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zae-heeyyy · 10 months ago

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Pastiche

Summary: You and Arthur escape through writing. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x gn!Reader Word Count: 2,345 Trigger Warning: Tuberculosis, death Tags: angst, sadness, high honor Arthur

a/n: Thanks for you kind words on Chiaroscuro. I've enjoyed writing again so much! I'm in my tragedy era. My hs english teacher's voice haunts me when I'm writing, so I spent a lot of time scrutinizing this. Didn't mean for it to be so long, but I hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading!

pastiche: a work of art or literature that imitates the style or character of another, often as an homage or tribute.

You knew there was something special about Arthur Morgan the day you met him. Despite his best efforts to believe otherwise, he was easy on the eyes, and his dry humor combined with his strong sense of honor sealed your crush on the cowboy. Everybody else could see that he was sweet on you, too, noticing when he pulled you to sit at the fire with him or how he watched you around camp. As more time passed, you'd become mostly inseparable, taking every moment you had to sneak away together. One of your favorite places to escape to was the fields of Little Creek River in Big Valley. You'd be reading a book and glance over to find Arthur staring intently at an animal until it was out of sight. Then he'd open up his journal and sketch it. He wasn't doing that today, though. He was staring across the field, but you could tell he was elsewhere in his mind.

"Got somethin' to say," his eyes met yours earnestly. When he told you he loved you, a laugh erupted deep from your belly. Dumbfounded, he asked, "The hell is so funny?" his own laugh betraying his attempt to be solemn. It was hilarious to you that he didn't think you already knew that and that he didn't know you absolutely felt the same.

Another day, you were lying in Arthur's lap in the grass. Just the day before, he had returned to camp with bruised knuckles and some poor fool's blood on his face—one of Strauss's clients. You longed for a life where bruised knuckles and loan sharking were distant memories.

"Where would you be if you weren't here," you'd asked, holding his hand in yours. He stroked your thumb with his and gazed over the valley like always.

"Hard to imagine." He mumbled, sounding far away.

You nodded in agreement and replied, "You're always writing or drawing in your notebook. Maybe you could've been an artist or a writer." The thought brought a soft smile to your face, and you imagined, just for a second, a life where Arthur's biggest worry was perfecting his latest masterpiece.

He huffed in dry amusement, "Probably wouldn't have known how to read if it weren't for Dutch and Hosea."

You assented again and sighed, the smile on your face growing wider.

"Arthur Morgan: author and illustrator." You held your hands up in dramatic fashion as if envisioning the words in front of you. Then you untangled yourself from him and sat up, "You could, you know? It's not too late. Maybe a biography?"

"A story about my life, huh?" He looked at you with a dumb smile, "I think a book about dirt would be more interestin'." He bobbed his head up and down as if nodding made his thought more true. You shoved him playfully, and he raised his eyebrow at you and held out his hands questionly. "What? There's all different kinds of dirt," he started counting on his fingers." Brown dirt, red dirt, hard dirt—"

You cut him off, "I'm serious, Arthur! This life…it ain't one normal folks live." A shit-eating grin crept up his face as he fought not to make another joke at his own expense. He shoved it down and kept listening. "Sure, it's just your life to you, but other people might find it interesting, exciting, even."

He thought for a second, then put his hands in the air, mimicking you, "The Confessions of Arthur Morgan: The Detailed Life of a Gunslinger by Arthur Morgan. Sounds like a Pinkerton's wet dream."

"I see what you mean," you trail off, fingers playing in the grass. "Could change the name. People publish under a different name all the time. There's a word for that, I think."

"Pseudonym," he responded, his accent thick. "Think it's got one of those silent letters in front." He said it so matter of factly, and it confirmed what you already knew about him: he was far more intelligent than anybody ever gave him credit for. Still, you left the idea alone and thought Arthur had, too.

Then, on another afternoon in the fields near Little Creek River, he spoke out of nowhere. "Arthur Callahan or Tacitus Kilgore?"

"Hmm?" you asked, barely glancing up from your book.

"For the pen name," he confirmed, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

From that day on, your trips to Little Creek River became writing sessions. He bought a notebook that you two would trade off, coming up with ideas for the dramatized life of the gunslinger. You'd taken some creative liberties, and the story wasn't exactly a biography anymore. It had shaped into a Western love story. Arthur Callahan, after living a bad life, met someone who made him want to be better, an angel sent to rescue the devil himself. Arthur Callahan would get the perfect ending; a normal life. It was all Arthur's idea.

"It's not my story; it's ours," he'd told you.

You had been daydreaming about the possibilities for your novel for some time, but the chaos of life with the gang left little room to focus on it. The sudden move from Horseshoe Overlook to Clemens Point made things worse. Somewhere in the move, the manuscript was lost or destroyed—either way, it was gone. You couldn't hold back your tears during your next trip to Big Valley. Arthur's big hands swallowed your face as his thumbs wiped your tears away.

"Shhh, we'll rewrite it, sweetheart," he promised.

Despite Arthur's gentle nudges, you couldn't find it in you to rewrite the story. Another day, he'd invited you to ride with him, heading off to your usual spot. He'd asked once more if you were feeling up to writing again. When you rejected the idea, he shook his head, seemingly surrendering.

"Fine! You're so damn stubborn." There was no malice in his voice, though, and his eyes twinkled a little. "Looks like I gotta take matters into my own hands." Instead of stopping the horse in the fields as usual, Arthur stopped short, cutting into nearby woods. Eventually, he halted outside of the small cabin that was Vetter's Echo and hitched the horse outside.

"Come on," he said, helping you down. "I've got a surprise for you." You walked up the cabin's steps, and he swung the door open to a small living quarters. "It don't got a back door, and I'm pretty sure the feller living here got mauled by a bear, but it's got one of these things." He gestured to the desk in the corner of the small cabin, a typewriter sitting atop it, "I don't have the first clue about using it." So he left it for you to figure out. He'd sit on a stool beside you, reading from a notebook, and you'd type slowly at first, but as time went on, the keys felt as familiar to you as a gun trigger did to him.

Then things started falling apart. You'd moved from Horseshoe Overlook to Clemens Point, then to Shady Bell in a matter of weeks. The men went on a job to rob the bank in St. Denis, and most didn't return. You'd forgotten about the manuscript while trying to survive and spent weeks worried about Arthur and everybody else.

Then he came home to you, waterlogged but alive. You'd never felt more relieved. He was skinny and had a persistent cough, blaming it all on his rough journey. But it didn't stop him from finishing the book as promised. He'd write whenever he had a chance, and you'd go back to the little cabin in the woods, you typing and him reading.

Then he couldn't get through a page without coughing. You listened, concern etched on your face as he told you about his coughing spell and subsequent visit to the doctor in the city. Tuberculosis: practically a death sentence. After that, he'd step back when you tried to be close to him and wouldn't let you kiss him or be intimate with him. You spent a lot of time crying while he dipped his head in profound shame.

Weeks later, he woke you up at night, gently shaking you and whispering to not alert anyone else. "C'mon, get dressed and ride with me." He was serious, his jaw set, his voice low but demanding. You didn't know what was wrong, but dread ran through your veins. You rode far away from camp, mostly in silence, your anxiety not letting you say anything.

"You're gonna live a good life. "he finally said, breaking the silence. Your eyes stung, and you felt a lump in your throat.

"I don't want to hear this right now, Arthur."

He shook his head, frustrated, and spoke through clenched teeth. "Listen to me." His tone made you flinch. He'd never taken on that tone with you, ever. "This whole thing with Dutch, it's over. You gotta run. Gotta get out and make a good life for yourself."

You wanted to protest; you weren't going to leave him, not now. But then you saw the waiting stagecoach up ahead. Your heart dropped and shattered into a million pieces. You reached around him to pull the horse's reins, coming to a skidding stop. You hopped down and started shaking your head, frantic in your movements and words.

"No, Arthur. No."

You wiped away the quickly falling tears as you turned, fast walking, almost running back to that godforsaken camp that was Beaver Hollow. Even in his sickness, it only took Arthur a few big steps to reach you, grabbing you by the waist and turning you to face him. And then you cursed at him, pounded your fists against his chest, and wailed into the night. He just pulled you close to him, squeezing you until you didn't fight anymore. He gave you a stack of cash, made you promise to run, and said he'd come find you after it was all over. But both of you knew, deep down, that you were setting eyes on each other for the last time. He kissed your head. You sobbed into his chest, only letting go when the impatient stagecoach driver beckoned you.

"Never could've imagined I'd know somebody as perfect for me as you." All you could choke out was, "I love you," over and over and over again. He slipped a folded letter into your hand and helped you into the coach filled with your things. He stood silently with his hat in his hands while you rode off into the night. You sobbed for as long as your body let you while the coach took you down to Copperhead Landing.

First, Tilly showed up with Jack, and then Sadie came with Abagail. But then John arrived bearing Arthur's hat and satchel with a look in his eyes so terrible that it brought you to a screaming sob. That night, when everybody had finally settled down to sleep, you slipped away, leaving a note of thanks and well wishes. You were alone then, the way you wanted it to be without Arthur.

Eight years; it had been eight years since everything went to shit. In eight years, you worked your ass off with any odd jobs you could find. Keeping busy was how you cured your broken heart. You'd tried as hard as you could to forget about the life you'd once lived until you read a headline in the newspaper: MICAH BELL KILLED. The memories flooded back to you, and you returned to a place you hadn't visited in a while. You only kept 2 things from that time: a letter from Arthur and the manuscript you'd written with him. Forged in Fire, you called it. After all this time, you couldn't remember who came up with the name, but you remembered why. You two were like tempered metal; the more you walked through hellfire, the stronger you became.

Then there was Arthur's letter. You'd read it only once before today.

"Things I wanted to say but did not have the courage to say aloud." was scrawled across the top of the page, followed by a list.

"Keep visiting Big Valley.

Keep writing.

Publish the book.

Watch every sunset.

Trust your gut.

Please, be happy."

You heard his voice through every word. He'd underlined the third point: publish the book. In that moment, you decided to take a leap. You wrote to a publisher and sent a copy of the manuscript. And that's all it took. Things went into a tailspin after that, and before you knew it, you were holding a hard copy of the manuscript you and Arthur had worked on together all that time ago.

You'd made an effort, then, to find Abigail and John and Jack. They were held up at a ranch, Beecher's Hope, and were married now. You caught up with the Marstons and apologized for hastily disappearing all those years ago. They were happy for you, and you for them.

On your departure, John took your hand, "I don't talk about him much these days, but I don't think he loved anybody like he loved you." He paused for a moment and forced his eyes to meet yours. "He's buried out in Ambarino, near Donner Falls. Top of the mountain. I can take you." You declined John's offer but set out east toward Donner Falls the next day.

You found him around noon and watched wistfully as an eagle flew from its spot on a rock behind the flowery grave. You fell to your knees, no longer able to control the tears flowing down your face. "I did it, my love," you choked through tears. It'd been a long, long time since you let yourself feel this pain—a longing to reach something impossible. You dabbed the tears away from your eyes and sat in the grass, hugging Forged in Fire to your chest. "Thought I'd read it to you," you spoke into the air. You opened the book, cracked the spine, and read "Chapter One: Heaven's Fall, Hell's Rise."

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outlawruben · 10 months ago

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How I think rdr2 characters respond to praise/compliments!

(They are going to sound kinda dumb but I promise I actually put effort into these.)

This may be interpreted as Cannon x Reader or Cannon x your ship!

These are totally fluffy and definitely SFW Jsyk

Abigail Marston - she probably would scoff and wave her hands/playfully slap them, or simply say thank you

Arthur Morgan - turn bright red and hot under the brim of his hat, and responds to them with a half mumbled: “it’s really nothing..” and then walk away awkwardly. (He’s seen with a smile on his face for the rest of the day) (he’s gonna write a new journal entry abt this)

Bill Williamson - scoffs and tells them to “shut up” but loves the compliment. (He always seems to think he’s being picked on)

Charles Smith - goes all quiet for a beat after the compliment and then gives them a sincere “thank you” he smiles at them for the rest of the day.

Dutch Van Der Linde- A simple: “Thank you M’dear.” However, they’ve inflated his ego even more which Dutch appreciates, and goes to seek their company more.

Hosea Matthews - surprised he was sought after to receive a compliment, depending on what it is, he will openly appreciate it, and mean it.

Jack Marston - “Thank you! :D” his momma taught him manners.

Javier Escuella- He responds with a small chuckle and a “thank you” they are chill now/ they’ve leveled up in Javier liking them.

John Marston- Not expecting it at first but then he melts into a dumb grin and starts avoiding eye contact as he says “thank you.”

Josiah Trelawny- “why thank you!” With a smile. He really appreciates compliments.

Karen Jones- “Ain’t you sweet?” She smirks at them. And that’s basically it.

Kieran Duffy- definitely not expecting a compliment of any kind. “O-oh- thank you..” he smiles kindly and fidgets.

Lenny Summers- grins widely and gives a “thank you!” His mind seems to wander back to the interaction for the rest of the day

Leopold Strauss- Kind of confused but shares his small gratitudes anyway

Mary-Beth Gaskill - “Oh, thank you..” she idly plays with her hair as she talks with them.

Micah Bell - At the very least he’ll scoff, and if he does say anything it’s along the lines of: “Christ, why you so soft?” But he’s blushing nonetheless.

Molly O’Shea- She giggles sweetly and blushes, sharing her gratitudes, and when she sees them for the rest of the day she smiles at them kindly. (She’s happy someone is paying attention to her, giving her a compliment even)

Reverend, Orville Swanson- if not in a drunken stupor, he says his thanks with a grateful smile.

Sadie Adler- grins at them ear to ear with a “thanks..” and soft blush forming on her cheeks

Sean MacGuire- “I din’ know ye’ loved me or something.” He teases them, grinning dumbly.

Simon Pearson- genuinely appreciates it, his big smile misshaping his mustache

Susan Grimshaw- “why thank you darlin’ “ she smiles at them. Not really expecting a compliment but she’s always appreciative of all affection.

Tilly Jackson- “Thank you!” She says kindly full of gratitude and love. (It means the world to her)

Uncle - he didn’t hear it

#posted with #charthur #sadigail #jovier #johnigail #vandermatthews #macsummers #o’shones #Kieran x marybeth #intentions #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 fandom #van der linde gang

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orphicrose · 1 year ago

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Can you pls write Hosea (rdr2) x teen reader where the reader was caught stealing from the vamp and Hosea tracks them down and sees that maybe the reader was trying to save a injured horse or any other animal. I was thinking that the reader has been living on the streets/wild for a while and looks the part, so he knows how to survive and doesnt trust anyone really and when Hosea sees that the reader stole to help he was kinda moved and approached the reader and asked them to join the group because their thieving/stealing skills could be useful, and maybe a few reactions when Hosea brings back the teen. I imagine Hosea to be just really kind to children and teens

Stray (Hosea x Child!Reader)

Absolutely! Love this idea, thank you for the request

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The camp was no stranger to crime, being on the dealing end of it the majority of the time. But they weren't to used to being the receiver, and by a child of all things. Over the course of a week, little things had gone missing through the night. Being camped up in horseshoe overlook meant they were subjected to rats, which was plausable. But medicine, Hosea didn't think rats were that advanced. It wasn't just a little, it was a whole crate worth of canned food and horse tonic that had vanished.

"What you planning, Hosea?" Charles appeared in front of the old man, who was sat on a stump cleaning the barrel of his gun.

"I'm going to catch the theft in action tonight" He stood up, throwing the gun over his shoulder. "I'm not convinced we have rats."

"No?"

"No. Rats don't drink horse tonic."

Charles hummed in response, amused by his answer. "Well, have fun old man" he patted his shoulder before he left to his tent. Leaving Hosea to himself in the darkening night.

The night was cool, calm and very uneventful. Everyone was asleep peacefully in their tents, except Hosea. Waiting. Back leant against a tree as he was planted on the floor, gun in hands at the ready. His eyes began shutting on him as he heard small footsteps creeping up on him. Keeping his composure, he sat still, giving the impression of him being asleep. In the corner of his eyes, a small person snuck up behind some bushes towards Strauss carriage. A small bottle was snatched from the side of the structure and then figure disappeared back into the night.

It was but a kid. Hosea had a pain in his gut, at the thought of shooting it. The child's scruffy appearance resembled that of a stray dog, making him feel sorry. But his effortless skills in thieving had potential, showing similar traits of Arthur when they took him in. Perhaps they could help each other.

Usually, Hosea would have waited till morning. To tell someone of his plan. But he felt this was too urgent to wait hours for morning to roll around. His gun was equipped to his back, and he took it upon himself to follow the figure on foot. Finding the little footprints in the dirt to catch up with him.

There they were. The child was almost sprinting across the train track. Hosea had to pick up his pace a little to ensure he didn't lose site of them, coughing a little as he turned to a light jog. Keeping far away enough to prevent the child from spotting him.

They must have travelled at least half a mile through the heartlands, stars illuminating the paths around them. The figure stopped abruptly in the field, hunching over into the tall grassy land. Hosea knelt down as he closed in, keeping his breath steady.

The closer he got, the closer he could make out a small dog. Seemingly passed away as it was sprawled across the grass.

"Horse tonic wont be any good for that, kid"

The child spun to see the old man, a look of fear crossing his face as the gun on his back gleamed in the light. Eyes switching between the metal and the old man.

"I.Im sorry. I just-" they stuttered, falling to the ground.

Hosea put a hand out, other hand dropping the gun from his shoulder to the floor next to him. "I wont hurt ya" He half laughed, now kneeling to the floor to show his good intentions. A hand was placed on the dogs neck, in attempts to find a pulse. It was faint, but it was there. "What happened?"

The child pointed to a bite mark on the dogs paw, two holes indicating a snake. Hosea nodded, scooping up the dog in his arms.

"you know when it happened?"

"A few days ago. I thought the tonic would help" The child fiddled with his hands, avoiding eye contact.

Hosea took a second to admire the wound, nodding his head. "He'll be fine. He would have died a while ago if the venom was strong enough" he took a second to cough into his elbow, clearing his throat. "Must have acted as an aphrodisiac"

The child looked up at him confused

"What's your name, kid?"

"Y/n"

"okay y/n, come with me. Lets get some proper food in you" He motioned his hand in the direction of his camp, flinging the small animal over his shoulder.

Clearly exhausted, y/ns movements slowed down drastically, struggling to remain awake on the journey back to camp. Not even sure if they were walking into their doom.

"What you doing out here alone?" Hosea looked down.

"My ma and pa were sick" a sigh escaped their lips, Hosea nodding sympathetically to the answer.

"What are ya? 11? 12?"

"I'm 12 soon"

"Jesus" Hosea mumbled under his breath, readjusting the animal on his shoulder to a more comfortable one. "Well... we got room" he began. "There's another kid back at camp, who will appreciate the company I'm sure"

Y/ns face seemed to lighten up a little more at the mention of another kid. That most likely meant he was safe from whatever they thought was going to happen to them.

Camp rolled into view, the campfire gleaming through the shadows of the forest.

"Where did you get off to?" Dutch marched towards him, having just woken up. The sun began to unveil itself from over the horizon, offering a warm glow to the dim landscape. "Off hunting this early?" He chuckled, motioning to the stray dog.

"Not quite" Hosea looked down to y/n, Dutch following his line of vision. A small 'oh' leaving his mouth. "I solved our little rat issue"

"He reminds me a little of john" Dutch put a finger to his lips, thinking. "Are you suggesting we take him in?"

Hosea shrugged "He wont be no trouble. He even came with a hunting dog"

Dutch chortled, walking back towards the camp. "Suppose we should introduce everyone, shouldn't we?" He turned to the child. "And your name is?"

"Y/n... sir"

"y/n!" He repeated. "Hosea, take that dog to heir Straus. I'm sure he will take care of it"

Y/n was offered food from Pearson shortly, who didn't question the new member. Having seen many of the camp come and go by this point. The women made quite a fuss of him, cooing about how sweet he is. Especially Abigail.

"Abigail!" Dutch called her over, who soon came rushing over with jack following closely behind her. "Yes Dutch" She looked down towards y/n. Confusion on her face.

"This is y/n, Hoseas most recent adoption" He motioned down to the child "I don't suppose you could make him feel more welcomed here. Perhaps introduce them to Jack?"

Jack hid behind his mothers leg, appearing shy. "Hi" he whispered, letting his hand wave a little.

Abigail nodded softly to the suited man, looking down to y/n. "I'm Abigail, this is my son jack" her hands rested on his shoulders as she forcefully brought him forward.

"Come with me, darlin, I'll show you where you can get some shut eye" She motioned for him to follow, noticing the drowsiness on his face.

A small bedsheet was laid out in hers and Jacks shared tent for y/n. Leaving him to catch up on some well earned sleep.

"But i wanna play" Jack moaned, as the tent was zipped up. Leaving y/n to some peace.

"You can play later, Jack. The poor kid needs some sleep"

Weeks had passed with the new recruit. Settling in rather quickly. Abigail had taken it upon herself to practically adopt them, her maternal instincts getting the better of her. Scolding them when she deemed fit and offering motherly love that she saw was deserving. Hosea, of course, became an authoritative figure. Spending quite a lot of time with y/n, reminding him of young Arthur and John. Making him feel slightly younger.

Everyone else was accepting, apart from Micah. Who gave y/n grief occasionally, but was dealt with by who ever was closest. Which was usually Arthur or Charles.

And Jack... Jack adored y/n. He always wanted a sibling, or a friend. Plus, he got a dog. Which survived and returned to a playful little thing with just some food, rest and water. Y/n would go on to remain in Abigails and Johns custody later in life, and become a vital aspect of the gangs family.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfic #fanfiction #hosea x reader #platonic #arthur x reader #dutch van der linde #hosea matthews #arthur morgan #request #child reader #john marston #charles smith

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strangesthirdeye · 14 days ago

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CHAMBER OF REFLECTION { ARTHUR MORGAN X WIFE! READER}

Summary: Through generating brain oscillations involved in memory retrieval, the brain may be playing a last recall of important life events just before we die.

Warning: IT'S ARTHUR MORGAN WOHOOO FINALLY SOMETHING ABOUT HIM. major angst, Arthur contracted TB, death, Red Dead Redmption happened. Betrayal ( Dutch and Micah) obviously, love, major character death, High Honor Arthur. As usual, I'm sorry if there are any wrong sentences or typos or grammatical mistakes, please forgive me and again English is not my first language, so I try to improve my language and writing in this way.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Arthur let out a ragged sigh. His throat, his chest his body feels heavy and tired. He dragged his body towards the end of the mountain. Micah, Dutch. Oh, god he couldn't believe that Dutch was willing to trust someone who had only been in the gang for 6 months rather than someone he had known for years. He felt betrayed, upset and disbelief. He knows that something is wrong with Micah after all this time. He knows that Micah is the one spitting venom into Dutch's mind. Now the whole gang is in disarray. Lots of death. Lots of sadness and lots of people leaving.

He can't believe it. This is how he died. Betrayal and disease. His chest feels like there are many thorny roses in his chest making it hard for him to breathe. Air is getting harder to get. His face is full of bruises and cuts. Blood everywhere. This mountain is where he will die.

He knows his time has come when he discovers that he has contracted Tuberculosis. He feels regret after all the bad things he has done. Maybe this is the destiny for what he has done. Killing innocents, collecting debts from poor people..robbery.

He grunted. Feeling his time is coming. He positioned his head to the east. He let out a ragged breath. Mind playing all the great time he had. With the gang, people and you. Oh, you. You're the one who's always behind him no matter what. You're the one who always believes in him so much that you're willing to form a bond as a wife. He adores you. He loves you and he feels sorry that he had to leave you. You know about his disease as you were the one who went with him to the clinic.

He can remember the look of disbelief and dread craved on your face. Upon looking at your face, it was enough to make him devastated. He wanted to reach out to you, he wanted to hold you, to be held by you. He wanted you with him until the end of his life but what could he do? At least you were safe with John and his family. Away from this. Although he had to force you to leave as you fought against Sadie's hold to be let go. Sadie had to hogtie you though.

He can't look at your eyes otherwise he will regret it. You know he will leave and not come back. You always know. That's why he loves you. You can read him like an open book. Know everything without talking to him. If only he could turn back time, this thing wouldn't happen. Dutch betrayal, Micah working with Pinkerton, Hosea, Sean and Lenny's death and mostly if he refused to work collecting debts from Strauss he wouldn't get this disease. He will be with you until the end of his life. Till death do us apart, like he and you uttered together at your wedding.

He will build a family with you. Away from this, away from outlaw life. Build a cabin in a beautiful place or he may build a ranch for you and his children but he can only dream. That ending is not achieved as he lay alone on top of the mountain, facing east. He is a changed person. He does a lot of good things before his time. He regrets all the things he did to be loyal to Dutch. But loyalty is what kills him.

#high honor arthur morgan #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 #Spotify

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twola · 9 hours ago

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Devil's Backbone - Owanjila VIII

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila VIII: The Noble Heart of an Outlaw

The gang needs to relocate - leaving Owanjila proves to be a turning point, back east, back to the Dakota, back toward Limpany.

CW: masturbation, voyeurism, violence against women, injuries, death

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

“No, no, it’s a step here, yes, Güera, there you go-”

Javier is the world’s most patient instructor, with you having stepped on his boot an uncountable number of times. But dismayed he is not, keeping one arm on your waist and holding your other hand. You blow upward at your hair that has fallen over your eyes, but laugh as Javier smiles and tries to lead you into the steps once again.

“And uno-dos, uno-dos- alright now, you’re getting it now!” He laughs as you make it through an entire set of steps without stepping on his boot once. Next to the campfire, he hums the tune of a song long lost to his homeland, “And - aqui-!” He dips you down, and you squeal in delight and surprise.

“Arthur.”

Arthur Morgan is drawn out of his darkening thoughts as Dutch smacks his shoulder. He had been staring into the fire, its orange tongue reaching up and out from its heart. He had been trying to ignore Javier and you dancing next to the campfire as the evening dusk settled in on the horizon.

Grinding his teeth for a moment, he sniffs and then spits on the ground before following Dutch back toward his large tent.

“You said you found somethin’ other than Strauss’s debtor out there?” Dutch looks over his shoulder, cracking his knuckles before spinning the large ring on his pinky. Arthur grunts and gruffly shoves his hand into his satchel, and the tell-tale sound of

Dutch unfolds the paper, looking at it for a moment before snorting. He leafs through the second, third, and fourth - until he looks at each one of the crinkled posters. Dutch van der Linde, leader of a gang with thousands of dollars of bounties over three different states, looks up at his enforcer with a glint of satisfaction in his eye before folding the papers in half and tossing them on the card table amongst his accouterments.

Arthur purses his lips, “Much as I wanna ignore ‘em, Ruth found ‘em in Strawberry. That’s awful close. We’re still awful close to Blackwater and all that heat.”

“Old girl - take a look at this, makin’ Arthur here look like a real outlaw.” Dutch points at the papers as Hosea clears his throat as the older man slowly walks up to the tent.

“A new wanted poster?” Hosea asks, reaching the table and taking a look a the papers, raising his eyebrows as he unfolds them each one by one, “Well damn. Where did these come from, Blackwater?

“Ruth found ‘em when we were in Strawberry.” Arthur nicks his jaw to the east, in the direction of the small mountain town.

Hosea frowns, refolding the papers and placing them face down on the table, “We need to move east, Dutch. Other side of Valentine.”

“East? Into all that - civilization?” Arthur hisses, agitated at the thought of encroaching woodlands and people.

“Well, we ain’t gonna get around Blackwater to go West. Hell, West Elizabeth is too hot. And you seen what Ambarino looks like - we ain't gonna get through them mountains and northwest. It's the only way.” Dutch states firmly - pointedly.

“I don’t like it either, but I think that’s our only option now. New Hanover is pretty big. Enough room for us to lie low.” Hosea adds in agreement with Dutch, his hand smoothing down his neck as he considers the lack of options.

Arthur sighs, clenching his fingers around his gunbelt. “Fine. Fine. When are we goin’?”

“I’m gonna send Charles and young Sean ahead to find a new spot tomorrow morning. I’ve heard talk of a few good areas. By the time we get the camp packed up and heading out, I’m sure they’ll have somewhere procured.”

Hosea nods in agreement, and Arthur continues to look at his boots, a silent sign that he too is in lockstep with Dutch’s plan.

Dutch claps his hand on Hosea’s shoulder as he steps past his oldest comrade toward the campfire.

Lording over his kingdom, Dutch van der Linde gives his orders.

“In the morning, we move. Ain’t no need to do it now - everyone get some rest. Susan - at dawn you get this camp together.” Dutch booms over the gathering, closer to the main campfire.

Susan nods, looking over toward the men loitering, “Alright, you lazy bums, you heard the man. No getting drunk off your sorry asses tonight.”

You look up to Javier, who snorts lowly, “You heard the boss. Thank you, Güera. Told you I would get that dance out of you.”

You smile back at him and nod, giving him a faux curtsey as he laughs. You bid him goodnight and head in the other direction, making your way over to the women’s lean-to, where Mary Beth sits on her knees packing before she lies down for the night.

“I’m gonna go wash before tomorrow. I’m sure I won’t have any time in the morning.”

“Gonna be okay alone?” Mary Beth asks, looking up from packing her books into her small chest at the head of her bedroll.

“Sure, I’ll just be on the other side of those boulders. Moon is bright - ain’t nothing out there, I’ll be quick.” You smile down at her as you pull a clean chemise from your leather bag. “Be right back.”

Just far enough from camp to ensure your solitude, you lay your folded chemise on the flat surface of a rock along the lakeside. Leaning over, you unlace your boots, one after another, and place them neatly on the ground. You unbutton your vest, shrugging it down your arms, and that too gets folded on the large rock.

You unlace your skirt, shimmying it down your hips until it flutters to the mossy ground below. Finally, you unbutton your creamy blouse, laying it with your other clothes until you are clad only in your chemise and bloomers. Taking a deep breath, you begin to enter the water.

You grit your teeth against the shock of cold water against your feet, up your calves as you wade into the lake. Your chemise quickly gets waterlogged the further you move, bracing yourself as you move deeper into the dark water. Finally, you reach where the water is just above waist deep. Taking a deep breath, you dip down and fully submerge yourself underneath Owanjila’s surface, quiet as a grave in the night.

“Alright, well, we’ve got our marching orders. I’m going to turn in. Staying up later is for you younger men.” Hosea waves off at the two of them as he paces away from Dutch’s tent toward his own sleeping roll. Dutch and Arthur both mutter goodnight.

“We’ll be fine, Arthur. Have faith - I ain’t steered us wrong in the long arc.”

“Always got faith in you, Dutch.” Arthur looks up his feet to meet his foster father’s gaze, he knows when Dutch is looking for the validation of Arthur’s loyalty, as if it would ever falter. Outside of Hosea, Arthur’s been beside Dutch the longest. There is a reason that he’s the enforcer of the gang - and it wasn’t just the fact that he could ensure compliance through physical means.

Dutch claps his hand heavily on Arthur’s shoulder. “Always gonna ride with you by my side, son.”

Arthur nods, closing his eyes as his chin drops.

“Night, Arthur,” Dutch says as he pulls the canvas closed. The last thing Arthur sees in the tent is the flash of Molly O’Shea’s red hair. Sighing, he rolls his head as he rambles over toward his own wagon but doesn’t stop at it, moving further into the wooded area along the lake’s shoreline. He scratches at his jaw as he stares at the ground, ducking between trees to get far enough from camp to relieve himself.

Arthur stops at a tree about ten feet back from the water and goes to lift the buckle of his gunbelt until he hears movement, probably just a deer. His hand hovers over his holster - more through muscle memory than anything else. He looks toward the lake, past the tree he stands behind.

It wasn't a deer.

It was you. You, half-submerged in the lake, a chemise plastered over your body, the wet cotton snug as a second skin.

Arthur shouldn't be looking, he shouldn't be leering. But he is somehow locked in place, his legs refusing to move as his fingers tighten on the bark of the tree he is hidden by.

You turn back toward the shoreline and draw your hair into your hands, wringing water from it. Arthur’s breath hitches. Christ, in the light of the moon, he can see the water sluicing down your body. Your chemise hides nothing as you wade toward the shore.

He can see your pebbled nipples press against the wet cotton. The soft curve of your breasts. How your waist dips inward before flaring at your hips. How easily that creamy white fabric soaked through; he can see the shadowed triangle of dark hair at the jointure of your thighs.

You step further from the water, and Arthur holds his breath as you emerge. The chemise, threadbare and soaking. As you come to stand at the very edge of the lake, the gentle, clear waters still dripping down your body, you shiver slightly before padding over to your pile of clothes.

Reaching downward, you grab the wet hem of your chemise and start to pull it upward - baring your knees - your thighs - your…

This - this was too much. He swallows and turns away, some sense of morality finally overpowering his need as he quickly paces up the hill, further into the trees. Arthur finally gets to what he came out this way for, lifting his gunbelt with one hand and unfastening his pants, drawing himself out and emptying his bladder against the tree.

Dirty old man…

The stream of urine peters off, but Arthur could curse himself as his cock is completely hard in his grip. He stares down at his pelvis after swallowing, his fingers now wrapped around his girth, pulsing with hot blood in his hand. He bites his lower lip as his thumb draws back his foreskin, the head of his cock slipping out, the last few drips from his bladder shining in the moonlight.

It's been so long since he’s done this - giving into these base urges. Arthur gives his shaft a slick pump and hisses near immediately at the reaction in his gut. A shiver went down his spine, the tightening of his testicles as they drew closer to his groin.

He braces his forearm against the tree trunk and leans his forehead upon it, the rim of his hat pushed back, completely subservient to his arousal.

He pumps again and closes his eyes to the feeling. Behind his eyelids, you’re there, in that damn translucent chemise, the cool waters of Owanjila sluicing down your body. Your nipples are hard, pebbled, and visible against the fabric. The swell of your breasts, curves that his hands could engulf should he strip that fabric down. Your blonde hair; darkened, wet, and plastered against your back.

Arthur finds a rhythm, hard and fast and desperate; the night air is interrupted by the slick sound of skin on skin, the loud breathing through his nose, the jingle of his spurs as he spreads his legs further.

“C’mon now-” He grits as he pumps himself shamelessly.

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter in conjunction with beating his cock. You’re there, standing, soaking wet, the fabric hiding nothing. Not the curve of your waist, the subtle flare of your hips. Not your soft belly, trailing downward to the triangular thatch of dark hair over your cunt, he could see that through the damn cotton. You might as well have been naked -

Arthur grunts, his hips thrusting forward, biting down on his lower lip as spurts of his spend landing on the tree trunk, adorning the bark in stripes of white.

He lets out a long breath before tucking his softening cock away. Redoing his pants, guilt and shame bubble low in his gut. He tries to shake the image of your body in the lake from his mind.

But much to his chagrin, it lingers.

Morning comes entirely too quickly. Susan’s shrill voice seems to echo off the hillside as she furiously packs up the camp - ordering items to be boxed, wagons to be loaded, loafing old men to get off their asses.

By midmorning, the ragtag group of outlaws has finished packing and sets on their way heading east - away from West Elizabeth and Blackwater. Skirting north of Strawberry, the gang heads toward New Hanover, and hopefully, more breathing room.

You sit patiently next to Hosea, who drives one of the full wagons, the two draft horses snorting as they pull the heavy load. The afternoon sun glints off the river at Cumberland Falls, where the wagons slow to cross the running water. You know where you are, realizing that the clear waters that the horses are muddying through is the Dakota.

That means the fork in the road you can see ahead leads east toward Valentine, and south toward…

“H-Hosea, can I ask a favor?”

He places his hand on your knee reassuringly, “Of course, sweet girl.”

You look at the road heading south, the rest of the wagon train taking the fork that leads east. You swallow, looking back to Hosea.

“I need to see it, It's south of here. Please, can you take me…- then, then we can meet back with the rest of the gang.”

“See what?” Hosea’s eyebrow raises, questioning, unsure of what you are referring to.

“My old home. It’s here, along the Dakota. Hosea, please-” You plead, your voice hoarse with the threat of oncoming tears.

Hosea swallows, looking over his shoulder, back to you, and over his shoulder again. He waves back to a rider, then pulls on the reins of the draft horses hard, bringing them and the large wagon to a halt on the road.

Arthur meanders next to the wagon, his mare heeling next to Hosea. “What’s this?”

“Arthur - take Missus Shaw down the road. She needs to get some closure. Meet back up with the rest of us.” Hosea motions to the southward road, away from the slow-moving wagon train.

Arthur frowns, runs his hand over his stubbled jaw, and nods begrudgingly without putting up further argument. He shifts restlessly on his mount, and the mare stomps her feet impatiently.

You take Hosea’s hand, holding it tightly as he assists you to climb over him and down the wagon, your boots squelching in the mud of the road as you land. You look up once more to the elder outlaw.

“You stay strong, dear girl.” Hosea leans over and cups your face, petting your cheek lightly as you swallow and nod up to him. The older man straightened up and cracked the reins of the draft horses, and with the creaking and groaning of wood, the wagon started lumbering down the road again.

You turn toward your companion, saddled high on his Kentucky Saddler, and blow a breath out your nose as you reach up toward him expectantly.

Arthur grumbles under his breath but leans over and extends his arm down for you to take. With a speed that nearly unseats you, he pulls you up effortlessly and helps you sit on his horse's rump.

Hosea looks back over his shoulder as you get settled.

Your hand firmly presses against Arthur’s back. He gives Hosea a two-fingered salute and digs his spurs into the mare’s side, yanking her reins to the right as she whinnies and jumps into a canter down the dirt road, heading south.

Limpany, or what is left of it, stands set back from the road. Blackened, charred building frames amongst blackened, charred ground. Dead trees stand stark against the cloudless blue sky. Even the birds stay away - the only life is rats that scurry among the debris as Arthur’s mare plods along the road in the cold, clear Dakota.

A pain claws at your throat. Behind your eyes burns with unshed. Your grip on Arthur’s jacket tightens, but he doesn’t notice as he takes in the sight in front of him.

“What th’ hell happened here?”

You don’t answer, stunned into silence as the mare comes to a stop in the meadow just north of the carnage. You cry out, sliding down from the horse’s rump, surprising Arthur as you stumble slightly before gathering your skirts and running further into the wreckage of the town. Past the sign you painted with Amos’s help. Past the skeleton of the saloon that Ulysses kept running. The Sheriff’s Office where Hilliard would sit behind the desk, sometimes with his boots crossed upon it when things were quiet. Past the paddock where Aethon would trot around.

The fragile beams of your cottage with your husband are all that is left of that life. Everything burned to cinders, a black scar against the riverside. Your bed, your clothes, your kitchen table. All gone.

“Missus Shaw!” Arthur calls out, swinging his leg over the horse and landing on the ground, quickly hurrying after you.

You stand in the middle of the small town, your life, your new beginning, everything - gone.

A wail escapes your mouth as you collapse to the ground, tears overflowing down your cheeks as your fingers dig into the dirt - dirt mixed with blackened ash.

“Ruth…Ruth, c’mon-” Arthur whispers, his hands gently pulling on your shoulders to help you sit up. He gets down on one knee and gathers you closer to him, and you shudder as you take in a loud breath and cry into his shoulder.

It is several moments of this, of his hand rubbing comforting circles on your back, him speaking in hushed whispers to calm you down. You are finally able to regain your composure as you pull back and wipe your eyes with your sleeve, mumbling an apology.

Arthur shakes his head, brushing it off, and stands up, extending his hand to help you up as well. “Is there anything y’think left from here?”

You swallow, swiping at your bleary eyes, and nod, your lip quivering. “I-I know the sheriff k-kept a box under his desk. If it’s s-still there, there may be some g-gold in it.” You take his hand, and he tucks you into his side, his arm wrapped around your waist as the two of you slowly make your way toward the burnt husk of the sheriff’s office. Your eyes mist over again when you think of Hilliard.

“Here, let me see if anythin’ is there. Don’t want you falling through the floor.” Arthur leaves you by the foot of the stair, and you wipe at your eyes again, looking back over the charred remains of Limpany. You take one more shuddering breath as you hear the groan of metal on metal behind you before Arthur’s heavy steps come closer.

“Here, you should have it.” The cowboy holds out a gold bar in one hand with his hunting knife in the other, where he must have pried the lockbox open with his blade.

You shake your head, pushing it back toward him, “I don’t want it.” He doesn’t push, tucking the bar into his satchel.

“Alright, well we got that. I reckon we should catch up with the rest of them, if you’re ready.” Arthur grips the hilt of his hunting knife, looking down at the blade for a moment.

You look around at what is left of the town. A cool breeze rolls through the river valley as you feel a tear slip down your cheek once more. You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and then opening them again, to see Arthur with one hand outstretched toward you, a pillar of strength, a safe place, a -

A shape moves behind Arthur, and you barely get out a scream before another man crashes into him, the two of them stumbling toward you and knocking you to the ground as they roll head over heel on top of each other.

“Ain’t you know this here’s O’Driscoll territory, Arthur Morgan?” The man yells as he scrambles on top of the gunslinger. Arthur chokes as he struggles against his attacker, but with the element of surprise, the man is able to straddle Arthur’s chest, both hands around his neck, squeezing hard.

You look around, the horse is clear on the other side of the remnants of town, where Arthur’s rifles and guns are stowed. His revolver, on his belt, was underneath him as he tried to shove the man off of him. He gasps, hands on his attacker’s forearms.

From your vantage point on the ground, you spy his hunting knife on the ground between you; he must have dropped it as he was tackled to the ground. You heave yourself up, grab the knife, and throw yourself at the man, sinking the blade into his body, praying you didn’t hit Arthur in the struggle.

You feel it, nauseating, the inches of metal in your hand cutting through skin, through sinew, through muscle and tendon and meat. Liquid gushes over your fingers, shaking as it guides the hilt deeper.

The robber screams, swinging backward with his elbow, cracking against your face. You fly back, collapsing to the ground as your vision whites out for an instant. Face down, you groan in pain as you turn your face to the side to clutch at your nose, coughing loudly against wet leaves and the damp ground.

Arthur takes the opportunity to knee his attacker in the stomach, throwing him from his position several feet away. He hacks, sitting up, coughing deeply as he attempts to catch his breath, hand rubbing at his neck. He rolls to his knees and stumbles to his feet, heaving, glancing at the man, who writhed against the ground, his groaning turning to wet gasps.

The knife was buried in his neck.

Arthur grimaces as he wipes his hands on his black pants, the man’s blood staining his palms and a large swath of his blue denim shirt.

You groan again, whipping your other hand to cover your face as soon as you realize you’re covered in blood, gushing from your nose. You curl into a fetal position on the ground against the piercing pain in your head.

Arthur regains his footing and walks toward you. He notices you are writhing in pain and moves faster. “Shit,” he curses, his voice rougher than usual. “Hey, c’mon, let me see your face.”

He stoops down next to you and takes both of your shoulders in his hand, lifting you into a sitting position. Your eyes water as your hands cover your nose and mouth, blood seeping between your fingertips. Your whine is muffled behind your palms, which you refuse to move.

“Ruth, I gotta see if your nose is broken,” Arthur says quietly, one of his large hands moving from your shoulder to your wrist, tugging your arm from your face gently. You groan again, shutting your eyes tightly as you allow him to pull your hands away.

“Don’t look broken.” He mutters, his other hand moves to your cheek, lightly moving your head back and forth as he inspects your nose. Bruising and swelling have already started across the bridge of your nose, blood still runs down your face in a trickle.

You open your eyes blearily, gritting your teeth. Arthur removes his hands from your cheek and wrist and unties the black bandana at his neck. “Here, don’t want you ruinin’ any of your nice handkerchiefs.”

“Thanks,” you groan, taking the bandana and placing it under your nose to stymie the oozing blood.

Arthur stands up, giving you his hand, which you grab. He pulls you up and steadies you as you sway. You groan again, holding his bandana up to your nose tighter.

A gurgling noise drew both of your attention to the man sprawled out on the ground a few feet away. He had stopped moving, blood pouring out his mouth and from his neck. Arthur lets go of your arm, walking over to the man and kicking at his side with the toe of his boot. When he gets no response, he leans over and grasps the hilt of the knife, pulling it slowly from the man’s neck. It slides out with a wet, squelching noise.

“Looks like I owe you a body, heh.” Arthur drawls, taking the blade of the knife and wiping it on the man’s shirt before sheathing it on his gun belt. He spins around, a wry smile on his face, which falls immediately when he sees you. Your hands are at your side, the wet bandana hanging limply from your fingertips. Your cheeks are pale, and blood drips under your nose. You stare at the man on the ground with wide eyes, your frame swaying slightly.

“You alri-”

You immediately turn away and retch, emptying your stomach onto the ground.

Arthur runs a hand down his face, sighing. You wipe at your mouth, the other hand on your knee as you stoop over. You spit on the ground and wipe your mouth again. Your sleeve is hopelessly bloody from your nose, which, thankfully, has slowed its oozing.

Unfortunately, you make the mistake of looking back at the corpse on the ground and immediately retch again.

Arthur looks at you, dry-heaving at the sight of blood you’d spilled, eyes red rimmed in grief, the darkening bruising on your face.

This wasn’t any life for you.

It’s been nothing but trouble after trouble for you since the moment you’ve joined the gang, he realizes as you sniffle. Getting thrown from Boadicea and cracking your ribs. Getting so sick from Jack, you were a bed for several days.

Looking like a battered woman because he was unable to protect you from a lone attacker.

Added to this troublesome attraction he had for you - it had been years since he’d been forced to take care of himself like a damn teenaged boy - years since anyone but Mary had occupied that space in his mind.

No. He wasn’t going to do this again. You deserve better than that, you deserve better than this.

And he sure as hell doesn’t.

You wipe at your nose with the back of your hand for the umpteenth time, frowning as your skin is stained red. You wipe your hand against your vest and groan as you press your forehead against Arthur’s leather jacket.

Your head pounds with each painful step of the mare, slowly plodding toward Valentine. Arthur had muttered something about going to the doctor in town. You moan softly, clutching at his waist as Valentine comes into view, farms and ranch fences dotting the roadside.

Arthur was being short, curt, and silent. He leads the buttermilk Saddler mare to the hitching post outside the train station. He swings himself down, his boots squelching in the fresh mud. Without a word, he ties the horse’s reins to the hitching post and turns back up to you, holding his hands out for you to take.

“C’mon.” He mumbles, and you slowly move your hands to his shoulders, and he pulls you gently from the horse’s rump, as he has so many times before, but something this time is different.

You land gently on the ground, your feet sinking into the mud much as Arthur’s did.

You look around, perplexed, knowing there was a doctor’s office further into town. “Isn’t the doctor-”

Without meeting your gaze, he grabs your hand, turning it over between you. You make a small noise of confusion. You can see his jaw clench.

Arthur quickly opens his satchel and shoves a clip of bills into your open hand. “There’s enough there to get you settled in Saint Denis.”

Your stomach drops.

“Wait, no… stop, Arthur…” you frantically try to push the money back at him, but he yanks your arm, closing your palm around the clip. He pulls his second revolver from the holster on his belt and shoves it at you as well.

“You don’t belong with us.”

He was leaving you, leaving you here, shipping you off.

“Arthur, don’t!” Your voice cracks as he lets go a heavy, mournful breath. Without making eye contact with you, he turns around, back towards his mare waiting in front of the station.

“No!” You yell, hitching up your skirt, and dart after him, catching up just as he swings himself up on the horse’s saddle.

You grab onto the hem of his beaten-up leather coat with your free hand, pleading with him as you look up at him, tears uncontrollably running down your face, frightful with darkening bruises across the bridge of your nose.

“Missus Shaw.” Arthur drawls in a low register, there is a regretful tone in his voice, “You’re not for this life, this gang. You’ll be safer without us.” He does not look at you, his eyes hidden under the rim of his old gambler hat.

“Arthur, please,” you cry, your voice cracking, “Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me alone, I’m begging you.”

“You aren’t for this.” Again refusing to make eye contact with you, Arthur Morgan gently pushes your hand away from him, pulling on the horse’s reins, and clicking his tongue at the mare, spurring her into a quick canter toward the way out of town.

“Arthur!” You weep as he pushes his horse around the station and over the railroad tracks. He gives no response, not even looking back at you.

You stand there, on the muddy road in front of the Valentine train station, weeping as the closest thing you have to a man in your life leaves you, riding off into the sunset. You’ve watched him ride away from you before, what feels like ages ago, on the hills outside of Blackwater, and Hosea was able to convince him to turn back.

His silhouette grows smaller as he urges his mare into a gallop, rushing away from the livestock town and out into the rolling hills of the Heartlands.

You’re alone again. Left standing outside a train station with a wad of cash and a revolver. Back to where you started, after Frederick’s death, after Limpany, after the loss of your child.

You’re utterly alone in this world.

END CHAPTER III: OWANJILA

#twolafic #devil’s backbone #red dead redemption 2 #longfic #red dead smut #red dead fanfic #red dead fandom #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x original female character #rdr2 fanfiction

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say-hwaet · 4 months ago

Text

That's The Way it Is

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three: Secrets Kept Summary: Arthur takes you to Horseshoe Overlook, where your supposed family for the last fifteen years has been. Who are these people? And what will you learn about yourself along the way? Warnings: Mature themes, mild language, interrupted cursing Word Count: ~8,400 words Author's note: This is an Arthur Morgan x You story, but I do have some character design/creative license. I wanted to experiment with the element of pretending to be someone else, so the MC does have a given name and character descriptions. Just wanted to give you a heads-up in case it doesn't fit your vibe. I hope you'll decide to give it a chance anyway!

You wish you had a paper and pencil. So many names, though slow and steady they come, and your head hurts too much to keep track of them all.

Arthur has gone down the list. John. Hosea. Dutch. Susan. Pearson. Strauss. Javier. Bill. Abigail. Jack. Uncle. Mary Beth. Tilly. Jenny. Mac. Davey. Charles. Karen. Sean. Molly. Micah. He gave his perspective on how you met them, how they've treated you, and their role in the gang.

You try to hang on to each name, each story Arthur spins, a thread you’re desperate to weave into the fabric of your lost memories. But it's overwhelming, like drinking from a firehose, and you feel the familiar ache behind your eyes intensify with every new piece of information.

"Slow down," you plead as you hold onto him. The scenery passes by you at a steady pace, but with the tender knot building on the side of your head, it’s almost dizzying. “I can’t remember them all.”

“Sorry,” Arthur replies. “I got carried away.”

You find yourself clutching tighter to his jacket. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can, Kit,” Arthur’s voice softens as he reassures you. “We’ve got time.” His gloved hand gently pats your hand. His touch is comforting, familiar in a way you can't yet understand but makes you feel safer nonetheless. “We’ll take it slow,” he continues, “If people start crowdin’ ya, I’ll be there to ensure they back off.”

You manage a smile. “Somehow, I don’t doubt that.”

The rest of the ride is quieter, your head resting against his back as the landscape shifts around you. The endless stretch of dusty roads, framed by the occasional group of trees, seems to mirror your fragmented memories — vast and somewhat desolate. You close your eyes and try to focus on the warmth Arthur provides, the color under your eyelids changing as shadows cast down on you over the trees.

And soon, you leave the train tracks and enter through some trees, going down a soft slope.

And suddenly, you hear a voice, quickly recognizing it as the drunken cackle you heard during the fight in Valentine. “Who goes there!”

And Arthur answers back. “It’s me! Arthur!”

You open your eyes, but try to remain hidden behind Arthur’s back. You’re here.

“Welcome back!” the man replies, almost cheerful. And you hear his voice draw closer as Arthur continues to ride.

It is then that the man sees you. “Ho-ly sh—!”

��Shut up, Bill, you want the Pinkertons to hear us?!”

Drunken Cackle, now identified as Bill, fits how Arthur described him. Brutish, boarish, with a thick beard, leather duster, and plaid shirt. He looks like he had just rolled in some mud, and you wouldn’t want to be in his sights if he wants to fight. He quickly runs back into camp, rifle held tightly in his hands. “Hey! It’s Kit! Arthur has Kit…!”

Here it comes.

“I can’t tell if he’s happy or not,” you say under your breath.

Arthur clearly heard you, for his warm laugh rumbles his body beneath your cheek.

"Either way, we'll handle it," he assures, his voice a low murmur as he steers the horse smoothly into the heart of the camp.

As you enter the camp, a wave of curious and astonished faces turn toward you. Some of them you recognize from Arthur's descriptions—like raggedy-faced Uncle with his sluggish posture.

“Oh! It is Kit!”

“Kitka’s alive!”

Arthur pulls Montana up by a hitching post and dismounts first. Tying him off, Arthur approaches you and lifts his arms. You accept his gesture and placing your hands on his firm shoulders, he helps you down.

You remain close to him, as he wraps a protective arm around you and escorts you further into the camp.

You see several tents pitched, and a couple of lean-tos. There is also a large chuck wagon and a cauldron over a fire, cooking some kind of stew.

These aren’t the wagons and tents that were in your memory. Maybe Arthur was right. A different time, when you were younger.

You look at all their faces, most smiles and bright eyes as they begin to gather around.

One woman steps forward, her graying hair styled atop her head. "Well, if it ain't a ghost," she says, her voice surprisingly tender. "Welcome home, Kitka."

You try to place her, but struggle. So many names and descriptions to sort through, and your brow pinches.

The woman, seeing the vacancy in your eyes, looks at you with worry. “What’s wrong, girl?”

You feel Arthur pull you closer to him, and while this would normally concern you, you prefer it in the midst of this confusing sea of faces. "Nothing's wrong, Miss Grimshaw," Arthur answers for you, his voice steady but filled with an undercurrent of concern only perceptible to you. “She just…don’t remember us. She got shot really bad and, erm…forgot everything up until Blackwater.”

Susan. This is Susan.

The woman’s eyes widen and she looks at Arthur with concern. “What? How the hell does she forget us?”

A woman, full-figured and blonde, scoffs at the old woman. “Can’t you just be happy she’s alive? For all we knew, she was dead!”

Susan scowls at her. “You watch your tone there, missy…! I missed her just as much as you did, if not more so! I’ve known her since she was a girl!”

Another woman, honey-blonde and slender, comes between them. “Let’s not fight, please!” She turns to you, offering a soft smile that twinkles with empathy as she steps forward. “Kit, I’m Mary Beth, it’s really good to see you standin’ here.”

Mary Beth, a kind soul, as Arthur described her. It was clear by the way he spoke that you and her had a deep friendship. And by the way she takes your hands, there is a true fondness that she has for you. No ill will or misgivings. Maybe someone you can trust.

“You were my friend,” you say, trying to will a memory into your conscious mind.

Her eyes brighten at your words and she squeezes your hands. “Yes, we often shared stories we’ve written. You were teaching me some Czech phrases.”

You remember some words that were spoken to you in your memories with that tongue. You hope that you will learn to speak it again.

Arthur's hand tightens around your shoulder, grounding you as your mind whirls with the fragments of the life you once lived. The words Mary Beth mentions stir something faint within you—a distant echo of laughter and whispered secrets under starlit skies. "Maybe," you venture, hope threading through your tone, "we could try that again.”

Mary Beth nods, and gently backs away.

Another woman, young with dark hair in a tight bun, holds the hand of a little boy.

You smile, deducing who they are. “Abigail and Jack…”

The little boy, with a twinkle in his eyes, beams at the mention of his name. “Aunt Kit!” And breaking free of his mother’s grip, he rushes to you and hugs you at the legs. “I missed you…!”

“Oh!” you gasp, more so at the name rather than his gesture. You look at Arthur. “Am I…?”

He shakes his head. “It’s…kinda hard to explain.” Arthur’s eyes are filled with that old, familiar pain—the unspoken torment of truths too tangled to unweave in a moment. Abigail steps forward, her expression soft and understanding, as she gently retrieves Jack, allowing him back into the safety of her arms.

“Sorry,” she says. “He’s just excited.”

You look at her apologetically, imagining the restraint she must feel to know you and not react similarly to how the boy had. “Don’t be,” you say.

And suddenly, come in a flock of questions, by voices you can’t yet identify.

“Where have you been all this time?”

“Did the Pinkertons get you?”

“Have you seen Mac? or Sean?”

“We thought Arthur was crazy!”

“Hey, hey!” Arthur barks. “Didn’t you hear a damned thing I said? She don’t remember!”

“And that includes you, don’t it, Cowpoke?”

There is a hush over the flock of voices as they turn to look at the one who just posed the silencing question. Your eyes fall on a man. Blonde, with a long mustache, white hat, and pot belly. He’s leaning against the table in front of the chuckwagon, eyeing the sharpness of his knife.

The feeling he gives you is evidence enough. Micah Bell.

Arthur remains still, his eyes narrowing. “Just say it, Micah.”

Micah laughs, a slick, demeaning laugh, as though he has all the cards in his hand. “Must be real hard, watching your plans fall apart, Morgan. The woman you love wandering back from the grave with no memory of any of us, especially you.”

The tension could be cut with a knife. Arthur’s jaw tightens, his fists clench at his sides. You feel an inexplicable urge to defuse the situation, yet you are more curious than anything. Love? What does he mean by that?

“I don’t know what’cher talkin’ about, Micah.”

Micah lifts his chin, like he isn’t worried about having his neck slit. “Oh, I think you do. You really thought you could keep that under wraps? All that sneakin’ off and…whisperin’…you were plannin’ to leave us, weren’t you, Morgan?” And he points the blade of his knife at you. “With that…circus whore.” And he cackles. “Must be real good…all flexible under them sheets.”

And the next thing that happens is a blur. Arthur leaves your side, a blur of brown, black, and green, as he body slams into Micah.

Fists fly, a dance of anger and old grudges, playing out under the heavy gaze of the setting sun. Dust swirls around them as your heartbeat echoes the rhythmic thumping of boots against the dry ground. You stand frozen, watching as each punch from Arthur seems to carry a year's worth of suppressed fury as he lands punch after punch at Micah’s face.

There are several cries from the women and you watch as Charles and John try to break them up.

Arthur roars with a rage that sends goosebumps up your spine. “I’LL KILL YOU, YOU SONOFA—!!!”

“ENOUGH…!!!”

The command rings loud enough for Arthur to pause for a second, just long enough for Charles to pull him off of Micah. Arthur doesn’t resist, but the fire in his eyes does not leave.

You feel gentle hands on you, and you whip your head to see Mary Beth on your left, and another girl, Tilly, on your right. They try to escort you away, but you remain planted, your only concern being for Arthur.

And that is when someone steps out of the largest tent. Tall, imposing, with dark hair and a dark vest with a gold chain. Rings on many fingers.

Dutch. It is Dutch Van Der Linde.

He doesn’t look in your direction, immediately walking over to the restrained Arthur and downed Micah. “What the hell are you doing, Arthur?!” he roars. “Is this what we do now? Start fights? Nearly beat our own men to death?!”

“Micah started it, Dutch!” A young man says. “He was saying things about Kit!”

Your name seems to do something to Dutch, as his eyes widen and his body tenses. “….Who, Lenny…?”

Lenny nods and points at you. “Kit! She’s back! She’s alive!”

“Didn’t you hear the commotion, Dutch?” Susan asks, almost perplexed that he didn’t hear it.

Dutch turns, his gaze finally landing on you. For a moment, the world seems to hold its breath. His eyes remain intense, a mix of disbelief and confusion washing over him. "Kit?" he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the murmur of the crowd.

You nod, feeling a tightness in your chest. This is the man you wanted to see. He was on that boat. He may know what happened to you. He was there. “Yes, Dutch. It is me.”

And suddenly, there is a shift in his demeanor. His body relaxes, and he opens his arms. “My child, you’ve come home…!”

Arthur looks on, confused, and Charles lets him go. He remains still and watches Dutch carefully as the leader approaches you.

Unsure what to do, you make your way over to him and accept his embrace as he holds you tightly. “We thought you were dead!”

“It is a miracle I am alive, Dutch.” You come away from his embrace and look him in the eyes. “I’ve been in Blackwater all this time.”

“Really?” Dutch asks inquisitively, his eyes reflecting a sudden interest. “And how did you find your way here?”

You look over at the still-seething gunslinger. “Arthur found me.”

Dutch's grin widens as he turns to face Arthur. “So, he did.” He turns back to you and places a firm hand on your shoulder. “Too bad Hosea had gone off to Emerald Ranch for a score, he’d love to be here while we celebrate!”

“But what about Micah?” Bill interjects, breaking the jovial atmosphere. “You still have that fight to deal with.”

Dutch's smile fades as he narrows his eyes. “I’ll deal with that, Bill,” he says in a low voice filled with determination. He looks back at everyone else gathered around him. “But for now, we’re going to have ourselves a party!”

There is a collective cheer and people begin gathering around you, their faces a mix of curiosity and joy. The sense of community, something you've been missing for so long, wraps around you like a warm blanket.

“We’ve missed gossipin’ with you, Kit!” Karen says, a laugh bubbling out of her lips. “We got so much more good stuff over the last month or so.”

Tilly, still holding your arm, escorts you to a place to sit down. It is a large log, lying in front of a small fire. Mary Beth and Karen sit close by, giggling like school girls.

Music starts somewhere in the distance and looking over, you see Javier playing a guitar, and he comes over to you. “Mind if I join you, ladies?”

Tilly giggles and that seems to be permission enough.

Javier settles down on the ground near the fire, his fingers already caressing the strings of the guitar, pulling a melodic tune into the air that gently swirls around the growing firelight. The song is a soft, happy thing that somehow carries a thread of love through its core.

But the soft moment is quickly ended when Uncle comes lopping over. “Play a good one! One I can actually sing to…!”

Javier rolls his eyes moaning, “Ay, way to ruin a moment, amigo!”

Uncle doesn’t seem to care, waving his bottle of beer in the air. “This is a party, not a soiree!”

“Dios Mio, fine! What do you want to sing?”

“Ring Dang Doo!” he cackles and by the reaction of the girls, it is clear that it is very undesirable.

Amidst the groans and laughter, Javier strums a few hesitant chords, his expression a blend of amusement and resignation. “Alright, Uncle, just for you,” he mutters, and the first notes of “Ring Dang Doo” echo into the night, bringing with it a raucous cheer from some of the other men who are in the vicinity.

The words are rather distasteful and you are relieved that you don’t know the song at all. As the laughter rises and falls around the flickering flames, your mind drifts, tugged by the playful mockery in Uncle's voice and the indulgent frustration in Javier's strumming. It’s moments like these that sharpen the edges of what you've lost—memories that feel just beyond your grasp, lingering like shadows at the fringes of the firelight. You feel a pang in your chest, a dull ache, as if your heart knows what your mind cannot remember.

The stars above twinkle with an indifference that feels almost cruel in its beauty, the vastness reminding you of everything that is missing. As the song ends and the laughter dies down, you find yourself wishing for a melody that could carry you back through the years to the moments that are now just ghosts in your mind.

Then, as if summoned by your longing, Javier switches tunes again, this time to something slower, more melancholic. The notes are deep, resonating with the unspoken sorrows.

And Karen, bobbing her head softly, begins to sing the tune.

I ain't got no father

I ain’t got no father

I ain't got no father

To buy the clothes I wear

And Pearson, the gang’s cook, joins her.

I'm a poor, lonesome, cowboy

Poor, lonesome, cowboy

I’m a poor, lonesome, cowboy

A long way from home

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat growing as the words seem to amplify your own sense of displacement. How aptly they resonate with the tide of confusion that has been your companion since waking up in this unfamiliar life. The song, meant for others' longing, mirrors your fragmented memories, flickering like the campfire before you.

And you look at these faces, faces you should know, and you realize that one of the most important is missing.

Arthur. Where is he?

You sit up straight, looking around, but you don’t see him at the table, or by the chuck wagon. You slowly rise to your feet and begin to leave the group.

“Hey!” you hear Uncle call. “Where you goin’?”

You don’t care to answer, as the music and light fade away from you as you leave. You walk back toward Montana, he’s still here. Arthur must be—

“...And I need you with me on this, son. You and Micah need to get along.”

You freeze. You have just started walking by Dutch’s tent, and no doubt he doesn’t expect you to be listening.

And you hear Arthur, speaking with great agitation. “You know how I feel about him, Dutch—”

“You went and got him out of that jail, and I am thankful, but now is not the time for grudges. Kit is back now, but I can’t have any distractions.”

“She ain’t a distraction, Dutch, but—”

“But what?”

“You—you said she drowned, Dutch.” And there is a sudden silence. “Why did you tell me she fell off the boat and drowned?”

Drowned? He thought you drowned? Can you swim? You don’t know, you can’t remember, but you’d think by living in California, playing in tide pools, you would have such a skill.

Dutch stammers and you can hear the growing frustration in his voice. “Well—well—a lot happened that day, son! Some did fall off that boat, and I didn’t see her after that! Was I to go into that water lookin’?”

“Well, no, but—”

“But nothing! She’s here now…” And then Dutch’s voice lowers, bordering threatening. “…and if what Micah said is true about you—”

“It—It ain’t true! I weren’t gonna leave, and she and I—” He stops mid-sentence and sighs deeply. “I said I have your back, Dutch. Always will.”

There is another pause and Dutch speaks with a deep satisfaction. “Good. Now go and join the party. I’ll make sure Micah lives to fight another day.”

You hear heavy footfalls draw near you, and you take a few steps back until they stop again.

“Just for the record, Dutch, I don’t regret punchin’ him.”

And Dutch replies with a great agitation, exhaling deeply. “Just go.”

You motion to hide, and you do just in time to see Arthur head off not toward the party, but into the trees. You are tempted to follow, but you can’t risk Dutch seeing you. So, you decide to return to the party. It’s best you find Susan to find out where you will be sleeping.

As you weave your way back toward the lively sounds and flickering lights of the party, your mind replays the troubling conversation. Why did Dutch say you drowned? And why would Micah say that he was planning to leave? With you? The uncertainty muddles your thoughts, mixing with things you know and what you are trying to remember.

Micah said Arthur loves you and that he tried to keep it a secret. Is it true? Or, more importantly, do you want it to be true?

You don't have a solid answer, and the gnawing uncertainty fuels a dull ache in your chest. As you approach the periphery of the gathering, laughter bubbles over from the crowd, mixing with the clink of beer bottles and the strumming of a guitar. It seems alien, almost surreal, given the storm brewing within your own mind. The warm, yellow light from the lanterns dances across the faces of the revelers, casting long shadows that sway with the music. You feel detached, an observer of their joy rather than a partaker.

Susan finally comes into view, and as she turns her head to the rhythm of the song, her eyes catch you.

You smile and approach her. “I am getting tired. Where can I sleep?”

She clicks her tongue and rises to her feet. “Say no more, girl.” And she begins to lead you away from the gathering. “Come with me.”

As you follow Susan through the throng of dancers and revelers, the smell of tobacco and whiskey mingles with the evening air, heavy with the scent of pine and earth. The sounds of the party fade as you walk further away, replaced by the soft crunching of leaves underfoot.

Susan leads you to a lean-to with other bed rolls lying there. “This is where you’ll be until we can get you a separate tent. Mary Beth and Tilly also sleep here.”

You look at her, with saddened eyes. “I left none of my things here?”

Her eyes soften and she shakes her head as she explains. “When everything had gone to hell, we didn’t have much time to pack. We took what we could, and when we thought you had died…” She shrugs her shoulders. “It didn’t make much sense to grab those things.” She rests a hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry, hon.”

You nod. It makes sense. You can’t begrudge them for fleeing for their lives. As far as they knew, you were dead. Why would they bring a dead person’s things when they needed the bare essentials first?

Susan bids you goodnight, and calmly walks away. Alone for the first time this evening, you go to your knees and take hold of one of the blankets. Wrapping yourself in it, you bury your nose in the wool, taking in a deep breath through your nose.

It doesn’t smell like tobacco, leather, and pine, and you can’t help but feel greatly disappointed.

You curl up under the blanket, your mind swimming with fragmented memories and fleeting emotions. The night air is chillier than expected, seeping through the gaps in the lean-to. Stars peek through the slits above, a stark reminder of how small your problems seem under the vast, indifferent sky.

Despite the comforting warmth of the blanket, you shiver, the cold seeping into your bones as if chasing the warmth of the memories you strain to recall. Somewhere deep within, a flicker of familiarity stirs each time you close your eyes—visions of firelight dancing on a rugged face, laughter mingling with the crackle of burning logs, and the solitude of just two bodies being intertwined together.

Who? Is this you? What memory is this? Your head starts to hurt, but you try to push through it, follow it, will it to make itself clear to you.

Yet, as vivid as these flitting images are, they dissolve into the crisp night air before you can grasp their meaning. A frustration builds within you—a yearning to remember, to understand who you were before the world turned its back on you. The shadows of the past loom larger in the darkness, your heart beating in sync with the slow, methodical drip of a leak somewhere outside your temporary refuge. Each drop sounds like a clock, each tick marking a moment lost to the fog of your forgotten life.

***

It’s morning and you find yourself the first to rise. Sitting up you see the sleeping form of Mary Beth next to you, eyes closed and peaceful. You wonder when everyone has turned in for the night, and can only imagine that it will be a while before they join you.

You carefully rise, pulling the blanket away from you as silently as you can. Finding your footing, you rise to your feet, and coming out of the lean-to, you stretch out your arms and arch your back.

You feel muscles relaxing, tempting you to bend backward farther than would seem natural.

…all flexible under them sheets…

Micah’s voice rings in your ear, and you quickly straighten, feeling uneasy and disturbed by his suggestive language.

You move quickly as your mind goes to what happened. The look on Arthur’s face, like a protective wild animal, as he showed no restraint in beating Micah’s face in. You haven’t seen Micah since, and you didn’t hear where he was taken to recover from the ordeal, or how bad the damage was. You’re curious, the temptation to explore and find out for yourself pricks at you, but you decide against it.

You walk deeper into the camp, sneaking by sleeping figures and passing the chuck wagon and the table, which has poker cards scattered all over its surface.

As you continue, a soft, glowing light gathers your attention, and following it, it leads you to the edge of the overlook. You see the rising sun, the glowing orb rising into the sky as it paints pastel colors behind it.

And you see Arthur sitting on the edge.

A soft “oh” escapes your lips, loud enough for him to notice and look over his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t know anyone else was awake.”

His eyes meet yours and you feel a small wave of relief wash over you. His gaze is warm, and it's almost as if he understands your unspoken struggle. "I've always been an early riser," he says with a gentle smile.

"Even after the party last night?" you tease, trying to break the tension.

He looks away for a moment before meeting your gaze again. "I didn't..." He trails off, looking pensive. "It's not that I didn't want to celebrate," he explains. "I just...”

“I understand,” you say softly, sensing the tension emanating from him. “It was a long day for both of us. It must not have been easy to see me and find that I didn’t remember you.” You see him tense up even more at this and you recoil slightly, giving him space. “About Micah…”

“Don’t worry about that,” he interrupts.

You blink in surprise. “Why? He may be slicker than an oil slick, but his words clearly affected you.” You take a cautious step closer. “What he said was either a pointed deception…” your voice trails off as you nervously swallow. “Or it could be the truth.” As you study the back of his form, the sound of birdsong fills the air and the leaves rustle gently in the breeze. “Which one is it, Arthur?” You wait anxiously for his response, searching for any clue in his stoic posture.

A heavy silence hangs in the air, broken only by the sound of your own breathing. You stand there, rooted to the spot, as each second ticks by with agonizing slowness. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, almost audible in its frantic rhythm. A million thoughts race through your mind, but you push them away, focusing on the one burning question: What is the truth?

You try to keep your voice steady as you ask again, "What would you rather have it be?" Your words hang in the air, filled with uncertainty and hope. If it’s a lie, then everything stays the same. You have friends who know you and a plan to stay with them until things calm down after the events in Blackwater.

But if it is the truth...

Then the man in front of you is keeping something from you. Something between you two, something that happened.

Arthur scooting away from the ledge, rises to his feet. After a moment he turns around to face you and you eagerly search his eyes for an answer. He takes calm steps toward you and offers his hand. “Come with me.”

What? No, you don’t want him to change the subject. “Arthur…”

“C’mon, I forgot to introduce you to someone.”

You feel miffed but he’s piqued your curiosity once again. And the temptation to hold his hand is greater than you thought it would be.

And just like that, you slip your hand into his calloused palm and he begins to lead you back into camp.

You’ve made the inference that Arthur doesn’t share anything he doesn’t want to. If he’s as secretive as Micah implied, then he isn’t going to give you an answer until he’s ready.

But are you willing to let it go?

For now, you will. Just long enough to see what he’s on about.

Though his stride is broad, his footfalls are quiet and steady. You try to keep up, but your feet shuffle too loudly in the grass.

He looks back at you and places his forefinger over his lips. “Shhh….”

Your brow furrows, how dare he tell you to be quiet, when you have a reason to be upset? You are about to slap his arm, but a golden color up ahead catches your eye.

He’s led you outside of camp, near a patch of grass where some horses graze. In the center of them, is a golden palomino American Saddlebred mare. Her coat shines in the sun, her legs strong and graceful, her mane is braided in unique plaits and her tail is long like a bridal train.

You know it. In your gut, you know it. She’s yours. She’s your Odliv.

“Say somethin’ to her,” Arthur whispers softly. “You used to have a tune you’d whistle to her.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know it,” you whisper back, an emptiness filling in your stomach.

That’s when Arthur leans close to you and his lips close to your ear, hums the tune only soft enough for you to hear.

Your ear begins to ache, triggering a memory.

Your dark hair wildly dancing in the wind, riding bareback across a field, hands held out like wings of a bird.

“I’m flying!” you cry. “Arthur, I’m flying!”

You hear a second set of hoofbeats catch up with you and you look to your right to see Arthur, younger and more carefree as he rides beside you on a beautiful blood-red mare.

The memory fades and out from your lips, comes the soft whistle.

And in an instant, Odliv’s head perks up and she knickers curiously. When her eyes fall on you, she pounds the ground excitedly and whinnies loudly.

You feel Arthur nudge you toward her. “Go to her before she wakes everyone up!”

You hurry your steps, maneuvering between the other horses who have also lifted their heads. You reach her and as soon as your hand rests on her forelock, she calms down, her whinnies turning into soft snorts.

She’s soft to the touch, and you’ll let your fingers spread out and fold in, scratching her softly. She brings her head closer to you, communicating her desire to be loved.

"She missed you," Arthur says, breaking the peaceful silence that had enveloped you. You turn to face him, but your eyes are still drawn back to the majestic creature in front of you.

"She was red, wasn't she?" Your voice is soft and filled with awe.

Arthur blinks, slightly taken aback. "Who?"

"Boadicea," you reply, barely able to tear your gaze away from the beautiful mare standing before you.

With a quiet chortle, Arthur corrects you, "Liver Chestnut."

You shrug nonchalantly. "No matter, at least I remembered."

After a brief pause, Arthur clicks his tongue and begins to walk away. "Well, I guess I'll leave you to it then." The sound of his footsteps recede as he leaves you alone with the horse, the only sounds now being the gentle rustling of leaves and the steady breaths of Odliv.

You flip around, nearly spooking Odliv, and he is walking in the direction of Montana. “What? Where are you going?” You leave your mare and hurry to catch up with him. You still have your question that needs answering.

He doesn’t answer immediately, reaching Montana and slipping him a sugar cube. “How’ya doin’, boy?” And he gives the stud a good pat.

“Arthur…?”

He mounts Montana and looks down at you. “I gotta meet up with Hosea. Was supposed to already…but got a little sidetracked.”

Meaning you. You are the distraction, just like Dutch said last night. Is that what he means?

You don’t want to see him go. But you don’t want to get him in trouble. “Can’t I…can’t I go with you?” You’ve come to find that you can hold your own, albeit quite suddenly, with those makeshift explosives you threw at those bandits.

His eyes soften at that, but he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Kitte—erm—Kitka, it’s probably best that you take it easy for a while. Spread your wings, as they say. Maybe once you get back on your feet.”

Your brow pinches. “But I’m already on two legs.”

He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “You did take things too literal sometimes.” He takes the reins and spins Montana around, the horse’s broad muscles moving in powerful ripples. “I’ll be gone a few days. Hopefully, you’ll be meetin’ Sean before too long.” And before you can say anything more, he makes a clicking sound with his mouth, and Montana canters on out of camp.

You watch the wake of his departure, feeling an unsettling mix of frustration and abandoned hope gnaw at your insides. Left standing alone amidst the camp's morning bustle, you wonder if your past will ever truly circle back to embrace you, or if it is destined to keep galloping ahead—just out of reach like the dust kicked up by Montana's hooves. You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding and turn away from Arthur's fading silhouette.

The camp seems full yet oddly hollow as you meander back into camp, still silent while everyone sleeps. You feel rather peckish, and you remember that there were some canned goods in Pearson’s chuckwagon. You suppose it won’t hurt to have a bite, after all, you haven’t eaten in over 24 hours.

You go towards the back of the wagon, an area of camp you haven’t explored yet, and as you look around.

You stop in your tracks.

A young man, bent over and head down, is tied to a tree.

You gasp loudly, which stirs him to awaken. He lifts his head and when his eyes meet yours his eyes widen.

“Please…” he begs. “I need some water.”

You know that you are amongst a gang of outlaws, but you couldn’t imagine why a young man would be tied to a tree with a rope.

He has long, brown hair to his shoulders. It looks like it hasn’t been washed in days. His eyes are bloodshot, either from crying or fatigue, perhaps both.

You think through all the names and descriptions that Arthur gave you, and none seem to match this stranger. You take a quiet step forward. “Who are you?”

He replies with a lilt in his voice, true panic as he whispers. “Nobody! I ain’t done nothin’!” Then his head hangs low. “I am so thirsty…”

You aren’t above helping someone, regardless of why they may be tied to a tree. You see a water bucket with a ladle and walk over to it. You fill the ladle with cool, clear water and bring it to his parched lips. He drinks greedily, water dribbling down his chin and wetting the dust at his knees. After a moment, he seems somewhat revived and lifts his head again, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of fear and gratitude.

"Thank you,” he gasps. “I thought I was going to die…”

“Who tied you here?” you ask. “Why?”

“Dutch had me tied. I…was with Colm, but I ain’t never liked that feller…!”

Colm. You don’t recognize that name. But you can only figure he’s an enemy to Dutch. But why?

“Hey…!” A bark comes from around a lean-to, and you whip around. It’s Bill, grumpy and hungover, and he’s caught you helping his prisoner. “What do you think yer doin’?!” Bill stomps over, his heavy boots stirring up small clouds of dust with each step. His eyes are narrowed in suspicion and anger as he peers at you, then at the ladle in your hand. You feel a shiver of apprehension, but your grip on the ladle tightens slightly, a defiant gesture you can't quite explain yourself.

"He needed water, Bill," you say calmly, meeting his glare with a steady gaze of your own. The air thickens with tension, the only sounds the distant calls of crows and the soft rustle of the dry grass underfoot.

Bill snorts, his mustache twitching in agitation. “Dutch says no food or water ‘til he talks!”

And you suddenly bristle, memories of unkindness shown to you your entire life flooding in quick flashes. What would you have given for just a bit of water or food when your brother was sick and dying? Despite your headache, your fist clenches around the ladle and you swing it to hit Bill hard.

The ladle connects with a satisfying thud against Bill's temple, and he staggers back, more from surprise than pain. His hand instinctively goes to his head, and he scowls fiercely at you. "Kit, what the hell—?"

"Blázen! You know as well as I do that a man's got a right to basics!" you spit out, your voice thick with emotion. "Water is not a privilege. It’s a necessity…!"

Bill stares at you, his anger simmering down into something resembling grudging respect or perhaps confusion. He rubs the spot where the ladle struck, eyes never leaving yours. "Yer memory ain’t all there, so I am gonna spell it for ya…” And he leans close, snarling a threat veiled thinly behind a whisper. "Dutch's orders are law here, Kit. Don’t forget your place, or you’ll find yourself out there with nothin’ and no one."

You swallow hard, the sting of his words biting deeper than the chill in the air. How many times had you been cast out before, left to fend for yourself in the harsh world of indifference and cruelty? You don’t know, but the thought sends a cold wave through your spine. And yet, at the same time, there's a flickering flame of rebellion within you that refuses to be smothered.

"Maybe my memory isn’t fully restored, Bill," you reply, your voice low and steady, "but my sense of what’s right hasn’t faded one bit." You hold his gaze, unflinching, the intensity of your conviction casting a palpable sensation in the air between you.

Bill's eyes narrow as he assesses you, the standoff drawing a curious crowd from the nearby tents. Whispers weave through the other members as they’ve woken to your row, the poor prisoner in the middle, shaking in his boots.

Finally, with a snort, Bill turns away, dismissing the gathering with a wave of his hand. "See to it that he don’t drown," he mutters under his breath, loud enough for only you to hear. There's something akin to admiration in his tone, albeit reluctantly given.

As the crowd disperses, you sigh deeply.

You feel a sudden hand on your arm, and you turn to see Mary Beth, her eyes a mix of gratitude and worry. “I’m glad someone else feels the same way.” And she begins to lead you away from the prisoner. You walk beside her as he links her arm with yours and she leads you around the tents. “I’ve been sneakin’ Kieran some water and scraps since he’s been here.”

Kieran? That’s his name. And since Mary Beth has been helping him, she must know more about it. “Who is he?”

“An O’Driscoll,” she explains. “They are a rival gang. Dutch and Colm go way back, been fightin’ for a while.”

“Oh. Who is Colm, exactly? Why are they fighting?”

“You were there, when it all started. You are one of the original ones.” Mary Beth stops by the horses and you eye Odliv while she grazes. “I wasn’t there, but from what I’ve been told, Dutch killed Colm’s brother and he killed Dutch’s lover, Annabelle.”

Annabelle. You think hard about the name, but it doesn’t register. You shake your head.

Mary Beth continues, “Colm is evil. He’s killed innocent women and children, and shows no mercy, like we do.”

Your brow furrows. “How is tying Kieran to a tree mercy?”

Mary Beth hesitates, her gaze shifting to the ground before she meets your eyes again. "It's not, I suppose. But sometimes..." She trails off, searching for the right words. "Sometimes we have to make choices that don't sit well with us. You know that better than anyone, Kit."

You nod slowly, unsure of what she means.

She sees the confused expression on your face and offers to enlighten you. “When there was plannin’ for the ferry robbery in Blackwater, there were conflicting ideas. Hosea and Arthur were working on a con of their own, some sort of trick on some real estate brokers. And then there was Micah and Dutch, talkin’ about the ferry. You wanted to help Arthur and Hosea, you have always been good with costumes and performances. You can distract the strongest-willed of men…!” She giggles, most likely thinking of a specific instance. “We have always been a great team.”

But you want her to continue about Blackwater. “But what happened? Did I go with him?”

She shakes her head. “Dutch said he needed you with him. To act as a hostage when he robbed the ferry.”

Your eyes widen. “That sounds…dangerous.”

“That’s what you had said. I remember you telling me how worried you were about the whole thing. You said that something didn’t seem right…” Her eyes fall. “You…seemed different. I wish there was something that I could have done, maybe took your place.”

You shake your head, patting her arm. “No. It is as it was. You can’t change the past, Mary Beth.”

There’s a long pause as the air between you thickens with unspoken thoughts, a tangle of regrets and old wounds that no amount of talking can undo. But the soft smile returns to Mary Beth’s face and she pats your hand that rests over her arm. “Let’s do the wash. Us girls always do the wash in the morning, to let the clothes dry. Miss Grimshaw gets on our tails if we aren’t busy come sunup.”

You nod. “Okay, it will be good to keep busy.”

Together, you and Mary Beth gather the worn fabrics and soiled garments scattered around the camp and find the other girls by the washboards and buckets. The fresh morning air is crisp, pinching at your cheeks as you find a place to sit among them.

The chatter among the women is light, yet it carries a weight of shared history that you can't fully grasp. You try to focus on the task at hand, scrubbing at stubborn stains that mar the fabric. As your hands move in rhythmic motions over the washboard, snippets of conversation float around you.

"Molly’s lookin’ at her face in the mirror again…” Karen says while gnawing on a long blade of straw.

The girls look over near Dutch’s tent. Molly, with red hair more blazing than fire, eyes her own reflection as though it were an unfamiliar face, one she's trying to understand or maybe memorize. You can't help but notice the way her brows furrow together, crafting a silent narrative of self-doubt and contemplation that seems all too familiar.

"Molly always did take to heart what Dutch says about appearances being as important as a loaded gun…” Tilly snarks. “But I always thought looks weren’t everythin’.”

“It’s different when you got a man to please,” Karen argues. “I should know. The better you look, the better the pay.”

Mary Beth gasps at her brazenness. “Karen!”

“What? It’s true! Any woman who has had a man knows that.”

You remain silent, the conversation drifting over you like fog settling on a meadow. The practicalities and pitfalls of love seem a distant concern to your current predicament. Yet there's an ache inside that resounds with their words, a ghostly echo of a love you can scarcely remember but feel profoundly.

As you scrub on the shirt in your hand, you notice its color. Blue. The same blue shirt that Arthur had worn when you saw him in Valentine. Your heart skips, caught in the clutches of your most vivid memory, flitting at the edge of your consciousness like a shy bird. The fabric under your fingers suddenly feels heavier, soaked not just with water but with the weight of unspoken words and a past life that might as well have been someone else's dream.

You swallow thickly, thinking about how to word your question. “Did we…Did we talk about a lot of things…like secrets?”

Karen’s eyes sparkle at your question. “Oh yes! Not much gets past us girls!”

And Mary Beth, sweet and sympathetic as ever, can sense what you are getting at. “Is there something you want to know, Kit? Something you told us and want to remember?”

You feel your hands trembling, the words building in your body making it nerve-wracking. “Am I…Am I a virgin?”

There is a sudden stillness when the girls pause their washing.

Tilly is the first to speak, her voice raised higher than her normal range. “What?”

And Karen gets to the meat of the matter. “Why do you wanna know? You pregnant or something?”

You shake your head, you feel instant regret for even asking, but you can’t back out now. “No! I just…been having these dreams…”

“Oh…? What dreams?” Karen asks with a gleam in her eye and a mischievous grin.

“I don’t know…I think they’re memories, as that is how they usually come to me, but I can’t seem to put it all together.”

Mary Beth still looks softly at you, as she wrings a flannel shirt. “You always told us you wanted to wait until marriage.” And before you can doubt her answer she adds, “You were very adamant about it. You said being a performer taught you that.”

Performer? You remember being called circus trash, and also what Micah called you yesterday.

It lines up. If you had your heart set on waiting…

You let the shirt go for just a moment to look at the ring on your finger. “And I’m not married.”

Tilly shakes her head. “No, Kit. You ain’t.”

“It’s strange,” you laugh. “Being 29 and still…” You work on scrubbing the shirt again, tucking your chin to hide your face behind your hair. “Oh, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“There ain’t no shame in waitin’, Kit.” Karen says, her voice more gentle than her usual teasing. “It’s better with the right person than the wrong one.” She laughs. “I should know.”

Mary Beth sighs, lifting her head and looking all dreamy. “I’m still waitin’ for mine, too.”

At that, Tilly chortles. “Mary Beth, the right one ain’t never gonna happen for you unless they come flyin’ right outta them books you write!”

The laughter that bubbles from Mary Beth is light and unburdened, a stark contrast to the heaviness of your own heart. "Maybe I do expect too much from a man. But a girl can dream, can't she?"

Your thoughts spiral back to your own dreams, fragmented and shadowy as they are, filled with fleeting touches and whispered names that dissolve as you awaken. There's a haunting familiarity in those hallucinatory moments, a sense of belonging that you can't yet place. Perhaps, buried deep within the cobwebs of your memory, there lies an answer. They feel so real, yet so far away, making you wonder if even you kept secrets from these girls who you call friends.

You girls finish the laundry, hanging the linens on nearby branches and a line strung up between two trees. You’re surprised to see the day half gone, and while you are grateful for the passage of time, you wonder what else you could possibly do.

And as you walk past Susan, she sees you and eyes your skirt. “Just a minute, girl!”

You freeze, and brace yourself. From what the girls have told you, you prepare to be given another chore to do.

She rises from the table where she has been working on sewing a patch and gestures to your skirt. “Just what do you think you’re doin’, wearin’ clothes like that?”

You look down. You had forgotten that you cut it all up for the explosives. While it is the right explanation, it isn’t the easiest one. “I…erm…must have torn it.”

“I should say so! We need to get you something else to wear.”

You shake your head. “I don’t have any money. Or other clothes.”

Susan motions for you to follow her and she leads you to the back of Dutch’s tent. On a barrel, sits a box.

“This is the money box. Everyone pitches in money from jobs and such to take care of camp needs.”

“But this is for everyone.”

“You’ve come back from the dead and are in need of new clothes.” She opens the box without a qualm, takes out five dollars, and hands it to you. “I’d say that is a good reason.”

You hold the money in your hand. It isn’t the thirty dollars you left behind in Blackwater, but you figure you haven’t really been familiar with large sums. “Thank you, Miss Grimshaw.”

“I’ll have Strauss go to town with you. Since you’ve been back, he wants to talk about nothing but resuming business with you.”

You look up, your brows pinched. “Business?”

She nods. “Just get yourself ready and meet Strauss by the wagon. He will take you to Valentine.”

Your heart hitches. Valentine. Where it all started.

Tag Requests: @photo1030

Thank you for reading! Feedback is always appreciated.

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #fanfiction #arthur morgan #ao3 writer #rdr2 #Arthur Morgan x reader #Arthur morgan x female reader #Arthur Morgan x you #Chapter by Chapter #romance #Western #This is gonna be good #Micah being Micah #Dutch being a little sus ngl

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zafill · 1 month ago

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RULES!

IMPORTANT : i will not do nsfw fanfics for anonymous people or people who doesnt have age in their bio. (i will do fluff for the minors and anonymous people. but if you get caught reading my fanfics as a minor, its not my fault.)

hi! my name is zafill. idk how to make a cutesy acc, soooo sorry :d i write for a lot of fandoms, like: mouthwashing rdr1-2 tlou1-2 mha kny-demon slayer kemono jihen Beastars Avatar(both navi and atla) squid game (plz include number) most movies (please tell me and ill see if i know them or not) and if its not on the list, still tell me and ill see if i can do smth! yes ill write: fluff, sfw, death, fighting, gore(to a degree) Oc x character, Y/n x character, female y/n, male Y/n, Gn Y/n. - No ill not write: Heavy Nsfw (i write mentions, not the sex part) r@pe, minor x adult, sadism/Masochism, piss, scat (all the underage characters i mention is meant for brother/sister x reader or Child!Character x Parent reader) -

characters i write for

rdr1-2:

Arthur Morgan, John Marston, Dutch van der Linde, Hosea Matthews, Charles Smith, Javier Escuella, Bill Williamson, Micah Bell, Lenny Summers, Sean MacGuire, Sadie Adler, Karen Jones, Tilly Jackson, Mary-Beth Gaskill, Molly O’Shea, Susan Grimshaw, Leopold Strauss, Reverend Orville Swanson, Simon Pearson, Kieran Duffy, Uncle, Josiah Trelawny

tlou1-2:

Joel Miller, Ellie Williams, Tommy Miller, Tess, Marlene, Bill, Frank, Henry, Sam, David, James, Dina, Jesse, Abby Anderson, Owen Moore, Mel, Manny Alvarez, Nora Harris,

Mha:

Izuku Midoriya, Katsuki Bakugo, Shoto Todoroki, Ochaco Uraraka, Tenya Iida, Momo Yaoyorozu, Fumikage Tokoyami, Eijiro Kirishima, Denki Kaminari, Kyoka Jiro, Mina Ashido, Tsuyu Asui, Mezo Shoji, Mashirao Ojiro, Yuga Aoyama, Hanta Sero, Rikido Sato, Koji Koda, Toru Hagakure, Neito Monoma, Mirio Togata, Tamaki Amajiki, Nejire Hado, Shota Aizawa, Hizashi Yamada, Nemuri Kayama, Toshinori Yagi, Enji Todoroki, Keigo Takami, Tomura Shigaraki, Dabi Todoroki, Himiko Toga

Demon slayer:

Tanjiro Kamado, Nezuko Kamado, Zenitsu Agatsuma, Inosuke Hashibira, Kanao Tsuyuri, Genya Shinazugawa, Giyu Tomioka, Shinobu Kocho, Kyojuro Rengoku, Tengen Uzui, Muichiro Tokito, Mitsuri Kanroji, Obanai Iguro, Sanemi Shinazugawa, Gyomei Himejima, Kagaya Ubuyashiki, Muzan Kibutsuji, Kokushibo, Doma, Akaza, Hantengu, Gyokko, Daki, Gyutaro, Kaigaku, Enmu, Rui.

Kemono Jihen:

Kabane Kusaka, Akira, Shiki Tademaru, Kon, Inugami Kohachi, Mihai, Nobimaru, Yui, Kumi, Aya Tademaru, Momiji, Raiden, Inari, Hishiki Yoichi

Beastars:

Legoshi, Haru, Louis, Juno, Jack, Gohin, Ibuki, Bill, Riz, Pina, Dom, Kai, Collot, Durham, Miguno, Voss, Sagwan, Tao, Free, Kibi, Agata, Seven, Sheila, Rokume, Melon, Yahya, Gouhin.

Avatar - Atla:

Aang, Katara, Sokka, Toph Beifong, Zuko, Azula, Iroh, Ozai, Ursa, Ty Lee, Mai, Kuei, Long Feng, Jet, Hakoda, Kya, Pakku, Bumi, Jeong Jeong, Zhao, Piandao, Hama, Roku, Kyoshi, Kuruk, Yangchen.

avatar - the way of water:

Jake Sully, Neytiri, Neteyam Sully, Lo’ak Sully, Kiri Sully, Tuk Sully, Tsu’tey, Mo’at, Eytukan, Ronal, Tonowari, Tsireya, Aonung, Rotxo, Miles(spider)

squid game:

(i lowkey only remember gi-hun, Thanos and Nam-gyu. but ill do all if u also say the number)

- this acc is on my pc, and i dont check tumbler that often due to school etc, but ill get to your request some day!

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navstuffs · 1 year ago

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The Deal

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x GN!Reader

Summary: “I will do anything to save Arthur Morgan’s life. Even your soul? Even my soul. Anything.” / A Weird West story where you would do anything to save Arthur Morgan’s life, no matter the consequences.

Warning Tags: Weird West trope (wild west + horror/fantasy/science fiction), +14, angst

Author's Notes: hi and welcome to my first fic for my halloween event! i have had this prepared since august and am so excited to be sharing it finally! really nervous excited to be using the weird west trope. there is also this artwork i saw after i finished writing and it screamed THE DEAL. enjoy your reading!!!

my halloween's masterlist

"Be careful what you wish for, you may receive it." (The Monkey's Paw - W.W. Jacobs)

When Mr. Strauss asked you to help Arthur, you promptly said yes. Arthur always had so much on his plate, taking care of everyone and everything, so you would take any weight from his shoulder if you could. Arthur didn't like that at first, you alone going to collect debts, but you had proved yourself over and over again. You understood him, though; this life as outlaws wasn't easy, and any of you could lose your life every time you went out. It was nice to have someone caring for you after all those years, to have Arthur be protective over you since you two started going out.

So, of course, when Mr. Strauss asked for help collecting a few debts in a morning while Arthur was away, you promptly accepted. He explained it should be easy, nothing someone with your type of experience couldn't handle. A window called Jane Huxley, a frail banker named Joseph Willis, and lastly, an old man called Bernard Miller. None of them would present much of a fight if the situation arose, despite Mr. Strauss's warnings for you to be careful. Their debts were small but still needed for the camp. You had a vague suspicion Mr. Strauss didn’t want to endanger you, primarily due to Arthur’s anger.

It is late when you arrive at Bernard Miller's house, late enough for the moon to be up in the sky. You should have been there way earlier, but Mrs. Huxley had an outraged brother you had to defend yourself from, and who would have thought a frail banker could run that fast? You dismount your horse, your eyes scanning the situation ahead: a single cabin in the deep woods. Nothing is out of the ordinary, so you hope your last one will be easy.

It is a warm and humid night, and you can feel sweat on your neck. There were no houses along the way to Bernard Miller's cabin. You don't remember when you heard a single noise. It has been a while since you were deep in the woods like this. Your horse seems agitated, and you pet him, promising tons of sugar cubes after this.

The cabin in front of you is old and probably only has one room. As you walk closer, you notice candles lit from the windows so the old man could still be awake. You wonder how he lives in such an eerie place and all alone. There is no presence of a stable or any livestock. Maybe he has friends that visit him? As per Mr. Strauss's statement, Mr. Miller could barely stand. It is none of your business at the end of the day; your job is to get the money back and get the hell out of there.

You enter the house without announcing yourself, not surprised by how rustic it looks inside. It looks uninhabitable, with a couple of holes in the ceiling. There is a bed, a table, a nightstand, an old cupboard, and a chair. Sitting in the chair, probably the oldest human being you have ever seen. Older than Hosea and Uncle together, with wrinkles all over his body. When you enter, Mr. Miller eats soup under the candles and barely lifts his eyes to look at you. A big, white, messy beard, long white hair, and dark eyes are the only things you notice.

“Mr. Miller, I have come to collect the money you borrowed from Mr. Strauss.”

Mr. Miller stops mid-air with his spoon and looks straight at you. Immediately, every single strand of your hair raises from your arms. As a gunslinger, your survival instincts had to be high if you wanted to live to tell a story the next day. You learned very early to read dangerous situations and escape them as quickly as possible. Or fight, which was always your last option. That’s how people survived. But never freeze. The situation you are in right now gave you none of those options. You couldn’t run. You couldn’t fight. You are stuck in Bernard Miller’s enigmatic stare, unable to move. You bite your lips enough to almost draw blood, a resource you learned at a young age to wake up, but you still can’t move. As if the world is frozen all around you.

Bernard Miller gives you a small smile, and the world starts spinning again. Your heart beats to remind your lungs need air. You give one deep breath, and Mr. Miller returns his attention to his soup.

“I won’t ask again. Where is the money you got from Mr. Strauss?” You are surprised your voice isn’t shaking, but your legs are. Your hand is over your revolver to give you a certain sense of safety.

Mr. Miller continues eating, and you start roaming around his house. Your first instinct is to look into the old cupboard that the old man uses as a kitchen: nothing except for a few cans of old food. You don’t even think of taking those, walking towards the nightstand. When you pass Mr. Miller, you catch the soup he eats is grey with pieces that look like fish. He doesn’t flinch or complain when you roam through his bed, finally stopping by his nightstand. You find the exact amount of dollars you need in very clean notes when you open the drawer. Your hand stops mid-air as you approach to get the money. Why are those notes so clean compared to the rest of the house? You aren’t one to believe in curses; you believe a single bullet could end a man’s life, and that was it. No ghosts or devils existed in a world where humans could be so bad. The spoon hits the plate, waking you from your entrance. With one final decision, you get the money, relieved you are finally done with this place.

When you walk towards the door, a shallow voice mutters.

“He's goin' to die, you know?”

You stop in your tracks.

“What did you say?” You answer back, your voice is so low you would be surprised the old man heard it.

“The one you love. He's goin' to die.”

The hand grabs your pistol again as you turn in your heels to stare at Bernard Miller. He is standing, his eyes straight towards you.

“We're all goin' to die. We're humans.” You don’t even know why you are still there: you got precisely what you needed. But something, an invisible magnetic force, kept you there. One that you can’t fight or run.

Because Bernard better not be speaking about Arthur. The old man's yellow smile just gets bigger, as if listening to your thoughts.

“He's goin' to get very sick, and you won't be able to do anything about it, except watch powerless as life slowly drains from him. There is nothin' you'll be able to do unless one thing: you'll come to find me.”

“Old man, I don’t know what in the hell you speak of, but if you don't shut—”

“You'll come to find me.” Bernard finishes, decisive.

“Go to hell.” You whisper before leaving through the door.

It is good to feel the night air in your lungs. It makes you focus properly: you want to look back to the rustic cabin as you dash to your horse, but you don’t. Something says you wouldn’t like what you see. You ride away from Bernard Miller’s home, swearing yourself to never come back.

Your horse seems to share your fears, and you arrive at the camp in record time. The words of Miller stuck in your head as a chant.

“You'll come to find me.”

“The one you love is goin' to die.”

It had to be a way for him to scare you not to take his money. It had to. Javier is on watch and waves when he sees you passing.

When you arrive at camp and give your horse those promised pets and tons of sugar cubes, you calm yourself a little. You are back in your safe place, surrounded by the voices of the people around you. Maybe you need a drink. Or two. Slowly, the sense of normality floods your body. Sean, with Karen on his lap and Uncle singing together drunk around the campfire, makes you smile. You stop by the camp’s box, placing the money there, and a hand on your shoulder makes you jump. It is Mr. Strauss, with a satisfied expression.

“How was everything?"

"All good. Got everyone. Mr. Miller tried to scare me a little at the end, but I also got his money."

"Who?"

"The old guy? Bernard Miller? Creepy and ancient?"

Mr. Strauss looks at his record book, a slightly confused expression. You move your weight from one leg to another as Mr. Strauss flips through his book. When he is done, Mr. Strauss raises his eyes, simply stating.

“Well, at least it is done.”

He leaves without saying another word as you stand, uncomfortable. Why, for a second, it seemed Mr. Strauss didn't even remember Bernard Miller? You turn your face toward Sean’s group and notice Arthur sitting there, observing you. You smile, forgetting about Bernard Miller for a moment. His beard and hair are a little longer than the last time you saw him, almost two weeks ago. You want nothing else to run toward his embrace, but you and Arthur try to keep your relationship more private. Arthur looks tired, and you nod slightly toward your shared tent. Should you tell Arthur? He certainly is like you: he doesn’t believe much in those supernatural things.

It doesn’t take long for him to join you in the tent. As Arthur walks in, and you are shielded from the exterior eyes, his arms are on you. You two hold each other in the darkness, not speaking. After your eyes adjust, Arthur holds your face to give one good look at you.

“Missed ya.”

You don’t answer, holding him tightly with your arms. You are never letting go of him. He is going to die, you know? A shiver passes your body, and you hide your face into Arthur’s body. That doesn’t go unnoticed by him. Arthur separates gently, rubbing your arms.

“Heard you went to get some money back for Strauss. Did anythin' happen?”

“No.” You don’t want to tell Arthur precisely what happened. He might find you silly. As a gunslinger, you had to believe in real people, real danger, not some made-up ghost or whatever lived in that cabin. And he would be right.

“You sure?” Damn you, Arthur Morgan, who knows you so well that can even sense when you are lying. You nod, giving him a half smile.

“Yes.”

Arthur doesn’t seem entirely satisfied, but he doesn’t push it to which you are thankful. He tells you he doesn’t like when Strauss sends you on debt-collecting missions alone because some people could turn violent. You don’t discuss, simply letting that warm feeling spread in your heart. You liked it when Arthur got protective over you. You warn him you can take care of yourself, and Arthur nods, apprehensive.

“I know. I know you can.” Arthur mutters. He doesn’t have to complete the sentence. I can’t lose you is hanging in the air.

You are both dirty and exhausted, and his beard scratches against your skin when you deeply kiss him. Arthur kisses you a little longer than a typical good night kiss, but when you break away, he offers no resistance.

“I love you. You aren’t losing me, okay? And I am not losing you.” You tell him as a promise to anyone who might be listening.

He's going to die, you know?

You don’t know where you are going. Your horse is riding without a destination, just racing across the fields of green. Arthur just told he is dying. And instead of staying as his supportive partner, you flew. You had enough. Arthur didn’t attempt to make you stay; he watched miserably as you mounted your horse, leaving the camp. A place you should have left a long time ago with Arthur. Away from Dutch’s insanity, from death. Run away and never look back. Run away from all death and despair.

But Arthur is loyal, and you are loyal to him.

The tears flood into your eyes, and you are sobbing, loud. Your horse runs faster, fuelled by your pain. You need to get away from everyone right now. You are furious but mostly more irate with yourself. You still remember Arthur’s expression as he watched you leave: upset but resigned. He doesn’t even expect you to come back. It would be better for you anyway.

Your surroundings change as your horse rides away. As if the wind across your face can take all your pain and anger.

When you finally stop your horse, you repeatedly apologize to him, laying your head against his head. Your horse shakes his head, and you dismount, still apologizing with your fingers shaking.

It gives you a few moments to recognize where you are: right in front of Bernard Miller’s house. It is still old, still standing. As if you just left from collecting that debt long ago. When Arthur wasn’t sick. When everyone was alive and well. When things were still okay.

You'll come to find me.

You should jump in your horse and get away from there. But you don’t.

When he is sick, you'll come and find me.

The voice that has been tormenting you speaks in your head. You forget about your horse and anything around you and slowly walk toward the house.

What would you do for him?

How much are you willing to give for Arthur Morgan’s life?

“Anythin'.” You answer to nothing.

The door opens, and a young man walks out of the cabin. You stop mid-track, your eyes locked with the dark eyes in front of you. It is Bernard Miller. Except he isn’t old anymore. He is still wearing the same old dirty clothes he wore when you first came to collect the money, but he is young. Handsome. Black hair, the same slight smile on his face that bewitched you. Bernard doesn’t seem surprised to see you. No. He smiles as if he had been expecting you this whole time, and how dare you to be so late? He doesn’t speak as you start sobbing quietly.

“He's sick. As you said.” You mumble, pathetic. It couldn’t be Bernard, the only last sane part of your mind tells you: it could be anybody else, his grandson, a stranger, anyone else?? You had to hold onto that last sane thought.

“And what do you require from me?” The way Bernard spoke now. His voice was as if an icy knife cutting against your skin. You inevitably chill, wincing away. You hold yourself together for Arthur.

“You can cure him, can’t you? You shouldn't, it shouldn't be possible, but you can. I know you can.” You murmur, not knowing where that knowledge has come from. Bernard looks satisfied and utterly different from when you saw him, but you simply accept it. He shouldn't look like that, there was no possible explanation for this man to be Bernard Miller. But you accept it anyway; you will take whatever is coming to save Arthur’s life. And something told you this man, whatever he was, could help.

Because you had to be going insane, right?

“I can. There is a price to pay.” Bernard states, and you instantly nod.

He starts closing the distance between you, and your knees give in. In a sign of respect or adoration, you don't know, it doesn't seem to matter anymore. Bernard doesn’t seem surprised as your knees drop onto the floor with your head down. You don’t care; you say it out loud, and he knows it. Bernard opens a big, twisted smile, and you find comfort where you once found fear.

I will do anything to save Arthur Morgan’s life.

Even your soul?

Even my soul. Anything.

As Bernard touches your cheek, you close your eyes. The sensation of comfort just gets more significant in your chest as you disconnect from your body. The last part of you that screams you shouldn’t have done this is shut off. You know now, as inevitable as the sun will rise tomorrow, that Arthur Morgan isn’t dying of that damn disease.

You smile back.

You wake up hours later, extremely confused. You look around, and the cabin of Bernard is still there, but it looks much older than before. As if no one has lived there for years and years. You get up, hungry and thirsty. It must have been some sort of crazy nightmare, you think.

You ride back to the camp, trying to remember the events from last night. Arthur told you he was sick, and you left angry and furious instead of facing or even comforting him. By the time you arrive at the camp, he has left again. No one is looking at you differently, which you find weirdly comforting.

A few days pass until you see Arthur again, and he looks…better? His face isn’t as pale anymore, and he has some blush on his cheek. As if life is coming back to him.

“How are you feeling?” You wonder as he stops by your side.

“Fine? I almost haven't coughed the way here.”

You nod, happy. Maybe Arthur was getting better. What did those doctors know anyway? There is no one strong as your Arthur Morgan, and he would live many and many years.

The gang is over. After killing Micah, Arthur finds you where you two had agreed to meet. A start of a new life, as he said. Away from crime, away from that horrible life. Just you and him, a few horses, some livestock. A simple lifestyle. Arthur didn’t need much, you didn't need much. You had each other. You had forgotten entirely about Bernard Miller, happy to share a life you always wanted with the man you deeply loved.

But a deal is a deal. And when time is up, time is up: you have to pay the price.

You watch as Arthur leaves to get eggs from the chicken. He gives you a kiss and leaves whistling. He looks so relaxed and happy. It warms your heart to be the one to share that with him. After years of hard work, he deserves it. You both do.

When he doesn’t return after awhile, you look for him. It is a hot day, and Arthur might need a cup of water and a few kisses. You find him fallen behind the stable, his horse close to him. Unconscious. You run towards him, the cup of water forgotten on the floor, and roll him over. He doesn’t seem to be breathing. You remember a new technique to compress the chest that you read in a book that Arthur brought you from the library a couple of weeks ago, and you start compressing his chest and blowing air on his mouth.

“Come on, Arthur, come on.”

Hours pass, and Arthur doesn’t move an inch. You drop to his side, exhausted, looking everywhere for someone. Anything to save him. You close your eyes, praying for anything to save him.

When you open your eyes, you are in front of young Bernard Miller again. Your clothes are different, and you are younger again. You are on your knees in front of Bernard Miller, just as in the day you discovered Arthur was going to die and, and...

No, it isn't possible.

You blink, confused, as Bernard Miller smiles as if he has seen this scene multiple times and still loves it every time he witnesses it.

“Even your soul?” Bernard asks, his eyes glowing in the darkness. Whatever is left of you is gone by now, but you can’t wait to live with Arthur again. And again. No matter the price, no matter the outcome, no matter the ending.

Anything for Arthur Morgan’s life. To live by his side all over again.

“Even my soul. Anything."

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