you two close together.”

Arthur tentatively steps closer, his gaze momentarily catching the way the sunlight highlights the dark tones of your hair. You seem to notice his hesitation, a soft smile painting your lips as you reach out and gently pull him by the arm, closing the gap between you. The warmth of your body near his makes him feel as though he had never known true warmth or heat until you came into his life. His body was always like ice, his heart cold as stone.

You then lean into Arthur, your head resting against his sturdy shoulder and he feels his heart pound against his ribcage. His eyes close for a moment, savoring the proximity, the shared breath between you that mingles in the cool mountain air.

When he opens them again, he sees Albert watching you both, sighing. “Perfect.”

Arthur can feel his cheeks grow hot, the fact that you and he aren’t alone returning to the forefront of his mind. “Do we stay still, or…?”

Albert looks back through the camera. “Just for a moment. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” you answer softly.

“Alright!” It grows quiet as Albert adjusts his camera a little bit more. “Ready…and…” Click. “Done!” Albert lifts his head from the camera with a satisfied chuckle. "That's the one," he declares, peering at the small plate with an artist's critical eye. "It has something... a certain truth about it that you just can't stage."

Arthur raises an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Truth, huh?” He watches as Albert nods vigorously, still engrossed in the proposed image taken from his camera.

“Yes, a raw, unadorned truth,” Albert continues, not looking up. “It captures everything—the rugged landscape, the way the light catches in your hair, Kitka, and how you both seem…entwined, not just by space but by fate itself. The comfort in your stance, the ease in your posture; it’s as if you're holding each other up, literally and metaphorically.”

Arthur’s eyes flicker back to you, reading your reaction. He finds a quiet acknowledgment there, an understanding of what Albert is saying. He knows that you’ve always dealt in absolutes, so the fact that you aren’t asking questions, there must be truth to what Albert is saying.

“How shall I get the photograph to you, once it is developed?”

Arthur points in the direction of the nearest town. “Send it to Tacitus Kilgore, in Valentine. We plan to be leavin’ this part of the country and ain’t shoah where we’ll end up.”

Albert looks at Arthur with a raised brow. “Oh? Well, I do hope our paths will cross again one day,” he comments while finally putting away all of his gear.

Arthur nods. He can’t help but feel a little sad, and the thought occurs to him that he may not be afforded to say goodbye to others. “Me too, Mr. Mason.”

Albert nods to you. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Morgan.”

“And you, Mr. Mason,” the words are barely more than a murmur, a vestige of the shyness that now clings to you.

Albert goes to his horse, packing up his gear and Arthur watches him mount up and wave as he rides away.

Arthur takes your hand then, his rough fingers intertwining with your soft ones. “You wanna make camp here?” He sees the softness in your eyes and can tell that you’re thinking deeply about something. He squeezes your hand. “What’s goin’ on in that mind of yours, Kitten?”

You look up at him, searching his face for something. “Where will we go?”

He sees the sincerity in your expression, the wrinkle between your brow as it’s pinched. You aren’t talking about camp. You’re talking about where you’ll start over again. This is a good question. “I was thinkin’ the same thing.”

“We haven’t really talked about that part. I think we ought to have some sort idea. It’s happening soon.”

It is. The closer you both get to Shady Belle, the more intense that reality becomes. He brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles tenderly. “Was thinkin’ somewhere out west.”

“Maybe…” you begin to say. “where we met?”

“California?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. I just…I think I’d like to live somewhere by the sea. I see it in my dreams, but I don’t want that to be all there is.”

Arthur smiles. “You and the sea, huh?” His voice is soft, almost wistful. “I reckon that could be somethin’ special.” The idea seems to settle on you both like a gentle promise. "Maybe Oregon or even further north, where the forests reach right down to the ocean," he suggests, his eyes flickering with a shared vision of a future that might hold more peace than the past ever did. "Imagine us, waking up to the sound of waves every mornin'. Maybe get a little cabin, live off the land."

Your eyes close, and he can see that you’re trying to envision the image he paints, the rustic dream mingling with each of your desires for a place of your own.

“I like that,” you say, barely above a whisper, and you open your eyes. “I really like that.”

Arthur’s face lights up with a grin, rare and genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Then it’s settled. We’ll head north after this, find ourselves a piece of coast, build a life.” The idea of it, simple yet profound, hangs between you as though it were a sacred vow. He leans closer, his lips brushing against your cheek. "Just you and me, Kitka. Were really gonna leave all this behind."

You nod and stand on your tiptoes, pulling him down toward you. Feeling your gentle pull, he obliges by leaning the rest of the way, pressing his lips softly into yours.

He will take you as far as you want to go.

Whatever it takes.

***

As you and Arthur set up camp, and slept side by side under the stars, he listened to your steady breathing as you remained tucked under his chin. Your lavender-scented hair reaching his olfactory nerves, he watched meteors race across the night sky and let his thoughts carry him once again.

He had spent some time writing in his journal that evening, as he ate the food you had prepared: cooked venison with herbs you had found, and sketched another vision of you as you leaned against Odliv’s barrel as she laid down behind you. You were braiding her long tail, weaving sage in and out of its wiry wheat straw hairs.

He thought about the words he wrote, simple words, as he’s never seen himself as a writer, but at least he can always write the truth there.

There’s something about being out in the middle of an untouched country, where all you can hear is the fire burning or the stray bird or insect. Something about a woman braiding her horse’s tail, and how her own hair weaves down her breast. How her eyes look at me, sending me off to places I’ve never been.

I ain’t much of a poet, but I’ll be damned if I can’t draw her justly.

And I’ll be damned if I don’t get her out of this mess.

And it was true. Every word of it.

Thank you for reading!

Tag Requests: @photo1030 @eternalsams

#red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #red dead fandom #fanfiction #ao3 writer #rdr2 #arthur morgan x you #it's a pretty dream #lots of fluff #happy memories

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