#john would never know about arthurs deer visions

[arthursfuckinghat]

"Saw a deer today, it stopped right in front of me.

Maybe it was a trick of the light or the way it moved,

But for a moment, I swear it was you.

I won't say I miss you, I've said that too many times,

But you're still my brother.

My brother under the same endless sky."

[saveahorse-ride-a-cowboy]

Arthur Morgan never knew quite what to think about saviors like Jesus Christ or whatever other people chose to believe in. Like… sure, maybe somethin’ was out there, but given his life choices… he wasn’t too sure he’d make it there, at the end of his life.

The end of his life, which he’s now witnessing with total blindness, thanks to the sunset. He never knew quite what to think about saviors, but somethin’ about dyin’ in total, pitch blackness, scared the living hell out of him. So as the last sliver of the sunset obscures his fading vision, and his shallow breaths quicken at the fear of the reaper reaching out his hand for Arthur’s soul, he finds… a bit of comfort in fading into the light. Hell, maybe the reaper’s afraid of light. Who knows.

Arthur’s eyes finally fall shut, followed by several long minutes of… absolute nothingness. No angels or demons or reaper, but- the sounds of deer? Quiet deer grunts? Maybe a moose in the distance?

His brows furrow and he slowly opens his eyes, staring up at a beautiful blue sky and large, puffy white clouds. A small turn of his head reveals mountains just like he remembers.

It’s like… he never died.

Did he?

His lungs feel fine. His breathing is deep. What the hell happened to him?

Arthur sits up and then stumbles to his feet, slowly turning in a circle to soak up his surroundings.

A large, very fancy house sits in the distance, just up the hill from where he’s laying. He blinks at its vastness and the details of the home, noting how sickeningly rich these people must have to be. Dutch would like this house. Where is Dutch? More importantly where is he?

He scoops up his hat and places it back on his head before slowly walking toward the home, turning to watch a few horses gallop by. God damn, they’re pretty.

Where’s his horse? Where’s John?!

“H-Hello?” He calls as he approaches the home, carefully making his way up the front steps. “‘Scuse me? ‘S anybody here?”

Surely these people have guards- who wouldn’t try to rob this place?!

I look up from my book, furrowing my eyebrows. Who the hell came out this way? Maybe they need a horse.

I get up and move to open the door, “hello?”

[concussed-to-pieces]

Whether It Works Out Or Not: Summer’s Warmth, Part One

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Pairing: High Honor!Arthur Morgan/Named OFC

Rating: Holy shit T.

AN: Thank you all so much for continuing to read! Enjoy!

EDIT 4/18/21: Attempting to fix the formatting now, forgive me! It shows up fine before posting, but I believe I have it squared away! ;-;

[Spoiler warning for the epilogue!]

Tag List: @huliabitch​​​ @cookiethewriter​​​ @pedrosbigdorkenergy​​​ @thirstworldproblemss​​​ @anonymouscosmos​​​ @culturalrebel​​​ @karmezii​​​ @teaofpeach​​​ @crookedmoonsaultpunk​​​ @wrestlingfae​​​ @zombiexbody​​​ @nelba​​​ @scribblenotes76​​​ @toxiicpop​​​ @mstgsmy​​​ @misty-possum​​​ @gallowsjoker​​​ @midnightbeauty35​​​ @lackofhonor​​​ @renegademustelid​​​ @missfronkensteen​​ @newplanetshine​

Part One: Strangers

Part Two: Friends

Part Three: More

Bonus One: A Brief Diversion

Bonus Two: Back In The Cage

Winter’s Cold, Part One

Winter’s Cold, Part Two

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains emotional distress, vivid recollections and self-loathing. Stay safe!]

Arthur dreamed of the vigil he had stood beside Kieran's grave, Chase's large head resting on his shoulder. Bitter, sorrowful words had twisted up in his throat until he just shoved his face into the horse's mane so he could unleash a body-rattling sob. He had left a handful of bulrushes crisscrossed over the grave. Kieran had always plied the horses with whatever treats he could scrounge up, mushrooms or bulrushes or the rare luxury of sugar cubes. 

Kieran O'Driscoll, Kieran Van Der Linde, but in the end he had died Kieran Duffy. Just one more hideous taunt sent to the Van Der Linde camp from the O'Driscolls, one more life lost in the feud of two proud men who had wronged each other. 

Arthur dreamed of the nightmare of Guarma, the way his body was wracked with feverish chills on that godforsaken island, blistering sun beating down on him and he had just forced himself onwards, ignoring it. 

Micah mocking him, Dutch's merciless slaughter of that elderly woman.

Stumbling across Hosea and Lenny's graves on his long, slow trek back to Shady Belle from Van Horn and it just hitting him like a bullet to the gut that they were gone, truly gone. Like Kieran, like Sean.

When he and Charles had found that young woman in the Murfree hellhole, Arthur had sworn for several long, panic-stricken seconds that it had been Irene. The fear he had felt, the agony, he had nearly been sick with guilty relief when she stepped into the light and her eyes were blue. The enforcer would never say how dangerously close he had come to pitching himself at her feet and begging her forgiveness for being grateful that she wasn't who he had thought she was. 

And the girl's mother in Annesburg trying to pay him, like he had done something incredible. Like he wasn't a monster himself, jaded with loss and becoming more and more certain that Dutch was hellbent on reaching their collective doom. Tahiti and mangoes had never sounded so unappealing.

Molly, struck down with no mercy, 'she knew the rules', they all knew the damn rules.

Collapsing out of the blue in the streets of Saint Denis on his way to meet up with Sadie so they could rescue that fool Marston, coming back around with a kindly stranger directing him to the doctor, the sterile reek that permeated the office as the learned man dropped the bad news on him with all the grace of a boulder on his chest.

Tuberculosis, and the noose that had been around his neck since Blackwater finally snapped taut to strangle him. 

His slow, shambling walk down the street as whatever that doctor had given him to take the edge off made him hallucinate that the damned deer was back, the majestic creature sauntering through the crossroads in front of him like some kind of divine herald.

Or hellish omen.

After that was just the long, torturous slog as Dutch did his best to drag them all down into the fiery abyss with him.

Strauss, Strauss, preying on fools, on desperate men with pregnant wives, on folk he knew damn well couldn't pay him back! When Arthur had finally had enough of being the bastard's lackey he roared at the man to get the hell out!, every ounce the commanding king of legend that Sean had mockingly likened him to.

Hearts are so rarely pure. But then again, they are also rarely impure, that sister had said. Her wise words had given Arthur pause, the man speechless beside her on the bench. He wasn't used to such ambiguity from religious folk. Normally it was either saccharine-sweet pandering about how he could still be saved, or self-righteous wrath as he was told that his perdition would last eternity for every rotten thing he had done.

Rightly so, too! He was a terrible man.

The imagery of the deer kept haunting him. Arthur didn't understand it, he couldn't manage to wrap his head around why he kept dreaming about the deer. The deer or Irene, her violin music lilting fae-like through the twilight of his consciousness nearly every night as he struggled to stifle his coughing.

Black lung, black lung, Micah mocked and sneered.

When Ms. Grimshaw's end came, it was the final signature on the decree of his damnation. Violence begot violence begot violence and Arthur could scarce imagine how grisly his own demise would be.

Pinkertons flushing them out of the cave like hounds after quail, he and John fleeing--

The sound of Micah's labored breathing, blows landing over and over, the two of them circling one another on the edge of Purgatory itself until Arthur's broken body had finally given out.

In the final act of his life, Dutch had met his eyes and then departed wordlessly with Micah in tow. The sting was a far-off sensation, dulled by inevitability.

I gave you everything I had.

Arthur had thought he was dead; had thought the fight was well and truly kicked out of him. That incorrigible, stubborn spirit of his, the spite and loyalty and grit flickered and faded like a candle in a draft. He barely remembered the sunrise, his last rambling thoughts before consciousness deserted him fixated on the fact that he could feel the deer from his dreams, pacing just outside his field of vision... 

But of course, he couldn't forget the price on his head. He was still worth something to someone, even if he was hovering at Death's door.

…

Irene didn't sleep a wink, tossing and turning until the wee hours of the morning. Finally, when she checked her old pocket watch for the sixth time and saw that it was four o'clock, she gave up. 

Irene got out of bed, got dressed, and went to Anna's room to wake her. "You're coming fishing with Mama, little fawn." She whispered while the child yawned. "You can even go back to sleep on the shore, alright?"

"Mmhm." Clearly still half-asleep, Anna nodded, rubbing her eyes. 

Irene gathered up her fishing gear and her daughter, leaving a note in case she wasn't back by the time Arthur managed to rouse himself. For his sake (and perhaps a bit for her own as well), she hoped he slept in. 

It wasn't until she reached the riverbank that the lunacy of the whole situation really hit her. He was the father of her child, she had nursed him back from the brink of death itself, and yet she feared what the reveal might bring! Hadn't she done enough worrying over the last few months? 

Maybe she was more worried about whether he would stay simply out of believing it was his duty to do so.

If nothing came of it, if he...wanted nothing to do with her now that the two of them had inadvertently brought a new life into the world, it wouldn't change anything in her existence. She would live out her days in peace, far from society. Arthur Morgan would no doubt carry on in the same manner that he always had, though perhaps just a touch more cautiously. 

She didn't let herself think of the alternative. It was best that she not get her hopes up. After all, he had been the one to put their meetings to an end. Knowing what she knew now, further clarified by what Trelawny had mentioned, it seemed as though Morgan was trying to protect her from the grisly fate the rest of their band was barreling towards. She could not fault him for cutting her loose, no doubt he had thought he was doing the best thing for her. 

In a way, it had been. 

Irene hooked several fish as she pondered, reeling the small offerings in absently. Anna was young. Young enough that should Arthur decide to leave, she probably wouldn't even recall him given enough time. So it was Irene's own selfishness that she was hung up on, her own silly feelings and emotions. 

Somewhere along the way, during their free and easy couplings, she had fallen in love. With Arthur Morgan, a man she could readily admit to knowing precious little about. It seemed so foolish now, what had she been thinking?

The woman smiled wistfully as the sun rose.

She hadn't been thinking at all, there was the truth of it. She had enjoyed herself for the first time in her life, consequences be damned. 

Besides, when it all comes down to it, Irene mused as she glanced over at the sleeping form of her child, I would trade a thousand Arthurs for one sweet little Anna.

Anna woke up again around eight, clamoring for her breakfast. The two of them walked hand-in-hand back to Irene's stead, Anna swinging her arms and singing some tuneless ditty only she knew the words to. 

Arthur was awake and upright on their return, the man supporting his weight with the rough-hewn posts of the paddock. Chase looked for all the world like she was listening to him as he muttered to himself, the mare's ears pricked to catch his voice.

Clearly Irene wasn't the only one who had missed him.

Anna bolted forward, crowing in triumph. Normally Chase tended to keep to the far side of the paddock, where it was more shady. "Up, up! Wanna' pet!" The little girl demanded, straining to reach Chase's nose.

Arthur, frail and pale as he was, certainly gave it a good effort. He got the child nearly two inches off the ground before he failed, visibly panicking as he dropped her. Mercifully she didn't seem to notice, the little girl just thinking they were playing a game. 

She was laughing, "again again!", waving her arms and Arthur shot Irene a look so terrified she was barely able to restrain her mirth.

"Annie, how do we ask?" Irene prompted her daughter, then propped her boot up on the lower cross-beam of the fence and patted her thigh. "Come along, up you get!" Anna threw herself over her mother's knee, grappling Irene's skirts before managing to reach Chase's nose from her new vantage point perched on her mother's thigh. 

"Mister Art'ur no lift me?" The little girl queried after a time, giving the tall man a quizzical look. 

"It's gonna' be a while before I'm liftin' much of anythin', Miss Anna." Arthur answered her ruefully. 

"But Mama can lift?" The child continued curiously. 

"Your mama is the strongest person I know. She can lift you, me, that horse, the barn…" Arthur rattled on, listing more and more outlandish things as Anna giggled. "I once saw her lift a whole riverboat with her pinky!" Arthur claimed. "Weren't even breathin' hard neither!"

"Mama can do all that?" Anna asked, those blue eyes wide as she tilted her head back to stare up at Irene. 

"Absolutely!" The woman replied firmly, then smiled. "I'd do even more for you, my little fawn."

"She's a real strong woman, Miss Anna, real strong. You'll be just like her someday." Arthur murmured, his gaze gone melancholy again.

In response, Anna seized Arthur's hand and bunched up her tiny fist to make a 'muscle' in her arm for him to feel. "Strong!" She insisted, her expression fierce. 

"You shoah are, what you need me for around here?" Arthur humored her with a grin. "I'd just get in your way at this point." Irene realized that he wasn't talking to the child anymore, for all that his eyes were on Anna. 

"We are more than happy to have you, isn't that right Annie?" The woman stated, making Arthur glance up at her. The raw look in his gaze caught her off-guard.

"Mmhm," Anna agreed with a decisive nod. "Make you better!"

"S'pose if I had to pick a place to convalesce, I couldn't find a nicer sanatorium even out east." 

…

Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph. 

Was this little baby girl his? Did he even deserve that sort of joy? She was two already, he had missed her first steps, her first words…God, it always seemed like he was too late. From his first child Isaac with that sweet girl Eliza, to Mary, and now this.

He and Irene sat on the porch of her little cabin, the woman having made a delicious fish fry for breakfast. It smelled amazing, but Arthur's stomach was too knotted to eat. He fumbled with his fork a few times, casting about for an opening to ask Irene the all-important question on his mind.

Anna unwittingly offered him his opportunity, the child scarfing her breakfast and then begging to be permitted to play in the puddles in the yard. Irene nodded after a moment, collecting the child's plate and then instructing her to don her mess trousers.

The little girl tore off to do so and her mother chuckled quietly. "She is such a menace. Always rummaging, stomping, finding new things to squish or examine." Irene remarked. 

Arthur couldn't wait a second longer, abandoning his plate as he turned to look at her. "Irene," he said her name sharply, trying to keep his voice low. "Is that girl my child?"

Irene took her sweet time replying to him, chewing a mouthful of flaky fish. "What happens if I say yes, Arthur?" She asked, her own words soft. 

"I...I want you to know that I did my damnedest to not--I mean, when we...hell, I didn't want you pinned down like that bastard Carson wanted." Arthur swore grimly. "I didn't want to saddle you with somethin' you ain't asked for, Irene."

"Will you leave? If she's yours?" Irene was picking at her food now, refusing to look at him. Anna carried on stomping in the puddles across the yard, her giggles punctuating the silence.  

Arthur inhaled to respond and accidentally sent himself into a coughing fit, hacking and snorting in the least glamorous way possible. "It ain't fair that you've had to put up with me for so long, with the...shadow of me, even. I'm barely a fraction of the feller I once was. Can't even lift the little one," he mumbled after he managed to get the spasm under control. "But...but even if she ain't mine, even if you've been uh, knowin' other men, it doesn't matter to me, okay? I got no business commentin' on your personal affairs." 

Arthur felt like he would burst into flames from how hard he was flushing; he usually wasn't this nervous when it came to speaking what was on his mind. 

"Feels like I've gotten a second wind here, and I just...I never stopped thinkin' about you," he confessed. "Dreamin' that I would come out the other side of this and that I'd still have a damn chance to see you again."

Irene was merely listening to him ramble, her face neutral. Meanwhile, Arthur was floundering. He had no idea what the right answer might be. Did she want to be left alone? Should he entirely abandon these thoughts, these selfish wishes of his?

"I spent most of my younger years tryin' to put on a respectable front so a specific woman and her family would deem me worthy." He vaguely recalled being strung out on drink in Valentine, crying against Irene's stomach as she stroked the back of his head to soothe him. "It was never enough, and I thought that was it. That was the end for any of those dreams I had. Then I...I met you." Arthur took her hand, rubbing his thumb over the pulse that beat in her wrist. "As much as it killed me, I had to...I didn't want you to be trapped in my mess. I felt--I-I mean, I..." 

I love you, I love you, say it, you cowardly fool!

"If I do this, if I let you stay...you can't go gallivanting off into the wilds, understand?" The woman informed him sternly, her back ramrod straight. "I will not have my daughter getting attached to a man who cannot be there for her, Arthur."

His heart twisted uncertainly in his chest and Arthur hesitated, teetering on the precipice. "She is mine, isn't she?" He finally asked, his voice faltering. At her hesitant nod, the man's throat closed up. "Jesus." Arthur rasped, trying and failing to blink the tears away before they could fall. "A daughter. A li'l baby girl. I never thought I'd...Christ almighty Irene, I n-never--" 

And in an incredibly masculine display of self control, he dissolved into hiccupping sobs.

…

Irene had tried to steel herself for his reaction, fearing the worst. This however, was...manageable. 

"Hush, Arthur." She chided him, feeling her own lower lip quiver. He caught her up in an embrace, his once-powerful frame fragile and trembling with every gasp for air. His fingers clutched at her sides and he buried his face in her shoulder, his hat tumbling to the ground. "Arthur, it's alright." Irene's arms slipped beneath his own and she tentatively hugged him back, just letting him weep and sniffle into her neck. "There's no need to cry."

He stifled a cough in the crook of his elbow, pulling away after several moments. "'Course, a'course. M' fine." He choked out, mopping at his face with his bandanna.

"Art'ur, Mama!" Anna called from the paddock, her tiny hands cupped together around...something. "Art'ur see!" She stumbled to the steps, where she opened her hands just the tiniest bit. 

A wee toad sat in her palm, the creature looking a bit put-out over their current situation. 

"Caught yerself a prince there, Miss Annie?" Arthur asked, rattled by another coughing fit when she stuck her tongue out at him.

"Nuh Art'ur, a toad. Not a frog." Anna corrected, giving him a fierce scowl. "No kisses for toads."

"Little miss," Irene interjected sharply, raising an eyebrow. "Mind your manners. I know you're not that rude."

"B-But...is a toad!" Anna protested, waving the aforementioned critter around.

"I know that, Annie, but you need to be polite when you talk to folks. Now, what do we say?"

"M'sorry, Art'ur." Anna mumbled, depositing the shaken toad into her mother's waiting hands and then scuffing her boot on the ground.

"Oh don't worry about it, li'l Miss Annie. No harm done. You were right, after all." Arthur assured her with a tight smile, his eyes clouded with emotion. "Guess I got a lot to learn about that sort of thing, I ain't much in the habit of readin' fairytales." 

Irene seized the moment of distraction to usher the toad into the shelter of the shade beneath the steps. Then, she brushed her hands off on her apron and got to her feet. "Well Anna, you know what day it is. Come along, little fawn." To Arthur, she continued, "it's Monday, which is also wash day. Be a dear and strip your bed, would you?"

…

Arthur hated that he was absolutely drenched in sweat over something so mundane! He recalled enviously the sheer amount of times he would trek back and forth across whatever camp they had set up, lugging sacks of maize or a fresh kill over one shoulder with the greatest of ease. 

He had nearly been bested by sheets and bedding, of all things. This boded poorly. 

He laid on his back for several long minutes after he had managed to finish remaking the tick up in the hayloft, doing his best to catch his breath again. He knew he should be grateful for surviving the consumption in the first place, but there was a nagging fear in the back of his mind that threatened to fester.

What if this was as good as he got? What if he never really...recovered? His clothes fairly hung off of him; his entire body had become so frail. He was winded from making his blasted pallet! He would be a dependent, a sponge on Irene, a leech. 

That thought had him cringing, and he forced himself to sit back up. Everything ached. He had pushed himself too hard, that was all. Arthur knew in a logical sense that he couldn't just...expect to leap out of bed ready to wrestle a grizzly so soon after a five-month stint of nothing. It just pricked at his pride.

"Arthur?" Irene's head appeared at the top of the ladder, the woman giving him a quizzical look as she took in his rumpled state. "Would you like to bathe? Water's still hot."

Bathe. Lord, a bath sounded heavenly right about now. His sore muscles practically screamed for it. "Depends on how much I'd have to pay to get you as my bath girl." He replied without hesitation.

"I'm a luxury, Mister Morgan." That would have driven a knife into his belly, had she not punctuated it with a saucy wink. "I'm afraid you'll have to do a bit extra to earn a helping hand in your washtub."

Arthur grinned ruefully, shaking his head. "Forgive me ma'am, my mouth ran away from me."

"Oh I'm certain!" Irene laughed, reaching up to swat his knee. "Come along now, before the water cools."

Stripping down in the privacy of her bedroom was...interesting. Arthur studiously avoided looking at the mirror she had as he shed his clothing, folding everything and leaving it by the door like she had asked. The woman already had clean clothes waiting for him on the chair beside the tub. He wouldn't get better service in a Saint Denis hotel!

Lowering his body down into the still-warm water was absolutely heavenly, for all that he nearly scalded himself. Irene must have topped off the tub before he came in, bless her for it. 

A lump of soap sat primly atop a wash rag on the mat next to the tub, and Arthur knew he ought to get started before the water grew too tepid to be comfortable. But there was no harm in taking a moment or two to relax, right?

He lolled his head back against the lip of the tub, his eyes wandering lazily to the mirror beside the door. It was safe to look at now, as it was tilted in such a way that he wouldn't see himself. The last rays of the day's sunlight reflected off the looking glass, the beams warming the rough-hewn floorboards from their usual pale gold to a rich, honeyed brown. 

Arthur wondered idly if Irene had built this place by herself. He didn't doubt it; she was a resourceful woman. 

There was still the question of how she had managed to get ahold of him. Oh certainly, she had mentioned Josiah. But there had been an omission of further details involving his rescue that he found odd. He would have to ask her after he was done with his wash. Maybe over supper.

He groaned, straightening his back and scooping up the soap. He'd best get to scrubbing if he wanted to be presentable for the mealtime.

…

"Arthur?" Irene knocked on the door to her room, a touch worried when she received no answer. "Arthur, it's nearly time for dinner." Still nothing. She took a gamble and turned the handle, easing the door open a hair. 

Arthur appeared to have fallen asleep in the tub, and Irene barely managed to stifle her chuckle. She closed the door behind her gently, tiptoeing to the side of the tub.

He didn't look so worn when he was sleeping, she decided. The furrows smoothed from his brow and the lines around his eyes eased a bit, his mind temporarily free of the burdens that plagued him during his waking hours. Irene settled onto the floor beside the tub, stroking her fingers through his damp hair. "Arthur," she called softly. 

He hummed low in his chest, those blue eyes blinking open as she continued to comb through his thick locks. "Well, ain't you a sight for sore eyes." The man drawled, a lazy grin on his face. "Prettiest bath gal I've ever seen." Arthur slotted his fingers through her own, pressing a kiss to her raw-washed knuckles. "These poor hands of yours...Irene, you'll work yourself to the bone." He chided. "Once I get back up to full strength, I promise you'll want for nothin'." 

Nothing at all, his gaze continued, the heated stare sending those old but oh so familiar waves of delight through her body.

"Arthur…" Irene was at a loss, biting her lower lip and breaking his stare by dropping her eyes to the floor. "We will have to wait and see. Once you're back on your feet." She allowed finally.

"It's a deal, Miss Craft." Arthur swore, his jaw set in a determined line. 

Once you're truly well again, I doubt I'll be able to hold on to you, Irene thought sadly as she rose to stand once more. "Supper is nearly ready. Don't take too long, otherwise Annie will polish off your helping!" She teased, her heart not really in it.

Arthur cocked his head, appearing like he was about to question her further, so Irene seized the moment to slip back through the door and close it behind her.

She leaned back against the door, staring up at the ceiling while exhaling hard. Her throat felt suspiciously tight and Irene shook her head at herself, annoyed. I'll be alright. Annie and I have been fine, and we can carry on just fine even without Arthur.

If only she believed it!

Summer’s Warmth, Part Two

[illuminated-cowboy]

Stag Serenade

Chapter 1:Take Me Home

Dying is not hard. It never has been, it never will be.

The pain comes before, the anguish of your loved ones, the fear of what lies afterwards. But death, in reality, is as simple as sleeping.

Arthur knew this as he laid down to die. He drew every breath like it was his last, awaiting the inevitable darkness as the sun rose before his eyes.

He had almost believed those tales of your life flashing before your eyes as you pass away. How could anyone know if it was true anyways? Not like anyone had lived to tell the tale.

To live after death, it sounded morbid. But Arthur knew he would live on, in the hearts of those he left behind, through John, through Jack, through Abigail.

He had many regrets, and yet, none of them mattered now.

His eyes closed one final time, his breath growing shallow, his heart slowing down as he prepared to succumb to his illness and his injuries. A comorbidity, he knew he would have kicked that rat’s ass if he wasn’t sick. It would be Micah dying on this mountain had he been a better man sooner, had he thrown Strauss out of camp the moment he found out that he had been lending money to people with no possible way of paying back in a timely manner.

None of that really mattered now, none of it would ever matter again. Arthur righted his wrongs, as much as he could. Perhaps in some cases he only coated ruined lives in a sheet of gold, he hoped at least Mrs. Downes was doing better, despite all the pain and tragedy he had been responsible for.

Arthur’s three final heartbeats rang loud in his ear, the last of his oxygen rich blood pumped through his bloodied face, his ears cold yet burning, a final thump in his chest.

“Hi there.”

With the energy he had felt in his youth, Arthur shot up, bloodshot eyes cleared of redness. The startle seemed to kickstart his heart, he turned around, almost aggravated at the interruption to his rather peaceful death.

“What the hell?”

A man in a top hat and a mustache, striking a similar resemblance to Trelawny, suddenly obscured his vision.

“Goodmorning Arthur,” he spoke with a gentle yet authoritative tone, “lovely day, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” Arthur felt a cough coming on, but before he could react, the feeling had faded, “who the hell are you?”

“Who I am is really not important, Arthur. Who you are, that’s important.”

“Nice to know. Can you go away now,” Arthur readjusted and prepared to lay back on the rock, accepting his death once more, “I kind of have some dying to do.”

“Is that so? Is that what you want?”

“No, but I don’t really have a choice.”

The man smiled, “Do you?”

Arthur sighed and slowly rose again, “Yes, I in fact do, tuberculosis if you must be so inclined.”

“Yes of course, from Mr. Downes.”

Arthur shook his head in frustration, “Who the hell sent you? Did Micah tell you to come up here? Finish me off? I got money in my pocket, whatever you want, just take it. Kill me if you want. Just leave me the fuck alone.”

The man shook his head and took a couple steps towards Arthur before squatting down and reaching for Arthur’s pocket. His icy blue eyes looked at the strange man’s hand in confusion, as when he reached for the lone dollar hanging from his pocket, the dying man realized her couldn’t feel a thing.

“Who the hell are you?” He said with a furrowed brow. The man stood upright again and waved the dollar in the shine of the sunrise, turning the crumbled bill into a fresh crisp one with a simple flick of his wrist.

“Consider me an old friend, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur sighed, catching on softly but refusing to believe it. He turned around to look at the rock he had been lying on, only to see his mangled body left behind.

To say his concern was vivid would be an understatement, Arthur jumped to his feet, his nonexistent heart beating a million times a minute.

“That’s just residual, it will fade. Your consciousness is used to feeling, well, human. In your next life you’ll have a bit of a different biology. Best get used to forest life, of course.”

Arthur shook his head, denying the reality of his current predicament, “No no, this is just one of them death bed visions, something or other. You ain’t real, I know you ain’t real.”

The man laughed through his nose, a smile gracing his face as his features said “pity.” “That wouldn’t be the first time you’ve said that, Arthur Morgan.”

“Look, maybe you’re a ghost, or an angel or the devil or whatever. If you don’t wanna tell me then it’s your secret to keep. Let’s get to the point, why are you here?”

“I wanted to give you one final choice on your journey, Arthur. That’s what I do, I give choices.”

“Then what’s this choice?”

“Continue living this life, or move onto the next.”

Arthur was sure this was a deathbed vision now. He chuckled and placed his hands on his physically faded hips, “oh boy, so stay on this road or pick a new one, huh? What a choice. What? I get to be a deer? A Bear? Shit in the woods and get shot at all day?” He chuckled again and looked to the sky, “Don’t sound so different from the last life, do it?”

“If you’d really like to know, you’d be a stag, yes. Your life after that would depend upon the way you lived then, and so on and so forth.”

Arthur raised his arms, “so what was I before then?”

The man tapped his chin, “I believe you were a Shire horse, mister Morgan. Your name was Klaus, and you were shot when your owner was robbed.”

Arthur nodded, “sounds about right.”

“I want to make it clear, usually I’ve finished by now and my client will have been in the next life. I share a bit more with those who seem scared-”

“Scared? I ain’t fucking scared, I welcomed death with open arms until your smart ass dropped into the picture.”

The man shook his head and continued, “the choice is yours, Mr. Morgan. The only catch is, well, you will never get the chance to be a stag, or anything else ever again, if you choose option one.”

The blue-eyed man crossed his arms and giggled to himself, “so you’re saying I won’t get to shit in the woods?”

The man sighed, “I feel you aren’t taking this seriously, Mr. Morgan.”

“Sure then,” Arthur said condescendingly, still refusing to fully believe anything he had just been told, “if it so indulges you, I will continue on living as the man I am, and I’ll keep on plundering and raping and making others miserable just as I always have been.”

The man smiled, “oh Arthur, we both know you never had it in you to rape anyone.”

“I’m sure a lot of people would prefer I did in comparison to what I ended up doing to them.”

He nodded, “so, it’s settled then, Mr. Morgan. Immortality is officially yours.”

“So be it,” Arthur walked back to his corpse, attempting to kick his own foot before sitting back down on his own lap and contemplating just how much longer it would be until blackness closed in and he could officially consider himself dead, “Now you son of a bitch, why don’t you take your philosophical bullshit and-” just as he turned to tell the man off, he was gone.

Arthur sat in silence for a moment, attempting to process what had just occurred. 100% this was a deathbed vision, he had no doubt about it. But he could see with his own baby blues, the sun was still rising, the sky was still growing brighter, the clouds shone with vibrant purity. There was no great black sheet of darkness, there was no fading light, there was no death in all his sight.

Unless, this is death? To walk the world a paling ghost, to see his friends continue living, to watch them die, to see the world change before his aquatic eyes.

He waited, and waited. He got up and paced a bit, his body freezing to the touch, and yet, not stiff.

Arthur looked up and saw, suddenly, the bright blue sky was now fading in a glorious sunset. An entire day had passed, and still his body laid there, slumped against a rock, and his faded see-through figure appeared to be getting more and more transparent with each passing minute.

Suddenly, he heard a crack coming from around the corner, along with a grunt and heavy breathing. He turned around and saw none other than Charles, lifting himself up onto the mountain, sweat beading on his forehead.

“There you are, my friend.”

���Charles!” Arthur shouted. The man looked around, the sound of a wolf’s glorious howl seemingly drowning out his voice.

“Charles, I’m right here!” Arthur stepped right up to him, it would be impossible for him to not see. Instead of embracing his friend, Charles stooped low next to Arthur’s body, holding his hand and bowing his head in silence.

In that swift moment, with his brave persona broken to pieces, Arthur realized what was happening.

He was dead. His spirit, on the other hand, was still living.

His emotional heart took over for his real one, and with fear and agony, he screamed at the top of his ghostly lungs, “Hey! Come back! I didn’t want this, bring me back! Kill me! Make me a deer, I don’t want this!”

He turned again to see Charles lifting his dead body up upon his shoulders, and slowly returning down the mountain, leaving Arthur’s vision within seconds.

Instead of following behind to see his own grave, Arthur turned painfully to the sky, feeling the need to berate God for this awkward situation he had found himself in.

“Is this punishment, huh? For the shitty way I lived my life? Is this hell?!”

“It’s not hell, Arthur.”

He turned again, almost relieved to see the strange man appear once more.

The man took his hat off and shook his head, “you were supposed to lay back down into your body, Arthur.”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know that, dumbass?”

“I thought it was obvious, but I apparently need to work a bit harder on my hints.”

Arthur nodded, “you think so?”

“You do realize I could have just left you to suffer for eternity, right?”

“Listen, I change my mind, I don’t want this. I don’t want my old tuberculosis body, I don’t want my old life, just make me a deer or whatever and be done with it.”

“You already made your choice Arthur, it’s a choice you can only make once. So, I suggest you go find your body before your only choices become Mr. Cellophane or the Walking Dead.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s a bit for you to chew later on, my friend. Now go find your body, lay down in it, and do not leave until you can move in it again. I can only hold off rigor mortis for so long.” He snapped his fingers and with that, he was gone. Arthur frantically turned around, running in the direction he saw Charles go, deciding in a split second that he’d rather live eternity in a body rather than the alternative, even if he did have to cough every five minutes for all of forever.

It was dark now at this point, and despite looking around for any sign of his friend, Charles had made off quickly with his body. He listened for any sound of digging or further grunting, even the whinny of his Appaloosa, but nothing stuck out.

“Fuck this ghost shit.” Arthur muttered under his breath, “Can’t fly, can’t see through shit, can’t walk through anything, can’t tell my friend not to bury my dead body.” He tried to kick a pebble but failed, falling confused as to why some things seemed impassable but others were not.

“I was supposed to die up there and be done with it. Then fucking God, or Jesus, or Satan or whatever, Lucifer comes and curses me,” he looked up at the stars, directing his anger again to whoever may be listening, “I still don’t believe any of this is real, by the way! I know I’m probably drunk in some saloon or some shit, getting’ the crap beat out of me!”

Whether or not he actually believed that, not even he knew.

Awoooooooo

“Get away!”

Arthur heard the faintest scream of his friend, and knew he was in trouble.

He ran down the mountain, feeling like an eagle flying down as he realized he didn’t have to worry about broken bones or getting hurt. A seven-foot jump felt like nothing. If it weren’t for the whole non-existence thing, he might have picked this instead.

He ran in the direction of snarls and shouting. Charles’ horse whinnied and cried out in the night as the sound of a struggle took place. Arthur came across the scene, a massive grey wolf had his arm in it’s mouth, and Charles was backing away, holding a gun and aiming for its head, not even noticing the two wolves coming behind him.

“Goddamnit Charles, just leave my body, save yourself!” He ran closer, realizing he couldn’t do anything to stop the attack, but knowing he had to try.

There was a saying that animals saw spirits, Arthur was in fact a spirit at this point, the next part of that theory was hoping it was true, and if it was, hoping that they cared enough to leave Charles alone.

He sprinted forward, holding out his arms and screaming as loud as he could, hoping to break whatever sound barrier was between this world and his old one.

The wolves perked up their ears, staring at Arthur plain as day, unsure of whether to attack or to respect his stance and leave.

“Get out! Go!”

The one closer to him snarled, and Charles shot his gun, injuring the wolf that had Arthur’s arm in it’s mouth.

The wolf ripped at the flesh sharply and took off running, Charles turned to see the two wolves with a mixture of terror and anger in their eyes.

With a strong breeze, a heavenly fog erupted from the ground, coating Arthur in a powder made of light. Charles covered his mouth in fear and surprise, and behind him came a white stag, large and powerful with golden horns and glowing blue eyes.

“Arthur!” Charles called as the spiritual scene took place. Arthur turned to see him after he had called, seeing his eyes weeping as he witnessed the ghost holding out his arms against the wolves, the stag pierced his mighty hoof through the dirt and let out a low rumble, terrifying like an earthquake but sweet as a song. It sent chills down his spine, and the wolves tucked their tails and ran as far as they could away from the ethereal sight.

Within a moment, the image was gone. Arthur’s silhouette faded with a second gust of wind, and the man was alone again.

Charles fell to his feet, unable to believe the sight he had just seen. But it was real, the wolves had seen him too, they saw the massive buck, and they would have killed him had they not.

“Arthur, if you can hear me,” he looked up to the sky, frantically seeking a sign as he wiped a tear from his eye, “thank you.”

Arthur smiled upon his friend, relieved that he could do something to help, but not even knowing just how he did it. He felt as though he had someone to thank as well, he just didn’t know who yet.

“Tell the others that I miss them too, if you can.”

“If I see them, I’ll let them know.” Arthur said, knowing he couldn’t be heard.

Though his valiant act was well-needed, albeit unexpected, he couldn’t stop Charles from digging him a proper grave. And he didn’t want to, he knew it was his way of saying thank you to the spirit who just saved his life.

So, he watched as Charles took his time, paying respect to his body, and finally, lowering him down into the ground. He wondered away and within a few minutes, he returned with a bouquet of beautiful flowers, and laid them down on the large hump of dirt.

Arthur sighed, trying not to shed a tear at the site. He never felt as cared for as he did now, after he had already died. If he were still alive, with all his human abilities, perhaps he’d already be crying.

“I will be back to give you a nice marker, I’ll build it myself, I promise.”

“I guess there’s no way of convincing you to dig me up now, is there?”

“Thank you again. You were well loved, even if… well… I loved you. You were my brother.” Charles walked away and back to his horse, galloping off into the night.

Arthur watched him riding away, waving an unseen goodbye, unsure if he could return and explain that he was still alive, once he figured out how to get his body back, that is.

[writer-jamie]

how about arthur confessing his love for you after he learns he doesn’t have long to live 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

Late Night Confessions - Arthur Morgan x Reader

Summary: When Arthur is told he doesn’t have much time left, the first thing he thought about was you. And how he refused to die without telling you how he feels.

Thank you for the request @s-s-s-s-t-a-r-s !! ❤️

Warnings: Game spoilers

Word Count: 1,455

A/N: AHHHH! I’m playing the game and just as this request came through, Arthur was told he had TB. I’m so sad but i’m going to make this last chapter last forever! Also before i wrote this i made sure to research whether or not TB can be transferred via kissing (It can’t) so this willl have some smooches. This broke me to write but it’s fluffy and cute and sad. So get ready!

As Arthur stumbled into that doctors office and slumped down in the chair, he knew the news wasn’t good. The doctors ran a few tests and washed his hands before telling him. Tuberculosis. His world went black and white as the doctor told him that his time was limited. He was going to die, from an illness that he got from someone he probably didn’t remember. Arthur just had one question for him. “Can i be around people? Y’know kiss and stuff?” He asked. “Yes. Just cover your mouth when you cough and you should be fine. Try not to pass it on, we don’t need a Tuberculosis outbreak in Saint Denis.” The doctor smiled at Arthur. But it wasn’t a genuine smile, it was a smile of condolence. A smile that you give to someone on their death bed.

Arthur left the doctors office and slowly stumbled down the street, when he saw you. You were all he cared about, and now he was going to leave you forever. He felt like he should have cried when he was told, but he couldn’t. The outlaw couldn’t cry over something as simple as death, it wasn’t worth it. He knew he was going to die one day; from a shoot out or the law catching up with them, not from an illness that would slowly kill him over the next couple weeks. His vision went grainy as he walked forwards, seeing you walk alongside a deer. You both turned to see the man before walking off into the distance, leaving him alone to come back to reality.

“Miss L/N!” Mrs Grimshaw’s loud shouting broke you out of your daydream. You looked up and saw her standing in front of you, looking down at the open journal you were holding in your hands. “You can draw people when you have finished your chores! Get on with them!” She yelled before walking away. You wished the old hag would just shut up. You do jobs with Dutch and Arthur now, you shouldn’t be made to also do chores like the other girls. You wish you would be treated like Sadie, who gets to be a proper man around the camp, but that’s unfortunately the way the cards were dealt. You looked down to your hands and a blush crept up your cheeks. You book was open on the page of Arthur sketches. You liked to sketch people at the campfire so when Arthur decided to join you one night, you couldn’t help but sketch his features. After all, it was only you two, and he would never know.

You moved from your place on your bed and put the journal away before following Tilly to the next chore. “Wish that old hag would get off my back sometimes.” Tilly whispered to you as you finished hanging the clothes to dry. You smiled and bumped her shoulder. “Tell me about it.”

As Arthur rode back into camp, he saw you sitting around the campfire with the group. The group hadn’t been the same since what happened in Saint Denis, with Hosea and Lenny dead and John taken, there was only so much people could do without causing an argument. Beaver Hollow was a nice place, but at this point you were just running from the law all around the country and there was only so far you could run. The Pinkertons found you too easily last time, everyone blamed Bill for bringing them to you but you were sure they were close to finding you anyway, so it didn’t make a difference either way.

You hummed along with Javier as he strummed his guitar. He hadn’t played for months, it just didn’t seem right. You felt a tap on your shoulder and turned around, seeing Karen bring you some food. You shook your head but the woman basically forced it into your lap. You hadn’t eaten properly since what happened in Saint Denis. And then with Molly. She was drunk. She probably didn’t even tell them what happened but Susan shot her. She murdered her. Molly was a snotty bitch and she thought she better than everyone when she started sleeping with Dutch but she’s hadn’t always been like that. When you first joined the gang, Molly was sweet to you. She made sure you were safe and eating well, like a mother figure. When Molly started being sweet on Dutch, she left you behind and Susan took over. That woman had saved you muliple times and you owed her a lot, but she shouldn’t have killed Molly, espcially when she was as drunk as she was. 

Karen sat next to you on the log and smiled as she made sure you ate. It wasn’t much but it was something and it showed that Karen cared. And you were grateful for that. You knew that Karen was having a rough time, looking down a bottle everyday but everyone deals with grief and pain in their own way. When Arthur went missing after Saint Denis, you joined the woman down the end of the bottle and you would ride around town, shooting anyone who wanted to have a fight. You were going off the deep end and you couldn’t stop. Arthur managed to bring you out of that for a days that he was back before he started helping people again.

After you finished your food, Karen gave you a loving hug and rocked you gently. It was something you didn’t think you needed but it was so welcome.

The fire crackled as the night went on. You were alone with just your thoughts for a few minutes before a shadowed figure joined you at the fire. “What’s a lady like you sittin’ here all alone?” You looked up to see Arthur joining you on the log. “Actually i was waiting for you to get back.” You passed Arthur your cup of coffee and looked into his eyes. “Somethin’ botherin’ you, Arthur?” You asked, noticing the skin on his cheeks looking more red as you looked more at him. “Ah it’s nothin’.” He coughed slightly. You furrowed your brow and put your hand on his back.

“Arthur? What’s wrong?” You put your hand on his cheek and held his hand. “I’m sick. Very sick.” He told you and took his hat off, looking into your wide eyes. “Arthur, what kinda sick? Like what’s the matter?” Arthur took a deep breath and looked into your eyes. “I’m afraid I'm going to die. Before i do i need to tell you somethin’.” He put his hands in your lap and looked forward into the fire pit. “Y/N. Ever since you came here, when we found you in that barn. I’ve thought you are beautiful and..” He blushed deeply and looked down, moving slightly in his seat. “Christ, i’m rubbish at this.” He ran a hand over his face and rubbed his eyes. 

“Arthur..” You put your hand on his face and turned his face towards you. “Why are you only tellin’ me this now? When you are goin’ to leave me?” You tilted your head to face him. The sound of the fire was the only sound that was left. Arthur didn’t know what to say, and neither did you. You hoped that nobody would wander out their tent and see this situation. 

“’Cause i couldn’t die without tellin’ you how i feel.” He leaned forward and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “’Cause i love you.” You took a deep breath and looked at him. “Can i kiss you?” Arthur asked and put his hand against your cheek. “Are you allowed to kiss me?” You asked, unsure what the rules were for his illness. “Yea. I would never put you in danger.” You smiled and moved closer towards him before placing a gentle kiss on his lips. He pulled away when he felt water dripping on his face. 

“Y/N. Why you cryin’?” He asked and engulfed your cheeks with his big hands and held you close, rubbing away the tears. “’Cause i’m gonna lose you Arthur. And i don’t wanna lose you.” Arthur moved your hand to his chest. You mumbled as you felt his heartbeat drum against his chest. “You will be in ma heart forever.” You sniffled and leaned forward, placing your head against his chest. “I love ya.” He kissed your forehead and rubbed your shoulders. 

You sat up and placed your lips on his before placing a small kiss on his cheeks. “I love you too, Mr Morgan. Don’t you leave me just yet.” You pulled him into a hug. All he needed was you, and he knew he was going to be fine. 

[lucacangettathisass]

how the light gets in (ch. 6)

SUMMARY: After your home is ransacked by a group of strange men, you and your cousin are taken in by a group of outlaws. And that’s when the trouble really starts.

PAIRINGS: John Marston x Fem!Reader, Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

CHAPTER ONE, CHAPTER TWO, CHAPTER THREE, CHAPTER FOUR, CHAPTER FIVE

TAGGING: @mountainhymn if you would like to be tagged in future tags lmk!

NOTES: oof got a long one here fellers! but also a pretty speedy update by my standards so im very happy! small warning for some suggestive language and micah being a creepy dick. as always feedback and REBLOGS are greatly appreciated! have a good one!

Over the following few days, you remained with the other women, only seeing the men who chose to bring in food. This was usually Mr Matthews, Mr Pearson, and Herr Strauss, although Mr Escuella would occasionally pop in. Herr Strauss in particular seemed to have grown fond of you, as he would linger and speak with you in German. You found him to be an erudite and rather friendly man, and you enjoyed his conversation, and the fact that you seemed to have made a friend.

Shortly after Mr Marston’s return, Mr Morgan and Mr Smith went hunting and returned with two deer, which lifted everyone’s spirits considerably. Even Sadie seemed impressed at the mens’ efforts, which you hoped meant she would actually grow to respect them, and possibly even like them.

About four days after Mr Marston’s rescue, you decided to go check on him, and make sure the stitches were holding up well and nothing had gotten infected.

Sadie, of course, insisted on going with you and wouldn’t take no for an answer, despite the fact that you wouldn’t be that far away.

“I don’t want you out of my sight.” She said as you both trudged through the snow, which had frustratingly gotten thicker following a heavy fall the night before. “I don’t trust any of these degenerates.”

“They’re not degenerates Sadie.” You said. “They’re trying to help us.”

She scoffed.

When you entered the building housing the men, you quickly spotted Herr Strauss in the corner. He had looked up when the door opened and you both exchanged a smile.

“Guten morgen Herr Strauss.” You said politely.

“Guten morgen fraulein.” He looked over your shoulder, where you knew Sadie stood. “Frau Adler. Do you speak German?”

“No.”

Herr Strauss seemed surprised at Sadie’s abrupt and sharp tone, and unsure as to how he should continue the conversation, or if he should continue it at all.

“I’m just here to check on Mr Marston.” You said in an attempt to ease the tension. “I won’t be too much of a bother.”

You approached Mr Marston and saw that Miss Roberts was already at his side, with Jack in her lap. This was hardly a surprise, as Miss Roberts scarcely left Mr Marston’s side since his return, keeping him company and making sure the stitches remained clean as best as she could. It warmed your heart to see such devotion and love.

At some point someone had placed a large bandage over Mr Marston’s right eye, obscuring almost half his face, and making him seem very grim indeed. You felt rather sorry for him.

“How are you today Mr Marston?” You asked, smiling kindly.

“I’m alive, so that’s something.” Mr Marston grunted, his eye looking up and behind you. “You must be Mrs Adler.”

“I am.”

“I’m real sorry about what happened to your husband.” Mr Marston sounded sincere, and you were touched on Sadie’s behalf. “I-Well, I guess it happened to you too.”

It took you a moment to realize that Mr Marston was talking to you. “I-Yes.” You swallowed in an attempt to keep your emotions in check. “But you’ve all been very kind.”

You knelt beside Mr Marston and re-examined his face. Just like last time you kept your touch light, just skimming his skin with the pads of your fingertips, only using force to tilt his head when you needed to, and even then you used as little as possible, so as to not hurt or startle. “So, Mr Marston, have you experienced any irritation? Or seen anything that would perhaps indicate an infection?”

Mr Marston was silent for a few moments, probably in thought. “No.” He said. His voice was a little shaky, which concerned you.

“Is something the matter Mr Marston? You sound odd.”

Mr Marston quickly shook his head. “No, nothin’. It’s uh, it’s just my voice.” He cleared his throat and turned his face away.

Feeling somewhat perplexed, you withdrew your hands from Mr Marston’s face. “Well, you seem to be healing well.” You placed a hand gently on his forearm. “There will be some scarring, but there doesn’t appear to be any other cause for concern.” You gave him an encouraging smile.

He said nothing.

You heard a deep chuckle. “There’s no need for you to be fussin’ over him like that miss.”

You looked over your shoulder and saw Mr Bell, smirking while he lit a cigarette. You offered a smile. “Good day Mr Bell, how have you been?”

Mr Bell snorted. “Cold as sin.” He took a drag of his cigarette and looked you over. He was looking at you the way you had seen collectors look at supposedly valuable items; appraising them from sight alone before deciding if they were worth a closer look. “Bet you could keep me warm though.”

You gave him an apologetic look. “I’m afraid I haven’t fared any better.” You said. “I doubt I would be able to help you.”

Mr Bell’s smirk grew wider, and he chuckled lowly. “I could show you a thing or two if you like.”

“I’m not sure I understand.” You said, genuinely confused as to what Mr Bell was talking about.

“Ignore him.” You saw Mr Escuella standing beside the small fireplace, smoking his own cigarette. He shot Mr Bell a dirty look. “Would it kill you to not be a total jackass to everyone?”

Your eyes moved from Mr Escuella to Mr Bell and back again. You were beginning to feel rather awkward. “How are you feeling Jack?” You asked the young boy, turning to him in an attempt to change the subject and avoid any further tension. “Not too cold?”

“No.” He smiled at you. Over the past few days he appeared to have warmed up to you, which pleased you immensely. You had always loved children, and despite everything, you still dreamed of having some of your own.

“Good.” You smiled. “You let me know if you need anything ok?”

“Ok.”

“You want to sit?” Miss Roberts brought Jack closer to her, and seemed to be rising out of the stool she was sitting on. “I can’t imagine the floor is very comfortable.”

“Oh no no no!” You said quickly. “Really Miss Roberts, there’s no need.” You smiled reassuringly. “It’s like I said to Miss Grimshaw yesterday, I’ve spent a lot of time on my knees.”

To your surprise, Miss Roberts gave you a shocked look. “I-You what?”

You furrowed your brow, standing up. “You know, in church?”

The look of shock on Miss Robert’s face was replaced by one of realization before turning to sheepishness. “Oh! I mean-yeah, ‘course.”

Another chuckle came from behind you, even deeper than the last, and sounding far more amused. “Oh, you really are somethin’ ain’t ya sugar pie.”

You turned, and saw that Mr Bell had moved closer, now only a few feet away. His cigarette was hanging out of his mouth, which was contorted into a smile that wasn’t exactly pleasant. His eyes shone, but not with any emotion or intention you could easily identify. It made the hair on your arms stand up.

It didn’t take long for Sadie to stand in front of you, obscuring your view of Mr Bell. “Back off.” She snarled. “Touch her and you’re fucking dead.”

“Sadie!” You grabbed her arm and tried to pull her back, panicking. While you had grown to know a few of the gang members, Mr Bell was still an unknown variable. None of the other members had said anything about him, so you were flying blind where he was concerned, and you didn’t wish to take any chances. “I’m very sorry about her Mr Bell.” You said hastily, eyes flicking back and forth between the two.

“Don’t apologise to him.” Sadie snapped. She wrenched her arm out of your grip and grabbed your hand. “Come on, we’re gettin’ out of here.”

Before you could react further, Sadie dragged you outside, keeping your hand in a vice like grip.

“Sadie you can’t say things like that to people!” You exclaimed once you were both out in the cold, door slamming shut behind you. “Especially people who help you!”

She snarled and stopped abruptly. “Well you can’t tell people you’re used to being on your knees!”

You frowned. “Why not? Surely they know what I mean?”

“They’ll think you mean-” Sadie stopped and sighed. “Look, just-just forget it.”

Now you were even more confused. “What? They’ll think I mean what?”

“I said forget it!” Sadie snapped.

You winced. “Sorry.” You said softly. You looked down at your feet, cheeks flushing from the cold and embarrassment.

Sadie sighed again, and you felt her wrap her arms around you. “You don’t need to be sorry.” She said softly. “But I am.” She pulled away, holding onto your shoulders, and you looked up at her. She looked tired, haggard, defeated. You had never seen her like that before, and you felt guilty. “You know I worry about you.” She said. “And all of this ain’t helpin’.” She squeezed your shoulders. “But I shouldn’t have gotten angry at you. I’m not angry at you.” The corners of her lips twitched upwards slightly into a smile. “Do you forgive me?”

“Oh Sadie.” You immediately wrapped your arms around her. “Of course I do. I’ll always forgive you.”

You felt her tremble slightly when she hugged you back. Probably the cold.

-

Later, while speaking with the women and re-braiding Sadie’s hair, you all received a visitor.

It was a man you had recalled seeing with the other men, in your peripheral vision. He was older, appearing to be close to Mr Matthew’s age, and dressed entirely in black with a rather large hat. Once he took the hat off, you noted his eye catching red hair, which you were sure was far more bright and vibrant in his youth. Now it seemed to have faded, and was accompanied by a considerable amount of grey, while his moustache was seemingly untouched by time.

“A-Afternoon ladies.” He said, looking around until his eyes landed on you.

You paused in your braiding of Sadie’s hair. You looked up at the man, and noted that he was clutching onto his hat, fingers drumming on the rim of it. He seemed nervous, so you smiled kindly. “Good afternoon sir.”

He seemed almost startled, like a child that had been caught doing something they shouldn’t be, but he quickly composed himself. He took a step closer to you. “I uh, I thought I should finally introduce myself.” He held out a hand. “Orville Swanson.”

You felt yourself perk up, and your smile grew wider. “You’re the Reverend right? Miss Grimshaw told me about you.” You took his hand and shook it. “It’s very nice to meet you Reverend Swanson.”

The Reverend seemed startled again, but he shook your hand as well and even smiled. “May I sit?”

“Of course!” You gestured to the empty floor beside you. You resumed braiding Sadie’s hair, but you watched the Reverend from your peripheral. “Is there something you needed Reverend?”

“I uh, I wished to speak to you. About what you said earlier.”

You felt Sadie tense, and you gently squeezed her shoulder to keep her calm. “Which part?”

“The part about church.”

That didn’t surprise you. “Which denomination are you Reverend, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Baptist.” He seemed to hesitate again. “At least, I was. Before…” He trailed off. You remembered how Miss Grimshaw mentioned that he was no longer a member of the clergy, that he had more or less abandoned his post, even before he met the gang. “Well, that was a long time ago. But, what about you? What was your church?”

“Eastern Orthodox.” Even now you could transport yourself to the old church; feel the polished wood, smell the heavy incense, hear the praise and worship of your fellow believers. It made you feel sad. You missed that old church, and all the people you had met because of it.

The Reverend furrowed his brow. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of that one.” He said, sounding genuinely apologetic.

“Well, it’s more popular in Eastern Europe than here.” You said. “I’m sure it’s numbers pale in comparison to the Baptists.”

The corners of the Reverend’s lips twitched upwards. “So, how did you come to Eastern Orthodoxy?”

The locket around your neck grew heavy, and almost burned. “My mother worked for a wealthy Russian widow.” You explained. “She had immigrated to America years ago, and she kept her religion with her. When I was very young, she was kind enough to take me in, and she raised me with it. It might sound silly but, it almost feels like it’s a part of me now.” A sad smile formed on your face.

“Oh no! That’s not silly at all!”

You looked at the Reverend in surprise at how fervent he was with his words.

“Um, well, I mean-” Apparently embarrassed by his outburst, the Reverend cleared his throat. “It’s...good, to have a uh...rich, spiritual life.” He paused, seemingly trying to fully collect himself. “This kind of life...well, it doesn’t really tend to attract the most spiritual of folks. So, you know, it’s nice to see someone else who has kept their faith.”

You smiled kindly and nodded. “I understand.” You said assuringly. “It’s comforting, having something like that, you know?”

The Reverend seemed to consider this, before smiling. “Yes. It is.”

You smiled back, because for a moment, the Reverend seemed at ease. And looking at him, he didn’t seem like the kind of man who felt like that often. You knew you couldn’t do much, but if you could make someone that happy, then that would be more than enough for you.

-

i don't remember if it was ever explicitly stated that swanson is baptist, but considering the church he preaches at in the epilogue is apparently baptist (according to wikipedia) i decided to go with it. the only thing im really sure of about the reverend is that he isnt catholic which does grant me a lot of wiggle room.

German translations:

Guten morgen Herr Strauss: Good morning Mr Strauss

Guten morgen fraulein: Good morning miss

Frau: Mrs

[snazzysickly]

Red and Orange (Arthur Morgan x Reader)

Summary: After being shot while trying to help John and Arthur escape Beaver Hollow, you wonder what happened to Arthur. You find him, or rather, his grave 

Warnings: A shit load of angst, spoilers, Arthur’s death 

word count: 1,753

A/n: I don’t know if anyone has done this before but I needed to make this to feel better. I also made this gender neutral so we can all cry over Arthur’s death

Slipping in and out of consciousness, you look down to your blood soaked wound, the beautiful crimson color bled through your clothes. You had been helping John and Arthur escape when you were shot just right above the hip by one of Micah’s men. Now you were laying face up on the cave floor of Beaver Hollow, bleeding out, waiting for the white light to take you.

By now, everyone must be gone, dead or escaped. You tried to distract yourself from the burning pain in your side by thinking about Arthur. You could only hope that he made it out safe with John. That he was free. You were thankful that he hadn’t seen you get shot, that would’ve only slowed him down.

You fall back asleep, hoping that this time, the warm light would take you, but to no avail. Your eyes open slowly, you look around to only see the dark cave walls again. You hear something. At first, you only think your ears are playing tricks on you in your dying state, but then you hear it clearer this time. Footsteps. You panic, thinking it could be Murfree Brood coming back to take there hideout back, but you realize that it’s only one pair of footsteps echoing off the cave walls.

Whoever it is, you don’t care anymore. If they’re friendly then they could help you, and if they aren’t, hopefully they’ll kill you.

You don’t know how, but you manage to stand up, the burning feeling got worse, blood pooled out faster, and you could still feel the bullet lodged in your side, making your head spin. You hear the footsteps approaching faster, but still cautious, they must have heard your groans of pains.

Trying to walk towards the footsteps was easier said than done, with your vision spinning and the heavy flow of blood coming out, you would never had made it more than a few steps. Taking one step made you hiss in agony, and taking your second step, you fell over a crate, creating a loud thud, echoing around the walls. You hold onto the crate, your vision blurring once again.

You think you hear the footsteps now running towards you, but your vision is fading quickly. You try turning your head towards the footsteps, although all you can see is an outline of the person, and the white light behind them.

This time, you wake up somewhere different. You recognize the feeling of a saddle in-between your legs, and the bouncing motion of a horse galloping. You go to hold your wound but feel the restricting movements of a cloth tight around it.

You feel someone press their chest against your back, and you try to look to them. You don’t know who you were expecting, maybe a stranger, but you weren’t expecting to see Charles. His eyebrows were furrowed as he concentrates on making Taima gallop faster, his braided hair flows behind him in the wind.

He looks at you for a second, then back to the road. “I got the bullet out, and slowed the blood.” He says seriously. You nod and try to thank him, but your voice is hoarse from not being in use. Charles gives you some water, and this time you’re able to thank him.

This time, you willingly fall asleep, the rocking of Taima, and Charles’ warm body rocks you to sleep, and for a moment you even forget that you’re at the brink of death.

But it all comes back to you when you feel hands putting pressure on your wound. You try to pull the hands off your bleeding wound, but someone restrains your arms. So you try kicking, but again, your restrained. Your breathing goes rigid as you hyperventilate. You feel a cloth being stuffed into your mouth and you prepare for the worse. Whiskey is poured on your wound, you scream on the cloth, tears welling in your eyes. After that, the cloth is taken from your mouth and you pass out from the shock and pain.

You’re waken up to a young woman giving you water and some herbs to chew on. You weakly ask her where you are, and she tells you that you’re at the Wapiti Indian Reservation. You lift up your shirt to find your wound in tight bandages.

The girl unwraps your bandages and you can see that the wound has been stitched together, the girl told you that you were lucky it wasn’t infected. Although it wasn’t infected, the wound looked nasty. You flinched when the girl put some herbs on the wound, but it didn’t sting like you expected, it soothed the pain in the area.

“Where’s Charles?” You ask as she replaces your bandages.

“Mr. Smith has been gone ever since he brought you here. He helped hold you down while we treated your wound, but he left afterward. He should be back soon.”

Over the next few days, you stayed at the reservation until Charles came back. When he rode into the reservation, you were still in the medic tent. By now, you could move around fine, and even ride a horse, although you had to be very careful. Even though you’ve been feeling better, you couldn’t help but think about all the others and what happened to them.

He came into the tent and you sat up, immediately regretting doing so as you groan. Charles holds your back, helping you up slower.

“Where’d you go?” You try to act happy, but the sorrow in his eyes makes you frown. You have a feeling that what he’s about to say isn’t going to be good news.

“I went back to Beaver Hollow.” He looks down to the floor, avoiding eye contact, “I buried Ms. Grimshaw and Arthur.”

For a moment, you don’t even register what he said. You remember Ms. Grimshaw being killed by Micah, but Arthur? You stumble backwards in shock. All this time you thought Arthur had made it out with John. You couldn’t believe it. You wanted to scream, to trash out, do something. But you couldn’t. You fell to the ground of the tent, staring at the floor, tears welling in your eyes. Your mind goes blank and all you could see was Arthur’s face, his plump lips pulled into a smile, the small scar on his chin, the way his eyes would crinkle when he smiled.

Your hands go to your crying face, the tears streamed out, you couldn’t do anything to stop it. You felt powerless, all the strength you’ve gotten back was suddenly gone. You’ve just been shot a couple days ago, and yet, this pain was worse.

You feel Charles wrapping his arms around you, and you cry into his shoulder. You desperately put your arms around his broad back, and clench and unclench your hands. Your sobbing would die down for a moment until you pictured Arthur’s face again, then the hot tears would stream down faster than before.

When you finally stopped crying, you looked at Charles, but didn’t dare to speak, afraid to break down again. He gives you some water and you gulp it down rapidly. Eventually, the lump in your throat has gone away and you ask Charles in an unsteady voice where he buried him.

“East of Bacchus Station, in the mountains.” He replies, you look into his eyes and can easily tell he was crying too. You take him into your arms and you hold each other until your forced to move.

It’s been a couple more days, and you’ve gotten a new horse. You decide that you don’t want to bother the Wapiti tribe more than you’ve already had, and you leave. Saying goodbye to Charles was one of the hardest things you’ve ever done, but he understood, leaving you go your separate ways.

Once outside the reservation, you started heading towards Grizzlies East, to the mountain that Charles told you about.

You reach Arthur’s grave around noon, you walk towards it, agony filling your heart. You kneel down next to the cross and read the beautiful engraving that Charles wrote. You smile sadly. The area was peaceful, just like Arthur deserved.

“You were a good man Arthur Morgan.” Your voice breaks. “I hope you know that.”

You stand up, wiping a couple tears from your eyes. You go to your horse and get on, looking at Arthur’s grave. Suddenly, you remember the pasture of wild flowers not too far away and go to collect some.

While picking the wild flowers, you hear a rustling sound, you pick your head up, staring directly into the eyes of a stag. You stare at him at bit longer, mesmerize by the beautiful deer. The stag then turns around and runs off, you stand there, in the field of wild flowers, staring at the place the stag once was. In an odd way, you felt calmer, more peaceful.

The ride back to Arthur’s grave was slow as you were loss in your own thoughts. The flowers were beautiful colors of reds and oranges, they reminded you of Arthur, just about everything did now. You could see everything he’d done and how it impacted people, good or bad.

When you got back to his grave you take a look around you. The area Charles chose was stunning and you knew if Arthur were here when he was alive, he would’ve sat down and drawn all of the surrounding scenery.

Slowly, you walk towards the grave again, flowers in hand. You place the bouquet down gently, forcing yourself not to cry. You feel drained, your body numb, your mind blank. All you could think about is how you could’ve saved him, and what you did wrong.

Standing up, you look at the flowers, then at Arthur’s grave. With heavy heart, you speak, “Goodbye Arthur.”

You get onto your horse, kicking your horse into a trot, you look at Arthur’s grave one last time, before never looking back.

About eight years has past, and Charles has told John the location of Arthur’s grave. John passed Bacchus Station, and the now fixed bridge he blew up with Arthur, He passed the Mysterious Hill Home, and made it into the mountains.

He got off his horse, going toward the location Charles told him about. He finds Arthur’s grave and walks to it, taking Arthur’s hat off his head and puts it to his chest. There, growing around the grave was beautiful red and orange wild flowers.

[ohdeputy]

100 Letters PART IV

Arthur Morgan x John Marston

Words: 6,812

Read on Archive

Part III

-

Pain crept periodically in and out of existence for John, alongside his blurred vision. He felt no sense of time and his thoughts were not tangible. The only consistency being the agony of his wounds. His face was hot and sore, causing him much discomfort through his restlessness. He was sure he had a fever from the amount he was sweating.

What John could only assume were days that passed by as he lay bedridden felt like hours for all he knew. Sometimes he could feel splotches of sunlight against his skin cast through cracks from the nearby window and distant chatter of people around him. Abigail’s fussing also made it through the haziness every so often. He preferred to tune it out when he could, wishing she could just let him be. It was bad enough having to listen to her when he was fully conscious. Other than those instances he was surrounded by black.

For the most part, that is. Sometimes John swore he could feel someone’s hand holding his. Rough and slightly calloused, yet so gentle. It was always at night, from what he could tell. When no one else could be heard and the air was at its coldest, making him shiver in his sleep.

He had the creeping suspension that perhaps... No. He thought, there is no way. Feeling foolish for even thinking it was who he imagined and somewhat hoped it might be. Nevertheless, John always held on tightly, feeling a deep comfort at the contact.

Soon, he started to stay awake for longer than the short moments he could only manage before. He was still confined to the cot he lay on, but he was not in a permanent state of confused slumber any longer. The pain had subsided slightly, yet he still could not move his face too much.

The first time he awoke fully rested, he reached a hand to the fresh stitches holding together the deep slashes in his skin. He winced, partly from discomfort. He couldn’t help feeling a little sad over it, too. It was… strange. This sort of thing never really bothered him before. He’d been shot a couple times, injured in countless other ways and had never thought twice about it. His scars were deeper than physical, serving as a reminder of how he alone he felt on that mountaintop.

Just off to his side, he could see Abigail. Whether her expression was of anger or worry, he did not know.

“Hey.”

Her brow shot up, “hey?! Seriously, John Marston, that all you got?”

He closed his eyes, too tired to start this again with her.

“You are a silly, silly man. You really are.” She stood up from her seat, “eaten by wolves. Never heard of such a ridiculous idea.”

She sat down again, clearly indecisive with whether she wanted to leave or continue shouting at him. “Who gets themselves eaten by wolves? I mean really, who?!”

John breathed out through his nose in frustration, his tone curt as he responded, “I didn’t mean to, Abigail.”

Now Abigail sighed as she put a hand on his shoulder. Some of the anger had gone from her voice, “you never mean to but you always do. Always… trouble.”

“Well, I’ve certainly made my mistakes.” John blinked, looking away.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she retracted her hand and he felt her intensive gaze on him.

“Whatever you want it to!” His words were a little more vicious than he intended, but he was fed up. He winced from the discomfort of moving his stitches as he spoke.

Her hand was back on him, “just shut up and get some rest.”

Underneath all the aggressiveness, John knew Abigail cared about him. He just could not understand her methods of showing it, most of the time finding her unbearably exhausting.

John continued to stay confined to the small bed for the next few days. He spent that time resting, and when he wasn’t asleep he listened to the people come and go around him. He would hear the hushed conversations between Arthur and Hosea, other times the soothing repetition of Javier sharpening his knife. One time he woke to sound of Miss Grimshaw shouting at the other girls. He pretended he was still asleep for fear of her shouting at him, too.

Throughout all of it, Abigail was always around. She mostly fussed about how foolish she thought he was, but also kept him updated on everything that was happening. When she told him how the gang finally planned to move on, he grew eager. Back down south, she had said, into the state of New Hanover. At this point he did not care where they went, as long as it was far away from the past. The land here was cruel and had already given him too much trouble.

Sure enough, once they were certain there would be no worry of another storm, they set a course south. John did not see much of it, since he was still too weak to do more than walk a few steps anywhere. After Abigail and Charles helped him into the back of one of the wagons, he did not see anything but the shifting of daylight across the canvas cover he lay under. Only emerging once they arrived at their new hideout of choice.

There, the first couple of days had blurred together. He was still not up to his usual strength, especially exhausted from their journey into the new state. He spent much of his time resting while the other gang members settled into the place around him. It was nice. Small, but not bad.

They found themselves in a clearing just beside a cluster of trees that kept them hidden well enough from any unwanted attention. At least for the time being. It had grown a lot warmer now that they were free of the snow, but a chill lingered that still caused his breath to hang in the air during the early mornings.

John had come to know this place as Horseshoe Overlook, having a wide view of the surrounding land. The lush forests and the winding Dakota River had become familiar to him from all the time spent confined to the camp. He couldn’t complain too much, though, as it was a sight to behold. Calming too, with sounds of nature all around him whenever he sat at his favorite spot just at the edge of camp. There, stood a tall oak that he would always situate himself under. Either with a book, propping himself against an old tree stump with a fresh cup of coffee, or his thoughts.

John could almost say he liked it here, but often he was reminded of the circumstance of their arrival. Blackwater always lingered in the back of his mind, lying dormant but never forgotten. He waited for the day where Dutch would properly address the complete disaster and wondered what he might say of Nico. He found himself looking over his shoulder more often, watching out for Dutch and avoiding him as much as he could. It got to the point where it may have even started to look suspicious. John couldn’t help it. He felt like a coward, but he could not bring himself to look at him.

When a week had gone by and still nothing was mentioned, John thought that the whole thing would pass by unspoken. So when he sat in his usual spot viewing the river below him, he was taken aback when he heard Dutch call for their attention.

“Everyone, gather round.” His voice came from the centre of camp, where he had set up his tent.

It wasn’t since Blackwater that he had last properly seen him. Since the day he had killed Nico and left John for dead. Because he was at the top of John’s list to avoid, and had managed it well enough, the realization hit him so suddenly. He originally thought Dutch might approach him once they had settled in. That he would corner him someplace to threaten John about what he saw back in Blackwater. To his surprise, it never happened. Dutch never once mentioned Blackwater since before the heist, and John had no intention of asking.

But it felt wrong. Not only for the horrors John faced at seeing his friend murdered in cold blood, but also for the ones they left behind. Jenny and Davey left in unmarked graves back in Colter, and the unknown whereabouts of Sean and Mac. After everything, John was left almost convinced that Dutch had put the whole mess completely behind him, never to be spoken of again. Until now.

When he hesitantly approached, their eyes locked momentarily. The blood in his veins ran cold like he was a deer caught in the sight of its predator. Fear seeped through his body when Dutch gave him a sadistic smile, and already John was preparing himself for the worst.

He joined the cluster of people around Dutch’s tent. Hosea and Arthur could be seen seated next to the gang's leader from recent conversation with him, looking a little tense. Others now stood around them, eager to listen to his speech.

“I just wanted to say how proud I am of all of you.” Dutch held a hand to his chest, feigning a sense of appreciation. John had to refrain from letting his face express how sickened he felt.

“Things may not have gone well in Blackwater, we lost some dear friends.” He paused to evoke some sort of sorrow around his words. “And we mourn them, we do. But we must stay diligent. We must carry on, or it was all for nothing!”

He looked at everyone pointedly, gesturing with his hands to emphasize his words, “would you have them die in vain? Davey, Mac? Jenny? Poor Sean?”

“We don’t even know if Sean is dead, it just looked like he was captured,” Lenny interjected, a couple of other murmuring in agreement.

“This is true.” Dutch nodded his head, “he may very well be alive. And if that is the case, we will bring him back safely. I promise you all-”

“What about Nico.”

Silence fell over the group as everyone turned to face Charles, who’d interrupted.  John was overwhelmed by a sudden appreciation for the man. Charles stared expectedly at Dutch, a couple of others turned to do the same. When everyone waited for him to answer, John noticed Hosea hanging his head. He thought the older man looked ashamed.

“Nico,” Dutch gave a heavy sigh. “She was like a daughter to me.” He looked off in the distance, eyes tearing up. He blinked and returned his attention back to everyone, his gaze turning dark. “But in the end she betrayed me. Betrayed us.”

He continued, “I regret to inform that it was she who alerted the law to our plans. I do not know what caused her to become a fraud within our midst, to take advantage of our hospitality," he spat the last word out. "After all this time to find out she was not who I thought she was.” He shook his head in disbelief.

“Her real name was Heidi McCourt, nothing more than a mere charlatan who infiltrated our family for self-gratification,” Dutch spoke with conviction. He turned away taking the opportunity to become wistful once more, “I only wished I’d known sooner.”

The more he spoke, the more worked up John became. Heidi McCourt? Betrayal? He felt a hand on one of his, not realizing he had clenched it in anger. Turning to see Abigail, her expression was one that pleaded him not to do anything rash. John retreated his hand away from her.

“I say good riddance, she was a rat,” Micah snarled out once Dutch was finished. “They always weasel their way into groups.”

Arthur suddenly shot up from his seat. He looked furious, glaring at Micah, but didn’t say anything.

Micah made no attempt to hide his smug expression as he focused his attention on Arthur, “you know I’m right, Morgan.” He snickered a little before continuing, “but don’t worry, rats always get what they deserve.”

Arthur held a fist at his side like he was about to hurl it into the other man’s face. “At least we can agree on that.” He walked off without another word.

John left, too. Not wanting to stick around the conversation any longer. Abigail followed, but he didn’t give her a chance to catch up as he pursued the direction Arthur had stormed off in.

He found him not far from the edge of their new camp, his arms crossed as he leaned against a tree.

“Fucking Micah,” John said as he approached.

Arthur didn’t look up as he responded, “don’t get me started.”

“And I can’t believe that stuff Dutch said about Nico, he-”

“Oh, just leave it, Marston.” Arthur cut him off, his tone short.

John reeled back, caught off guard by the harshness of his voice. His surprise quickly turned to anger, “are you kidding me?” He tried to keep the volume of his words down so they wouldn’t be heard, but could barely suppress his aggravation, “don’t tell me you actually believe any of that horsecrap!”

Arthur turned on John now. “Maybe she did deserve it!” he snapped.

John blinked at him. Arthur winced, instantly seeming to regret what he said, “oh, I don’t know.” He pressed his fingers to his temple, turning away.

John could tell he was conflicted. Still, it was no excuse for saying what he did. They had both known Nico the longest, and Arthur’s doubts only confirmed how deep Dutch’s grasp was on him.

John walked away, not sure why he even bothered to try and talk to him in the first place. The impulsiveness of his actions suddenly catching up with him. He got too emotional, deep down still believing Arthur was a good man and knew right from wrong. It was what he might have thought, but was being proved otherwise again and again.

Miserably making his way back to his tent, he threw himself on the corner of his bed. Thankfully, Abigail wasn’t there. He did not feel like talking about any of what just happened with her.

With nothing else to do and a newfound frustration, he decided to call it an early night. Not realizing how tired he was until his head hit the pillow, instantly falling asleep.

When he woke the following morning, the camp was quiet. Much of the gang had dispersed, leaving the place a lot less occupied. Micah was gone, much to John’s relief. Hopefully without the intent of coming back anytime soon, either. Arthur, Javier, and Charles had left as well. Something about them going to check out the nearest town.

John itched to leave, too. He’d become so bored from not doing anything and was once again suffocated from the people around him. He heard the town wasn’t too far away and thought he might finally be well enough to explore it.

Abigail was back to nagging him, and the combined company of Uncle and Pearson was starting to drive him insane. But more than anything else, John felt an uneasiness at the particular presence of someone else. Unlike a lot of his adept peers, Dutch had stuck around. And after his speech from the day before, John wanted to be as far away from the man as possible. The only issue was his means of getting to the town.

John sat in his spot on the stump under the oak tree. He held a book open in his lap but had stopped reading a while ago. Now he pondered on a way to make it into town. Under any normal circumstance, he would take the journey on foot, with it only being down the road. He couldn’t take his horse because… He thought back to the night he got attacked by the wolves.

He shuddered at the memory, remembering the last time he saw his horse. The last image of her fleeing from the predators that stalked him.

Though, if he was being honest, that wasn’t his horse. His actual horse was still somewhere in Blackwater, abandoned after the unanticipated turn of events.

John was struck by guilt, he hadn’t had time to think about any of it since then, with everything that followed. All he remembered was being thrown on some random horse with Javier in their escape, leaving behind the mare he’d been riding for years prior.

“How are you feeling, son?”

John turned around to see Hosea approaching him, and shook off the memory. He gave a warm smile to the old man, “a lot better. Nearly fine… but not quite there, y’know?”

“Course I know. It must be boring for you, but I’m glad you’ve been letting yourself rest.”

John was nodding, “it’s been a tough few weeks.”

“That it has,” Hosea agreed. The old man looked away wistfully as if preoccupied with something of his own.

“I was, uh, thinkin’ of heading into town.”

Hosea raised his eyebrows, “oh yeah?”

“Yeah, looking to get myself a new mount.” John gave a sigh, “thing is I don’t got no means of getting there.”

“Why that’s no issue, just take ol’ Silver!”

John faltered, “It’s kind of you to offer, but… you don’t have to do that on my behalf.”

“Nonsense!” Hosea waved his hand in dismissal, “she’ll be happy to stretch her legs. It’s only Valentine you’re heading to. Please, take her out for me. I insist.”

“Well, alright… thanks, Hosea.” He nodded his thanks after getting up from his spot. Briefly, he stopped by his tent to collect his things, slipping his arms into his coat and grabbing his satchel before being was on his way.

He walked the short distance to where the horses were left to graze. There, he spotted Silver Dollar and mounted up. The horse barely even looked up as John lifted himself up onto the animal. The older mare had known John for years now, trusting him almost as much as Hosea at this point. When John was younger, he and Arthur would joke about how the two of them, Dutch, Hosea, and Silver were the original members of the Van der Linde gang before any others had joined. He smiled at the thought, giving the old horse a pat.

John took the hidden path out of camp, emerging from the cover of trees and onto the main path toward the town known as Valentine. The ride there was relatively quick, seeing the bustle of people come into view as the buildings became more abundant around him.

It was a decent place, with a gunsmith, doctors office and saloon as well as a hotel. There was also a general store and train station, but most importantly a stable.

Horses and wagons churned through the muddy streets. John rode down them at a steady pace to take it all in. Piano music and loud conversation flowed from the saloon as he passed by. The sound of hammer and steel could be heard off in the distance, too, the town alive with folk keeping busy all around him. He always enjoyed seeing the different civilized places he was brought to. Studying new and diverse people sometimes proved to be even wilder than the western lands that surrounded them. It was fascinating.

John approached the considerably large barn at the end of the main street. He could make out the name painted in white with big lettering across the wood just above the doors.

AMOS LEVI & SONS.

Upon entering, the smell hit him before he even saw any of the horses stabled within. “Looking for a horse, mister?”

John turned to see a man polishing a saddle. “Err, yes, I am.”

“Well,” the stable owner wiped his hands on his leather apron, “what takes your fancy? We’ve got Kentucky Saddlers, American Paints... lots of fast ones.”

He thought for a moment, not really knowing exactly what he was looking for. “You have any sturdy ones?”

“Like a warhorse, sir?”

“Sure, something like that.”

The man moved to a stable just across from where they stood. “Well, we got this here Hungarian Half-bred. She’s a beaut.”

John studied the mare. She looked strong, with a dappled grey coat that stretched across the wide, lean muscle underneath. “She sure is.” He brushed a hand down her neck, “how much for her?”

“Two fifty.”

John almost choked at the price, suddenly aware of how hollow the satchel strung across his shoulder was.

“Do you have anything similar for…um, slightly less?”

The stable owner shook his head, “I’m afraid she’s as decent as we get.”

John couldn’t help but think to himself that it was no wonder they’ve always stolen their horses in the past. He left the man with an apology and the lie of a promise that he would be back when he had more money.

With no horse and a newly acquired sour mood, John returned to where he had left Silver. He untied the reins but was unsure of what to do. He couldn’t go back empty-handed, the time would come when he would need to rely on his own mount.

He walked Silver through town aimlessly, eventually wandering toward another couple of barns surrounded by pens full of livestock. Sheep, pigs, chickens, cows, the place was full, putting in perspective just how self-sufficient this town really was. It seemed too many animals were present for it to only be a ranch, though. Upon further inspection, John noticed a couple of men walking around the pens, one with a clipboard in hand. It looked like he was counting each animal in their sections, and only then did John realize the whole place must be some sort of auction yard.

As the two men strolled closer, John could just make out what they were saying. “…if we move the pigs into that barn, this area should be good for the sheep we got comin’ in from Emerald Ranch,” the one with the clipboard said as he wrote something else down.

The other nodded, taking his hat off to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Sounds good. I’ll let the boys know when it’s time. You was saying it were for later this season, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Then, if you don't mind my asking, sir, why you thinking about this now?”

“Oh, cause it’ll be a big one, Pete.”

John listened, all the while making a mental note. He was no sheepherder, but neither was he a complete fool when it came to knowing there was value worth investing, or in his case stealing, in livestock.

“John? John, is that you!” The formation of an idea was suddenly interrupted when he heard his name being shouted. He looked behind him to see a coltish man make his way to where John stood, giving an awkward wave as he did.

“Hey, John! It’s me!”

John squinted, still unsure of who exactly this person that seemed to know him so well was. His memory was struck with realization when the man gave a goofy smile,“…Reedus?”

Reedus nodded with the same amount of enthusiasm John remembered him having. Save for being even taller than before and growing out a wispy looking beard, the stable hand was still the same as when he’d last seen him.

“What’re you doing here?” John asked him.

“I’ve actually come looking to work in the stables here. Amos, the owner, was kind enough to offer me a place. I grew up near Valentine, so I thought it would be nice to be around my ma again. How ‘bout you, what brings you to town?”

“My gang’s hindin’ out not far from the place, seems we are well suited in living a nomadic lifestyle.”

Reedus’ eyes widened, “no kidding! How is Dutch n’ Arnold getting along? And that Hosea!”

John smiled, “real fine, Reedus.”

The man pulled at the reins he held onto, “I actually came by the auction yard tryna sell this here horse. Won’t be needing one since I’ll be workin’ in the stables.” He gave a reluctant laugh, “you wouldn’t happen to be in need of one, would you?”

John blinked in surprise, “uh, yeah, actually.”

Reedus’ eyes lit up, “well, fry me in butter and call me a catfish! He’s all yours if you’ll take him!”

John hesitated, “I… don’t have too much to offer, I’m afraid.”

He waved a hand, “don’t be worrying about that, please, he’s all yours.”

“That’s mighty kind of you, Reedus, I couldn’t possibly accept.”

Now Reedus shook his head, “Y’all have always been good to me, I insist.”

He held the reins out to John, who reluctantly took them. “He’s an old boy, but he’s young at heart. Loyal and sturdy, too. He’ll treat you well.”

John didn't know what to say. “Thank you, Reedus.”

They said their goodbyes shortly after, and John made his way back to camp with both Silver and his new horse. Old Boy, he’d decided to call him, since Reedus admitted he never actually had a name for him.

The saddle was worn but surprisingly comfortable enough during his ride back to camp. The horse gave him no trouble and over the next while he’d grown quite accustomed to Old Boy. He took the time to care for him with not much else going on in the following days other than trying to get word of where Sean might be. Only after about a month or so of being at Horseshoe Overlook was there talk of finally getting him back. Trelawny had apparently heard about him being caught and held by some bounty hunters near Blackwater.

Arthur had spent little time around camp, but one particular night when he was around John heard him discussing with Dutch and a few others about Sean’s supposed rescue mission. When word travelled, both Abigail and Hosea advised him not to go. He reluctantly agreed, not that he was particularly fond of going back to Blackwater. He just couldn’t help but feel useless at doing nothing but sit around camp.  

After a plan was put into place, Arthur, Charles, Javier, and Mr. Trelawny all rode out. Two days later they returned successful, coming back with worse company than they left with. John didn’t have anything against Sean, but the boy just didn’t know when to shut up. Already he filled the camp with his annoying rambling, though people didn’t seem too bothered. They mostly used the fact that he was back as an excuse to celebrate. So that evening crates of alcohol littered the campsite with people drinking and dancing.

The sound of laughter mixed with music flowed through the night air outside where he sat in his tent. Almost everyone was celebrating Sean’s return, though John didn’t feel too up for it. He was glad that everyone’s spirits were lifted for the first time in a while, but it just felt too soon for him to be taking part in the joyous occasion.

He grabbed his rifle and pulled aside the tent’s opening to leave. Thinking he might make himself useful at the very least, he headed toward the camp border to patrol it. He spotted Charles already at its edge, looking out into the surrounding forest.

“I can take over if you’d like.”

Charles turned to face him as he approached.

“Thanks brother, but I think I’ll leave the festivities for the others.”

“You sure? I honestly don’t mind.”

The other man gave a nod of his head, “I find more comfort amongst the trees, no risk of drunken social interaction. You should go enjoy yourself.”

John dropped his eyes, “No, I… I can’t. Not yet.”

Charles gave a look of understanding, “Yeah. I get that.”

The two men stood in together in a silence that was not uncomfortable. John always did like Charles, probably because he was one of the few of them who actually had his head screwed on right.

“You should still go to relax a bit. It might take your mind off things.”

He looked over to Charles again as he continued, “mind you, that doesn’t mean get blind drunk.”

John chuckled at that, “I hear ya. Alright, well, let me know if you want to swap out.”

“Will do. Try to take it easy, John.” Charles gave him a pat on the shoulder before continuing his route.

John was a little lost on where to go, but as he walked back he could spot Hosea sitting off to the side at a table alone.

“John, my boy! Come, come. Join me.” His words were already slurred though the night was still young.

He motioned with over-exaggeration to the spot just beside him. John had no choice but to take a seat there.

“Here, here, take a drink,” he forced a beer into John’s hands, sloshing some of the liquid on him in the process. If it were anyone else, John might have minded. But Hosea could never do anything wrong in his eyes, so he didn’t give it another thought.

“You never did tell me how you got on in Valentine, huh?”

“It was good, yeah.”

“Didn’t get into any trouble, then?”

John smiled, “Hosea, who do you think I am? ‘Course not.”

“Goooood. Good, good,” the older man slapped the table a little. John didn’t remember the last time he’d seen him this drunk.

“That makes one of my boys. You know I tried to raise you decent, right? ‘Course Arthur had to go and make some trouble for himself in town, and, and… well, y’know…” the old man trailed off.

“Sure. You okay there, Hosea?”

“Yeah! Yeah, yeah…” His intense nodding slowly turned into his head shaking from side to side, “No, no…I don’t think so.” He frowned, “You know, I blame myself for Nico’s death.”

John was taken off guard by his sudden confession, he looked around wide-eyed in case anyone has overheard. He had said it a little loud, but nobody seemed to pay them any notice as the others sat around the campfire. Javier strummed away on his guitar, accompanied by the terrible singing of Karen and Arthur. Some others clapped along while Sean was already passed out in the dirt beside them.

John turned his attention back to Hosea, not understanding why he would say such a thing.

“How do you mean?”

Hosea sat slouched over the table now, his giddiness replaced by a somberness.

“I just.. I should’ve noticed. Something, anything.”

He looked up at John, eyes welling up. His heart twisted in pain from the sight.

“How could I not notice, John?” He said the words with such remorse, like he was actually asking him for an answer.

John was lost at how to respond, still not fully comprehending what the man was trying to say. Hosea was back to staring at his almost empty bottle. He looked at it intently and John knew he was somewhere far away.

“If I would have seen it coming perhaps I could’ve prevented her from turning away from us... I always tried, John, I did. With you and Arthur, too. She was misunderstood, I know that. But I loved her like she was my own.”

Worry was replaced by a wave of anger that boiled within John, having to sit and listen to a man who did not deserve the harsh treatment he was bestowing upon himself. Mistaking Nico’s distance for disloyalty when in reality it was nothing of the sort. He wanted to shout out the truth, that Dutch was the one to blame, not him. Yet, John held his tongue as he listened to Hosea blame himself. No matter how bad John wanted to tell him, he couldn’t. Hosea trusted Dutch too much.

“I cannot believe it. It almost sounds like one of my elaborate stories, doesn’t it?” He shook his head grimly. “Heidi McCourt…” he said under his breath. “And now she’s gone. An old man like me shouldn’t outlive a young girl like her. It just ain’t fair.”

John thought perhaps it might be the drink talking, but it sounded as if Hosea didn’t fully accept her betrayal as being true. Not that John could risk saying anything to him. And the little consolation it was, it still gave John the tiniest bit of comfort. Hosea wasn’t fully convinced, even if he wouldn’t admit it if he were sober, the thought was enough for John.

“Things… may have been complicated, but it wasn’t your fault Hosea. It wasn’t your fault.” He emphasized the statement to try and convince him.

Hosea gave a forced smile, blinking away tears. “You would say that, son.” He gave a heavy sigh before getting up from his chair, “I think it’s about time to call it a night.” Before John could say anything else, he stumbled off toward his tent, leaving John to wallow in the weight of their conversation alone.

The prospect of drinking now became tempting after the exchange. He picked at the label on his untouched beer. The singing had stopped a while ago so the night was filled with its usual sounds once more. People still drank around a fire that was far from burning out, just with much less enthusiasm. He thought he might turn in, too, until he heard someone call out to him.

“Joooooooohhhhhhnnnnnnn Marston,” the unmistakable voice of Arthur Morgan called through the air as John saw his form blundering toward him.

“Now don’t you start.”

“Ohhhhhh, take that stick out of your ass, Marston.”

He raised his brow at that. Arthur took some uneasy steps toward the table John sat at, sloppily flopping into one of the empty seats. He was obviously quite drunk. John watched his delayed movements as he slammed down the whiskey bottle he gripped in his hand.

His lids hung low as he swayed a little in his spot. As disoriented as he was, Arthur still managed to focus on John. He gave a little smile, and John had to look away. Even after all these years, Arthur could still make him flustered just by looking at him like that. He felt so stupid for letting the other man affect him so much, like they were still young kids sitting on a roof sharing candies. He knew full well things could never be like how they once were, but still his eyes darted to see if Arthur was still looking. And he was.

John cleared his throat, avoiding Arthur’s gaze once more. He looked around them, seeing the low light of Dutch’s tent at the other end of camp. John knew he had retired to his quarters with lady O'Shea quite early.

“Ohhhh loosen’ up, John. Dutch ain’t comin’ out.”

John was surprised by his quick wit despite being far from sober. He was about to respond when  Arthur continued. The ramble he went on was one John did not anticipate, making him second guess that perhaps he wasn’t really with it at all.

“So I went to Valentine, right, nd somehow managed to get into a fight.” He raised his hands innocently, “don ask mehow, I do not know. But we was fightin’ and this guy, this BIG guy was comin atchu from what I could see from the corner of meye, since, uh, this other sonovabitch was comin at me. But I knocked him out in one punch, so I go, ‘don worry Jahn, I gotchu!’”

Arthur paused to wheeze, “but it wasn you! It was Javier, nd he looks at me like whaaaat? Nd then BOOM, gets hit square in the jaw, nd. Well, I just. It sounded funnier in my head.”

Silence followed briefly after he finished. John could now make out the cut that split Arthur’s bottom lip, and how it was slightly swollen. John eventually responded, “… well, did you get the guy?”

Arthur blinked, eyes wide like he was reliving the tragic event all over again, “let’s jus say things escalated nd we nded up takin' the fight outside.” His voice drifted off slightly, “it were real muddy.”

“That sounds like quite the trouble you got into.”

“It weren’t jus me! Charles were there, too. Nd Bill, mmpre sure he started it. Nd you’s was there! Expect it were Javier stead o’ you.”

Arthur pressed his lips to the bottle of whisky, and John almost missed it as he mumbled, “you never come no more.”

John was sore just from the thought of the brawl. “I don’t think a bar fight would have been the best thing for me in my state.”

Arthur nodded, “mmprobably best.”

Another pause followed, John finding a certain comfort in their silence. The only source of light came from the low burning candle placed in the middle of the table, flickering across Arthur’s face and making his features dance.

It would be so easy to tell him. John didn’t know why the thought suddenly struck him. Maybe it was after everything he had gone through in the short span of the last couple weeks. Nico getting killed so easily and John’s close brush with death combined, life just seemed so fickle. To just to put it out in the air was so tempting. Arthur probably wouldn’t even remember the following day.

Dutch lied. About everything. I cared for you. I still care for you. I wrote you a letter every damn day and he burned each and every one of them to stop you from ever knowing…

Deep down John knew he wouldn’t say it. It was selfish. He couldn’t drag Arthur into all this, not now. Even if he did believe John, it could cause catastrophe, swaying the very foundation of the gang they’ve dedicated their lives to.

Perhaps after all this time, it had turned into John protecting Arthur from the truth. To avoid any more unnecessary damage. John already felt broken to the point beyond repair. But Arthur, he didn’t deserve to have his life completely turned upside down. For everything he knows to be a lie. At this point, it would just be a burden for him to know the truth.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, John didn’t notice Arthur moving closer until he took up most of his vision. John blinked back to reality, noting the way Arthur focused his attention on him, squinting his eyes a little as if he were trying to study John.

“Yur heal scarred up pre well.”

It took a second for John to understand what he meant, then he snorted, “you mean my scar healed up pretty well?”

Arthur frowned in confusion, “isn’t that what I said…”

John cracked a smile, unable to stop himself laughing at Arthur’s drunken foolishness. Arthur began laughing, too.

“What’re we laughing at?” Arthur asked him.

“Well, I don’t know what you’re laughing at, but I’m laughing at you. You’re ridiculous.”

It took a moment for Arthur’s stupid grin to slowly disappear as he processed what John had said. “Hey, thas not very nice of yoummarston.”

“Apologies, Mr. Morgan.” John tried to keep himself from seeming too amused, his efforts futile as he cracked up once more.

As if he had already forgotten, Arthur joined in again. He slapped his knee like John just told the funniest joke and the world seemed to stand still around them, making him briefly forgot about all his troubles. It was nice. Too nice, like it was too good to be true. John felt like they were teenagers again, getting up to no good with the fear of being caught by a scolding adult, all while acting like they could conquer the world. Talking similar to how they once did sparked that same nostalgic courage, like they could do anything. But they couldn’t, and the moment passed just as fast as it had come.

“I should, uh, go.”

“Yeah, alright, Marston. You always do.” He said knowingly, taking another swig of his whiskey bottle.

It was hard to get up from his seat. John wished he could let the moment last, but it felt…wrong. He didn’t want anyone to see the two of them like this. So he just smiled and turned away, slowly letting it fall away from his lips when his back was to Arthur.

He did not know whether it hurt less or more to talk with him like it was old times again. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it, but it was a harsh reminder of what he could not have. A taste of what they once did have. And it only left John desperate for more. It was dangerous, he knew, and much too risky. And he knew It couldn’t happen again.

[galadrieljones]

A Funeral: Chapter 6

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2 | Pairing: Arthur x Mary Beth | Rating: Mature

Content: Existential Angst, Friendship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Nature, Touch-Starved, Humor, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Angst, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fake Marriage, Epiphanies, Backstory, Banter, Deep Emotions

Summary: To help her process Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. He agrees, and on their little journey together, they find quietude and take comfort in their easy bond. In their desperate search for meaning together, they endure a number of small trials, which bring them closer to one another as well as to the future, and to the unchecked plights of the natural world.

**Chapter-specific Content Warning: distant reference toward sexual violence

Masterpost | AO3

Thanks @bearly-tolerable for the banner!! ^_^

Chapter 6: A Couple Busted Umbrellas

The dream he’d had at the Winterson's B&B was not a good one. You know, there is this abandoned homestead in Scarlet Meadows? Not far from Rhodes, and outside that homestead there are two little crosses set up on either side of a big, pretty tree. It is familiar. Arthur stumbled upon it once while out hunting whitetail for camp, not too long ago, and in doing so, he remembered all the bad things that had ever happened to him. The little crosses and all of their lonely passion dredged up a layer of guilt from so deep inside that his vision went white and he nearly stumbled into his horse. The guilt was covered in barbed wire. It hurt a lot to swallow it back down again, but he did it anyway and then he went back to camp with a dead deer for Pierson, and it was twilight and Dutch sat, consumed in his own neurosis with his head in his hands. Nobody else really knew about Eliza except for Dutch, Hosea, John, and Abigail. Arthur went to his bed that night and he went right to sleep, very early.

Arthur didn’t dream of the two little crosses that first night with Mary Beth. He didn’t even dream of Eliza. He only dreamed of the polar bear—climbing again out of that polar bear skin and seeing the world burnt around him and wondering where it was everyone had gone to, everyone he ever cared for. It woke him up, and when he woke up, he sat up, and the barbed wire had unfurled and ensconced him in its horrible pain so deep he got to thinking it was happiness. What else could be so all-consuming without causing death? He rightly had not known before. But it wasn’t Mary this time—nagging him, this petty pain just below the surface. No. It was much too deep for that. He felt twenty-five again, in that moment, sleeping in a soft bed next to his pregnant girlfriend who he had made that way. How he loved her. Like he had never loved anything—no man or woman or child could come close to the desire he had to keep her safe. She was the love that came first, that preceded all. And when Mary Beth touched his shoulder that night, he was not awake yet. He was still in the dream, next to Eliza, in a farmhouse in Butte, Montana. Where the buffalo roam, he thought. And when he woke up he was crushed at all that had come to pass. He felt so old. But also, all at once, he was relieved. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact sensation. It was of the most conflicting he had ever felt in his life.

Now he and Mary Beth had started continuing their way north again, eventually headed toward O’Creigh’s Run. It was so pretty here. So damn pretty, thought Arthur, especially once you got up in the Grizzlies a little, and these orange flowers grew everywhere, poppies or something, Arthur wasn’t quite sure. Ram and Whitetail all over the place, hopping and stumbling and drinking from the ravines. Arthur knew now that, as they left Emerald Station, they would soon be leaving civilization as they knew it and entering into a kind of dark territory. They still had time. Ambarino was a good, clean place, still wild terrain populated mostly by animals, hunters, fishermen. But once they got further east, it was all ghosts and people that looked like ghosts, and fog and strangers in the windows of rotten shacks way high on the cliffs. At times he became bothered with anxiety and regret at having brought Mary Beth on this trip, as he thought intensely about the dangers that could await them in the northern stretches of New Hanover. But it was too late now, and he didn’t rightly know anything, and for all of his certainties, it was just as dangerous, her sleeping alone at Shady Belle in the southern swamps of Lemoyne, as it was her riding with him in the deadzone of all that lie north of Annesburg. He supposed he could have taken her to Strawberry. To West Elizabeth. Real good hunting out there. But it was further west than he was willing to go, and the closer he got to Blackwater the faster the true dangers began to appear.

He knew it would be fine. He would make it fine. And for now, it was Ambarino, still just mountain prettiness and fields of wild flowers, and he knew that she would like it up here. He just knew. It all sort of looked like her, felt like her—soft and good but with unexpected outcroppings and steep drops and you had to keep a watch on your footing lest you loose your step. Plunge off a cliff. As they rode north, away from the Winterson’s comfortable B&B she was quiet for a time and wistful, like she was caught in a dream. He did not disturb her. He had not meant to worry her that night before. He had bad dreams all the time—it was nothing new. Nothing to do with Mary Beth.

But the truth was, that memory was already stoked by now. It was a creeping heat. He could feel it. Other times he might try and dull it out of himself with whiskey, but not today. He needed to be sharp. He needed to be fully awake and aware because even if it was pretty country there were a lot of dangers in the Grizzlies and there was nothing that was going to prevent him from protecting the two of them, protecting her.

So there he rode, right on the sharp knife’s edge of his worst nightmares, and yet fully in the present on the trail to Ambarino. They rode at a trot mostly. Mary Beth was contemplative and sometimes, she would slow down to scribble something in that book of hers and then she’d put it away into her dress folds again. He would smoke and light her a cigarette, hand it across to her as they rode on their horses, and she would take it and smile and thank him for his chivalry. These little pieces of their time together would tug the strings inside his heart. His affection for her was growing and this, too, like everything else in his conflicted mind made him homesick, and worried. She was a little like Eliza. She was young and had long, wavy hair that curled in the humidity, and she was kind and dutiful. They both liked to read. But unlike Eliza, Mary Beth was sure of herself. She had all this confidence, and until now, he’d never really known it. He’d always sort of seen her as the wildflower in the camp. Prettier, softer than the other girls, but incredibly stoic. It was hard to see through her. He felt in, in some ways, transparent by her side.

Arthur Morgan was a callused man but he had never once closed his heart to love. He was an optimist. He wanted to believe things would be okay. It was not this part of him that made him so difficult to crack.

They made camp near a lagoon called Moonstone Pond. Arthur took Mary Beth fishing. She was not experienced with a fishing rod and desired a lot of guidance. He showed her how to hold it, how to cast, watched her closely. She regarded the water with a close eye. She was very eager to learn, got a single bite, but it was kind of a big feller and she couldn’t manage. She broke the line and stamped her foot with comical indignation.

"Dammit," she said. "I’m a terrible fisherwoman."

"Nah, you’re just fine," said Arthur. "You know how many lines I break daily? And I’ve been fishing for...years. You’ll get it. Want to try again?"

She looked at the fishing pole then handed it back to him. "I’m too hungry to try again," she said, smiling. "I’d like to watch you."

He had a toothpick between his teeth, took it out of his mouth, flicked it to the weeds. It was chilly up in these parts and she had put on her riding gloves. "I’ll do my best not to disappoint you."

"You couldn’t disappoint me, Arthur Morgan."

This amused him. He fixed up his hook with a nice bait worm, cast it into the water. They stood quietly for a while. Mary Beth dropped to a crouch to look at her reflection. She tapped its surface and made little ripples in the water. The sun was getting lower, like a hot burn on the horizon, just past the trees.

Arthur caught a nice, fat bluegill, then another. Mary Beth clapped. She was very excited by the catch. He cleaned and filleted both fish as Mary Beth ground up some salt and pepper in a little mill. Arthur set the fillets on the pan and she sprinkled on the seasoning. By now the sun was down and the nighttime animals had come out for their evening prize. They could hear raccoons chattering and other weird animal noises in the distance, but nothing close enough to fear. After frying up and eating the fish, they split a can of strawberries for dessert. Between them it was like a whole swelling song. A harmony of nothing and thinking and peace. The temperature fell a little further with the sun gone away, and now they could see their breath, so they put on their coats and huddled close to the fire and close to one another, leaning up against a big rock. Arthur sensed that something was on Mary Beth's mind. She seemed to watch the fire like she was begging it to breathe into life, a Phoenix.

“Mary Beth,” he said, after some time.

“Yes, Arthur?”

“Everything okay? You seem a little...quiet.”

“I’m fine.” she said. She shifted toward him, held her hands over the fire. “I just been thinking. The country up here is big and it makes me feel things. That’s all.”

“I get that,” said Arthur. “I get that a lot.”

They warmed their hands to the flame. She leaned against him, casually, placed her head on his shoulder. “Are you okay?” she said.

“I’m fine,” said Arthur. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” she said. “Or—just, last night. You had a bad dream. Do you remember?” She was looking up at the dark night sky. The smoke from the fire went up and was mingling with the stars.

Arthur didn't say anything at first. "Nevermind," she said.

“It's all right," he said. He looked down at his gloved hands. "I do remember. Sort of. I remember the dream.”

“What was it?”

“I’ve had it a couple times now,” he said, scratching at the back of his neck. He wore his hat with a judicious feather of Cardinal. “It’s like, I’m living inside this polar bear skin.”

“A polar bear?” said Mary Beth.

“Yeah. I’m about to die, but I climb out instead, and when I do, the world is gone. It’s burned. It wakes me like that every time.”

“That sounds awful,” said Mary Beth.

“It ain’t pleasant,” said Arthur, resituating against the rock. He pulled his knees up to study the elaborate threading of his leather boots. “And every time I wake up from the dream, I been seeing something different. Someone different.”

“Like who?” she said. "Like Eliza?"

He looked at her, curious. He nodded. "Like Eliza."

She perked up a little, her eyebrows very pursed in concern. “That is what you said to me. You thought I was her?”

“Yes, or no. It wasn't that simple.”

“Who is she, Arthur?”

Arthur was quiet about it. The barbed wire creeping. But he was aching, too. He didn’t see the good in holding it inside. Not here, all alone out here, just them two. He and Mary Beth, they saw the world in such a similar way. He had opened up to her before. He sighed. “I can’t remember the last time I talked about this,” he said, almost to no one, to nothing. Almost laughing at himself.

“I know you had a girl once, before Mary Gillis. Abigail...she might have mentioned, once. Don't blame her. It wasn't gossip. Is that Eliza?”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Arthur.

Mary Beth just nodded. “I see. Is it bad? Is it bad, what happened?”

“She died,” said Arthur, surprising even himself. The words tasted, felt odd in his mouth. He picked up the empty can of strawberries. He studied the label. “We had a baby. A boy. He grew to about four years old, and then the two of them—they was killed by bandits, at home. For ten dollars. I wasn’t there. I suppose I dream about it, sometimes. I want you to know, I wasn’t calling you Eliza, Mary Beth. It wasn’t that. I was just…confused about where I was, after the dream and all. I’m sorry. These dreams—they can really take hold of you if you ain't prepared, which one never really can be.”

Mary Beth was staring now, right into him. He was staring at the fire, but he could feel her. She linked her arm inside of his with a great deal of intent. It was sort of like she already knew, or like she had divined it out of him, but of course that was foolish. He felt her little arm in his.

“I’m so sorry, Arthur,” she said. “Truly, I am. Thank you for trusting me with your story. For letting me help you carry it.”

“Of course,” he said, tossing the can into the darkness. “But there ain't nothing to be sorry for. I’m just shocked I found a way to say it out loud again.” It felt simple right now, but he knew. He knew nothing was so simple as just talking. He took a very deep breath.

Mary Beth smiled. He smiled down at her, in some sort of relief or embarrassment. She just put her head back on his shoulder for a little while and they waited beside one another, feeling the earth, hard and sore beneath their boots.

“You want some gin?” she said in a little while, out of nowhere. "Seems appropriate."

“Gin?”

“Mrs. Lizette Winterson gave me a novelty bottle before we left the B&B,” said Mary Beth. “You want some?”

Arthur smiled. “They sure liked you.”

“They liked you, too,” she said, and she hopped up. She patted him on his hat and then went to fetch the bottle off her horse nearby. “It’s a good bottle. It smells clean.”

“Clean is good,” said Arthur.

“You want some?”

“Sure. Just a little though.”

“A little is good,” said Mary Beth. She sat back down by his side and poured a couple slugs into their tin cups from dinner. She garnished the gin with little sprigs of mint, mostly for the looks, but it smelled nice. They touched their cups together.

“What are we toasting to?” said Arthur.

“I’m not sure,” said Mary Beth. "What's brought us here?"

“It was Sean, wasn't it?" said Arthur. "Old Sean MacGuire."

She got bright. “That’s right,” she said. And she held up her glass. “To Sean, and to all those who’ve gone from this life and on to the next.”

“To Sean,” said Arthur, solemn, but grateful. “He was a gotdam idiot, but I liked him.”

"Me, too."

They drank.

Arthur liked the gin—the mint made it feel very refreshing, like a cap on his sadness. Meanwhile, Mary Beth immediately shook out her head and laughed. “Yuck,” she said.

“Yuck?” said Arthur, admiring the gin in the bottom of his cup. “Tastes like Christmas trees if you ask me.”

“Well you are clearly more accustomed to the hard stuff, Arthur Morgan.”

“I don’t doubt that, Mary Beth Gaskill.”

They drank some more. Mary Beth sipped hers little by little and seemed to become tipsy in an instant. She was funny now, like she was trying to lighten the mood. To cheer him up as she was wont to do, and she spoke very fast about many things that interested her about their trip so far. The color of the mountains, the idiots on the bridge, the funny Frenchwoman, Lawrence and his little glasses, Arthur's bullet wound, the fight. Just as he had thought, she liked the orange flowers of the terrain very much. She liked the sky here, too. She said it was so clear, she thought to drink it. He thought it a beautiful image. Arthur listened to her talk, and he listened to the night world going off around them. It seemed safe. They were safe here, he thought. No trouble would befall them that night. He had decided. He sipped his gin.

“You know,” said Mary Beth, after a little while. She had finished her cup and poured a little more. Arthur stopped after one. He could sense she had warmed to him and she felt him responding. He was okay inside, sort of. She could tell.

“What is it?” he said.

“I used to have a really good daddy,” she went on, a little random, peering down into her drink. She nodded, stirred it a little with her finger. "He was a good man."

“Is that right?”

“He was a blacksmith,” she said. She took another sip. “And he was good to my mama and my brother and me. He was a literate man. We all could read, he saw to it. We had a homestead ranch in the cuts outside of Shawnee, Kansas.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” said Arthur.

“Oh yes,” said Mary Beth, smiling to herself. “Well, I did. Before he died, that is. He was about four years older than me.”

The way she'd said it was nonchalant. Arthur fixed on her. She was watery in her eyes now. Not drunk, but softened by the booze. He knew she wasn’t done with her story and sensed her unfolding. Like she was going to tell him now, her tragic past. Just as he had told her his. “Go on,” he said.

“My mama was a baker, and she sold her pies to the local market. I had a good childhood.”

“That sounds real good, Mary Beth. Real good."

“Yeah, it was,” she said.

He waited. She seemed like she wanted to set down her cup. It was not empty, but she seemed to be finished with it. He held out his hand, she gave it to him. He set it aside, staring right at her. But she was looking at her boots.

“When I was about twelve," she continued, dreamy at first, but then solemn, sniffling from the cold, "my parents was out, on the town one night. They went to a show or something. They was in love. They went on dates. My brother was home with me. We was playing a card game, Spades I think. He let me stay up late. My parents was robbed that night, on the ride home, my daddy killed by bandits after his pocket book, and his coach. They took the dress off my mama’s back and she nearly died as well from the cold. Violated, of course. Probably somewhere dark, outside. Only I didn’t realize then. I was...naive. I was twelve. When we found her, my brother covered my eyes and he put his jacket over my mama’s shoulders and we helped her home. I never saw my daddy’s body. I didn’t get to see much of anything, but I do remember my mama was just in her slip. She soon got...very ill, after that. Local doctor said she caught Typhoid Fever. Nobody knew where. The event and my daddy’s death put her at the end of her life, and she was depressed, on top of the illness. I do remember her, her drinking. All day. She wasted away. Mumbling and such, picking at her bed clothes like she thought they was infested with bugs. The fever made her say and do odd things. I’ll never forget. She died a month later.”

Arthur sighed. He took her gloved hand in his. It was very small. “I’m sorry, Mary Beth. That sounds very hard.”

She smiled, low. It was her way. To smile. To always try and smile. “Thanks, Arthur. Anyway me and my brother was taken away from each other after that. Me and Bobby. That was his name. They stuck me in a home for orphans in Shawnee, but he was old enough and he found work at the mine.”

“Coal mining?” said Arthur.

“Yeah. Coal. But he had a...accident. That’s what they told me. About a year later. A bad fall. Broke his spine. That's how he died. All the money he made, he kept squirreled away and he would bring me a billfold every Saturday. I had been saving. I used most of it to bury him proper. We had a church funeral and I was the only one who came, save for the pastor. They let me out of the orphanage for it and that is the night I slipped their eye. I went to Kansas City with fifteen dollars to my name. I met a madame who was good and she found me before it was too late. Said I was too young and too pretty for whoring but she liked my disposition and taught me to pick pockets instead. To be…persuasive. I ain’t never whored, Arthur. I ain’t never been that kind of girl, no matter how bad it got. I swear.”

She seemed nervous as she said it, like she was apologizing, or meaning to prove something to him. Arthur was just listening, but when she got to this part, he became almost alarmed—not by what she’d said, but how she’d said it. He straightened up. He felt something snag inside him. Some hard protective nature coming into focus. He didn’t want her thinking like this, feeling these things about herself. “I would never judge you for that, Mary Beth. Not ever. Do you hear?"

“Arthur—“

“I said, do you hear?"

She was fixed in his eyes, blue as winter. She believed him. He could see it. “Yes, I do.”

“Good,” said Arthur. He slouched back a little. There was a cold rock for him to lean against. He opened up his chest and put his arm around her shoulders. He kissed the top of her lavender head, held her fiercely out of some pure instinct. He was deep inside that moment and not coming up for nothing. He was reminding her of something, something real between them, and about him, who he was. What little he truly understood about himself, this was it. He wasn't going on and letting her think her worth to him somehow depended on her past hardships. They sat like that for a little while.

Meanwhile, Mary Beth felt protected and guilty and happy and uncertain and very warm in his embrace. She was tipsy, but she was not far gone, and she’d never been held like this—not by him, not by a man she cared about, so safe and familiar. The way he smelled was indescribable. It was just Arthur. Like plants and skin and warm mint on his neckerchief. Sweat and smoke and bonfires. She placed her face into the scruff on his neck and just breathed. It made her feel all better. It calmed her senses, her nerves, her sadness and her anxieties. He was allowing her to do this. He had one of his big gloved hands in her hair. He took a deep breath and she could feel his wide chest rising and then falling against her in an exhale. Then, she closed her eyes for a moment, and he began to speak in his deep voice.

“I remember that day I met you,” he said. She could hear the smiling in his voice. She opened her eyes. “We brought you back to our camp in Leawood. You had about a hundred stories and you had a…very expensive hunting knife holstered on you, if I recall correctly, one of the likes I’d never seen. What was it, five years ago?”

“About,” said Mary Beth, smiling. “I stole that knife off a brigadier. Or, that's what he said he was. I’m not sure what a brigadier would be doing in Kansas. Even still. It wasn’t hard.”

“Well, you’ve got talent.”

“I was little more than a kid I suppose,” she said. “When you found me.” She shrugged.

“You wasn’t no kid,” said Arthur, like an affirmation. He looked down at her, very serious. “You was surviving. It’s all we’ve ever done, souls like us, Mary Beth. Growing up fast, living hard, because we have to.”

His wisdom crushed into her, face first. She was so grateful. “I reckon we are just a couple of busted umbrellas, you and me,” she said. “Been through one too many storms in this lifetime.”

“Maybe,” said Arthur. “But you have taught me that there’s always some good in the world, somewhere. Despite it all. And we’ll get through it. It’s gonna be okay, Mary Beth.”

He squeezed her tight. She smiled to herself. Something between them cracked wide open. Arthur watched the fire. She put her head back onto his shoulder. She examined the sky. It was so big. So big, she could barely understand. “It sure is pretty here,” said Mary Beth, wistful. They seemed to float.

“It sure is,” said Arthur.

[boffeeceans]

Change Your Life, Chapter Four

Beatrice woke up in a cold sweat, she could vaguely remember the ride back to camp and being carried to her tent. She knows exactly why she passed out like that, it had happened before. It wasn't something to get too worried about, but it wasn't anything good either. Beatrice stood up, her head was spinning and she lost her footing a couple of times, but she eventually got out of the tent. She looked up, expecting to see a light blue sky and the sun, but was met with dark blue and the moon. She started walking, but didn't get far before she tripped over her own feet, she readied herself for the impact of the ground, but someone caught her. She looked up to see who it was and was met with Abigail's worried expression.

"You alright there?" She asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine, thank you." Beatrice looked around trying to find Arthur through her blurry vision. He was sitting at the campfire by himself. "I'm gonna go talk to Arthur, thanks again for catching me."

Abigail looked over to where Arthur was sitting, "Need some help getting over there?"

"Oh no, I think I got it," She gave Abigail a reassuring smile before straightening herself and making her way over to the campfire. She nearly tripped and fell again a couple of times making her think that maybe she should have accepted Abigail's help. It took her a while, but she got there eventually. She tried to step over the log that Arthur was sitting on, but standing on one leg made her lose her balance and she almost fell over again. She put her hand on Arthur's shoulder to regain her balance which caused him to look over to her. He got up to help her sit down. They didn't say anything, they just sat there in silence for a while staring at the fire. All that could be heard was the crackling of the fire and the various noises of sleeping people.

"I'm sorry if I scared you back there," Beatrice broke the silence. Arthur shifted a little, he didn't like to admit it, but she did scare him. She was fine one moment and the next she was on the floor.

"What happened?" Arthur looked at her just to a smile growing on her face. It confused him, he had no idea what was so funny about it.

"I didn't get a whole lot of sleep and I was busy all day long, so I… I kinda forgot to eat…"

"How do you forget to eat?" Arthur asked, even more confused than before.

"I just forget when I'm really busy and…" Her smile faded a little, but didn't completely disappear, "It's just that momma or Elijah used to remind me to eat something if that happened."

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, he reached in his satchel and got out a can of peaches and a fork, he opened the can with his knife and handed it to Beatrice, "Eat."

Beatrice's face lit up and the smile reappeared on her face bigger than before, she took the can and didn't hesitate to start eating. Arthur laughed at the sight of her just shoveling down peaches like it was nothing.

"What?" Beatrice asked with big blue eyes and half a peach in her mouth, which caused Arthur to laugh harder. "I fuckin' love peaches, alright?" She said after she swallowed the peach.

"I didn't say anythin'" Arthur felt something warm growing within his chest when she smiled at him, she had smiled at him before, but never this genuine. The feeling reminded him of when he saw Isaac for the first time.

Arthur's thoughts got cut short when Beatrice got up after finishing her peaches. Damn that kid can eat fast, Arthur thought before getting up himself. Beatrice stretched and yawned, "I'm gonna go back to sleep and you look tired, so you should too."

"I will." She was right, he was tired; he hadn't closed an eye ever since she passed out.

Beatrice smiled and pulled him into a hug, Arthur tensed at the gesture. No one has given him a hug in years, but he returned it after a couple of seconds.

"You stayed up for me, didn't you?" Her voice was muffled by being buried in his shoulder; not being quite tall enough to reach above it.

Arthur chuckled, "Yeah, you got me."

Beatrice broke away from the hug and gave him one last smile, "Goodnight." She turned around and walked to her tent.

"Goodnight."

Arthur watched her, that warm feeling never left his chest and he had a smile on his face. There was something about her, she was strong and vulnerable at the same time. He felt the need to protect her the way he couldn't protect Isaac.

---

Weeks have passed and Beatrice was allowed to tag along with Arthur on more jobs because she more than proved herself after busting Micah out of jail. She stole a stagecoach with him and Hosea. They did it at night, Beatrice and Arthur went inside to rob the house while Hosea took the stagecoach. They got a couple hundred dollars from that and Dutch was happy. A couple of days later John, Charles, Arthur, and Sean robbed a train while Beatrice and Micah robbed a banking coach.

It took some convincing to let her go on a job with just Micah. Arthur didn't like the idea one bit, but he eventually let her go.

Robbing the coach seemed to go really well, they got it without missing a shot. It was easy, at least they thought it was until they got ambushed by O'Driscoll's. It was starting to get more and more clear why the Van der Linde's wanted them dead and vice versa. It took a while, but Beatrice and Micah got rid of them and they rode back to camp with just a couple scratches and an extra twelve hundred dollars in their pockets.

Arthur and Abigail had been coming up to Beatrice with snacks throughout the day to make sure she didn't pass out again. She didn't appreciate Arthur telling Abigail about it at first, Beatrice didn't want to be seen as weak, but Abigail assured her that that wasn't the case. It took a little getting used to, they treated her like she could starve to death any second.

Beatrice stood next to her horse with a mostly empty cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She was thinking about maybe going out for a ride, the last time when she was around this many people for more than a couple of hours was on the ranch and she was getting kind of sick of it.

She watched Arthur talk to Abigail, she couldn't hear it, but Arthur didn't seem too happy about whatever Abigail asked him. He made his way over to Jack who was sitting close to where Beatrice was standing. He said something about going fishing and Beatrice thought that she might tag along. Arthur mounted his horse and pulled Jack on with him shortly after. Beatrice dumped the remaining bit of coffee on the floor and put the cup in her saddlebag while Arthur and Jack rode out of camp. She mounted her horse and caught up to them.

Arthur looked to his right to see Beatrice riding next to him, "Where are you goin'?"

Beatrice flashed him a smile, "Wherever you are."

"Why?"

She shrugged, "Because I'm bored, I guess."

Arthur nodded at her and continued his conversation with Jack until they arrived at the river. Arthur taught Jack how to fish while Beatrice sat next to them, she stared out into the river and watched how the fish circled around the bait. It didn't take long until Jack got bored and started doing something else.

"Not catching much there, are ya?" She said with a slight laugh behind her words.

Arthur looked down at her and raised his eyebrows, "What? You think you can do better?"

Beatrice laughed, "Definitely not, I'm better at hunting. Elijah, however, wouldn't hesitate to take that rod from you."

Arthur slowly nodded and focused his gaze back on the river, Beatrice didn't speak of Elijah often, but there was always something of a smile on her face when she did. Arthur wanted to know more about him; not sure if they'll ever get to meet, so he decided to just ask, "What's he like?"

"Who? Eli?"

Arthur nodded again.

"Well…" Beatrice thought about how she was going to say this in the nicest way possible, "He's kind of an asshole," There wasn't a nice way to say it, "He left me in the middle of nowhere for fucks sake, I could've died!" Beatrice kept ranting on about how she hated him and that she didn't care if he was alive or not. Maybe asking about Elijah wasn't such a good idea, and Maybe interrupting Beatrice wasn't such a good idea either, but he had to do it.

"You don't mean that."

Beatrice confirmed that it wasn't a good idea by the way she looked at him, she was mad and didn't appreciate Arthur telling her what she did and didn't mean, "How the hell would you know that?" She got up and looked him in the eye, "You know nothing about me." Her expression softened when she saw the hurt look in his eyes and averted her gaze, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, "I'm sorry… I just-" She took a deep breath and started walking towards her horse, "I'll see you back at camp."

Arthur wished that he could've said something, but she was right, he didn't know her. He wanted to though, but giving Beatrice her space was the best option right now.

---

She shouldn't have done that. Shouldn't have said those things about Elijah, Shouldn't have yelled at Arthur. He was right now that she thought about it; she really didn't mean it. Elijah was her brother and she loved him, even if he left her for dead. Beatrice hadn't gone straight back to camp, she had to blow some steam off and decided that she would go hunting. She had managed to catch a rabbit and a deer before riding back to camp. She asked John to carry the deer for her after already struggling to get it on her horse. Beatrice leaned against Pearson's table with a sigh and looked around for Arthur, she had to apologize. Not just a quick sorry so that she could leave, a real apology.

She spotted Arthur talking to Miss Grimshaw, It was hard to hear them from the distance, but she could make out something about a letter and a woman named Mary.

"What're you thinkin' about?"

Beatrice looked at John who was now standing next to her, also leaning on the table, "What?"

"You were staring at nothing, so there must be something on your mind."

"Nothing, really. Just…" She bit the inside of her cheek before speaking again, "Who's Mary?"

John scratched the back of his head, he was not expecting that question, "She's uh… she's Arthur's ex-fiancée."

"Oh- wait. Arthur was engaged?"

"Yeah, why are you asking me about Mary anyway?"

Beatrice nodded her head towards Arthur, "He got a letter from her."

John moved his head to look at him and saw he was reading the letter, he looked sad, "Well, that can't be anything good.

Arthur placed the letter and his satchel, Beatrice's gaze followed him as he moved toward her and John. He walked past them without saying a word, he didn't even look at them. She moved away from the table and watched Arthur mount his horse and ride out of camp.

"what are you planning?" John asked.

Beatrice looked over her shoulder, "I'm not planning anything." She said as she stepped towards her horse.

"You're gonna follow him, aren't ya?"

She gave him an innocent smile, "Of course not."

John shook his head with a slight laugh and went on to do something else.

---

Beatrice did indeed follow Arthur, she couldn't help it, her curiosity got the better of her and she had to know who this Mary was. She made sure to keep her distance, but that didn't stop her from flinching every time Dynamite stepped in a twig. She stayed behind him until he rode up to a small farm on the outskirts of Valentine, Beatrice diverted off the road and onto a small hill. She dismounted and shooed him away, crouching down she slowly made her way past the barn, and to the side of the house.

Beatrice listened in on the conversation between Mary and Arthur. They both sounded sad and were hesitant with their words, which was to be expected since they haven't seen each other in years. Mary needed help with her little brother, Arthur didn't agree to help her right away. He went on about how her family didn't like him and that he wasn't good enough for them, but he eventually agreed by asking where Jamie was.

"I owe you."

"You already owe me."

Hearing their last exchange made her think of something, something incredibly stupid, something she definitely shouldn't do, but something she is going to do. Beatrice walked back to the road and waited on her horse until Mary exited the house to go to the train station. Beatrice moved her horse into a slow-paced after Mary passed her, she didn't worry too much about the distance; Mary didn't know her anyway. Beatrice walked into the train station when Mary was just starting to sit down.

"Mary?"

Mary looked up from her book, confusion, and surprise written all over her face, "Do I know you?"

"No uh, no you don't," Beatrice moved her hat more towards the back of her head so that Mary could see her face properly, "I'm Beatrice Morgan… Arthur's daughter."

Mary's eyes widened, "I- he never told me he had a daughter."

"Well, he couldn't have, he only found out a few months ago."

Beatrice took the seat next to Mary, she should have planned out what she was going to say before approaching her. They sat in silence for a while, an uncomfortable one. Beatrice tried to offer Mary a cigarette, but she declined, making the situation more awkward. Every time Beatrice went to say something she closed her mouth again, she knew what she wanted to say, but not how.

"Is there a reason why you came to see me?"

There it was. The perfect opportunity to just blurt it out, and she did. and then she wished she didn't. The expression and Mary's face was… not good, not in the slightest. Beatrice prepared herself to get yelled at or something, but the next words that left Mary's mouth weren't directed at her.

"Jamie!"

Oh shit. It was good that Mary was reunited with her brother, what wasn't good was that Arthur came back while Beatrice was still in the train station. She quickly grabbed the newspaper from the table and pretended to read it and hoped that Arthur hadn't already seen her.

"Beatrice."

She lowered the newspaper revealing a sweet smile, "Arthur."

"What the hell are you doin' here?"

"I uh… I was just having a lovely conversation with Mary over here." She gestured over to Mary who was grabbing her bags. Arthur shook his head and dismissed Beatrice for now, He took Mary's bags and walked her to the train. When she got on the train she turned around and glared at Beatrice for a second before focusing on Arthur.

"I… you're… oh you'll never change. I know that."

It took everything in Beatrice's power to not go up to her and yell to her about how Arthur is a great person, maybe not great, but better than most outlaws and that he deserved so much better than here. But instead of doing all that she just scoffed. Arthur turned around to face Beatrice, there was a variety of emotions displayed on his face, but he was quick to hide them.

"What did you say to her?"

"Oh nothin' important, really." Beatrice turned around and started to leave.

"Don't lie to me, I saw the way she glared at you."

Beatrice stopped in her tracks and hung her head low, "I told her…" She took a deep breath before continuing, "to go on a date with you instead of just asking you to run her errands." She spoke so fast, she just hoped that Arthur understood what she said.

"Jesus Christ, kid." Arthur sounded disappointed, which is worse than mad in a way.

Beatrice turned around with downcast eyes, "I'm sorry for following you and talking to your ex," She looked up and sighed, "I'm sorry for yelling at you earlier today, I- I shouldn't have done that. I'm really so-"

"I'm gonna stop you before you say sorry again," Arthur chuckled. "I get it, I shouldn't have asked."

"No, you had every right to ask," Beatrice smiled at him, "Besides, he is your son after all. How about I buy you a drink as a formal apology?"

Arthur thought for a moment, it was still early, but he could definitely use a drink after all that, "Sure, why not.'

"Great!" They started walking towards the saloon, "Y'know, I'm actually glad she didn't ask you out on a date."

Arthur raised his eyebrows, "And why's that?"

"It's just that you deserve much better than her and she's kind of a b-" Arthur elbowed her in the ribs before she could finish her sentence, "Unpleasant woman. She's an unpleasant woman and I don't like her."

Arthur shook his head, she wasn't the only one that didn't like Mary. He's pretty sure Abigail didn't like her, but she barely knew her so that wasn't much to off. He placed a hand on Beatrice's shoulder and squeezed it a little.

They walked up to the bar when they entered the saloon and Beatrice placed some money on the counter, "A bottle of whiskey with two glasses please."

"Wait," Arthur blinked a few times, "a bottle?"

"Yeah, a bottle." Beatrice moved away from the bar and sat at an empty table.

"I thought we were just going for a drink, not a whole damn bottle."

"Oh come on," She poured him a drink, "We won't end up in jail, I promise."

Arthur looked at the drink, then at Beatrice, "Oh, what the hell,"

It was past midnight, the bottle was almost empty and Beatrice was singing very loud and off-key. Arthur wasn't half as drunk as her, sure he drank quite a bit, but not enough to not remember what he did the next day. He was talking to some guy about who knows what, until Beatrice came up to him with the biggest smile on her face and grabbed his hand.

"We gotta go, right now." Her words were slurred and barely audible.

"Why?"

Beatrice pulled him towards the door, "Trust me, now come on."

Arthur said a quick goodbye to the stranger and followed her out the door and to their horses, he had to prevent her from falling multiple times, because she couldn't walk straight and was constantly tripping over her feet. They stopped by their horses and Beatrice just started laughing.

"What's so funny?"

She reached into her pockets and pulled out money, rings, watched, and other valuables. "I robbed every goddamn bastard in that place," She said, way too loud and still laughing.

"Jesus, put that away and keep your voice down,"

"Sorry," She whispered, she tried to open one of her saddlebags to place the valuables in it but was clearly failing to do so. Arthur opened it for her and laughed at the state she was in; fumbling around and almost dropping everything she was holding. She tried to put her foot in the stirrup but fell backwards as soon as she lifted her foot off the ground. Luckily Arthur stood right behind her and was able to catch her in time, he helped to her feet and turned her to face him. He grabbed her by the waist and lifted her on the back of her horse, "I can ride myself."

Arthur laughed and lifted himself into the saddle, "I don't think so, kid. Just don't throw up on me," He said, he whistled for his own horse to follow and rode out of town.

Beatrice scoffed and pouted, drunk her didn't agree with this one bit, but sober her would be thankful. She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face between his shoulder blades. "You should read momma's journal if you want to know more about Elijah."

Arthur looked over his shoulder and was about to say something, but Beatrice already forgot what she said and started singing Ring Dang Doo at an extremely high volume.

---

Beatrice woke up everyone in camp with her singing, but she shut up and fell asleep as soon as her head hit her pillow. Arthur sighed in relief and walked towards his own tent, he laid down on his cot and tried to sleep, but found himself unable to. He kept thinking about what Beatrice said, he hadn't opened the journal since he first got it. He wouldn't want anyone to read his journal and thought it was a violation of privacy, but curiosity got the better of him. He opened the chest where he kept his clothes and reached for the book at the bottom of it. He sat back on his cot and opened the journal on the first page only to be surprised to be met with an envelope with his name on it. He slowly opened it, the letter was stained with tears and blood spatters, he took a deep breath and started reading it.

Dear Arthur,

If you're reading this, you know that I was pregnant, gave birth to two beautiful children and that I'm dead. It's weird to say that I'm dead when I'm still breathing, barely mind you, but still breathing. I got diagnosed with tuberculosis sometime last year and it made me think about all the unfinished business that I have. Telling you about Elijah and Beatrice was one of those things, but I have no idea where the hell you are and I'm running out of time.

I want to give you this journal, I wrote a bunch of letters in it meant for you, but I was too cowardly to ever send the first ones and after a while, I realized you guys would've moved and I had no idea where to send them. There's eighteen years worth of information in this thing and I want you to read it.

Please take care of them for me, and take care of yourself as well. I wish I didn't leave, I left because I wanted a safe life for them, but that didn't work out. I still love you and I think about you every day. I hope you found someone to love again, someone you can spend the rest of your life with, someone who tells you everything and doesn't keep things from you that you have every right to know about. I'm sorry.

I left because I was scared, I didn't know how you would react and teenage me thought it was a good idea to just leave without a word instead of just talking about it with you. I'm not asking you to ever forgive me for that, but I am gonna ask that you keep them from doing reckless things.

Good luck with reading all the letters.

Love,

Ethelyn Lowe.

[michaelssw0rd]

FIRST LINES

Okay so @fleetofshippyships tagged me in this. And because I KNOW there would be a pattern in my fics, let’s do this :P

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR TAGGING ME. It’s so much fun to talk about your own writing and like... self reflect :P

Putting it under read more cause this is gonna be long :P

1. Bond Girl. (Merlin/Arthur)

“No.”

“Come now Merlin, you know you can’t refuse me.” Arthur wheedles.

“I can and I am doing it. No. Not happening. Not ever. Nope.” Merlin tries to ignore the blond agent sitting across his desk who has been annoying him for the better part of the last hour and pretends to concentrate on his laptop. 

2. Keepsake. (Harold/John)

Harold can still feel John’s presence in the room. The man is silent like panther, even his breath barely makes any noise, but Harold has been able to detect his proximity for quite a while now. It is unmistakable in the absence of the vacuum he leaves behind when he isn’t around; both in the library, and in Finch’s heart.

3. Words that Burn. (Merlin/Arthur)

“I quite like flowers,” Freya said shyly, at which most of the people chuckled, and Gwen patted her on her arm.

“Flowers are nice,” Gwen agreed, ever supportive. “Personally, I would like a thoughtful date, a home cooked meal. Simple, but considerate.”

4. Very Loud. (Harold/John)

Sitting in one of Harold’s classes was fascinating. Doubly so when Professor Whistler’s eyes roamed the class and finally settled on him, widening fractionally. It was endlessly entertaining to see the deer in the headlights look on Finch’s face.

5. So the bar is where I go. (Harold/John)

Harold is nursing his drink and wondering why he even bothered coming here. He doesn't particularly enjoy cheap booze, or the loud music. Nor does he enjoy the way people’s eyes are lingering on him. He especially dislikes it when someone asks him if the seat next to him is free, or worse, tries to buy him a drink.

Which, considering the reason he decided to come here in the first place, is odd.

6. Anchor Holds. (Harold/John) (God. I both loved and HATED writing this fic)

The monitors beeped intermittently, a regular rhythm that gave a sense of normality… safety.

To John, sitting with his head bowed and holding Harold’s frail limp hand in both of his… safety was a thing of the past; of a time when Harold was healthy, was speaking, was laughing at his jokes and reprimanding him for being careless.

7. Outfitters. (Arthur/Merlin)

Arthur sauntered into the tent, pride in the set of his shoulders, satisfaction in his steps. He had won. Of course he had. Technically he knew he was the best swordsman in the kingdom, but it sure was nice to see the proof of it every now and then. Especially now when he got to exercise his combat skills so rarely, stuck in the mundane paperwork that came with his title.

8. What’s a little felony in the name of love. (Root/Shaw)

Detective Joss Carter snaps the handcuffs around Root’s wrists, binding them at her front, tightening them to a side of too much. She flinches and looks at her in disdain, mouthing an “Ow,” and then smiling brightly.

9. Perfect Code. (Harold/John)

The weight of the solid gold on his finger felt grounding- like it was a part of him that had been missing until now. He stares at it in awe for a few moments, his hand resting on top of John’s, the wedding band glinting in the light.

10.  Stand-in Valentine. (Merlin/Arthur)

This was humiliating. (posting just one line cause like, lol. it defines the fic)

11. Taste of Leather. (Harold/John) (oh god this one)

Harold was sitting in a high backed chair, his legs wide open, wearing one of his more luxurious of suits and black oxford shoes. He felt like he was burning up, there was a heat spreading through his veins- almost shameful in its intensity- despite the rather chilly weather outside. His tie was properly in place and he felt the need to pull on it, to breathe properly, but suppressed it viciously. John needed this. John had asked for it.

And God help him, Harold was going to make sure he gave him that.

12. Right little know it all. (Harold/John)

John entered the library, dressed to impress. They were going to a high end charity function in order to get eyes on a number, and John was Harold’s plus one. On his footsteps, Finch turned and gave him a long and lingering once over from the shoes to the face. Except his eyes never reached his face… they stopped somewhere around his neck, his face pinched in irritation.

13. A Good Sister. (Arthur/Merlin)

Arthur sighs despondently for the tenth time in as many minutes. Morgana turns around to look at her step brother, with his face buried in his folded arms on the desk he makes a very forlorn picture. She gets an idea.

14. Stay there. (Harold/John)

John stirs, a groan spilling from his lips. The first thing he registers is pain. Everywhere. Having no memory of how he got here, he tries to focus on his surroundings. It’s difficult to open his eyes, his vision blurry. He wonders why everything is so dark, panicking for a moment, before realizing its night.

15. Quiet Contemplation. (Harold/John)

Finally done with the Number, the perpetrator in Detective Carter’s hands, the victim safe while John covered the last of his tracks, Harold let himself relax. He stretched his back, hearing it pop and wincing at the sound. He was going to need a massage, or a hot bath. A smile strayed on his lips at that thought, of John scrubbing his back and massaging shampoo in his hair as they indulged in the Jacuzzi. After successfully saving two Numbers today, he was pretty sure they had earned this.

16.Appropriate Winter Attire. (Harold/John)

The snow was falling pretty thick, as he and Harold stood on the sidewalk, his eyes tracking the number as she bought a newspaper and sat on a bench. John winced, and then shuddered lightly, just by the idea of how cold the steel bench must be. Compulsively, he took a sip of his hot coffee, willing it to chase the chill away.

17. Coziness. (Harold/John)

John opened his eyes and let contentment seep into every joint of his body. Stretching in the bed like a cat- a panther- he felt the soreness in the muscles and relished in it. It was a testament to the fact that he was doing his job; saving people.

18. This Road. (Harold/John)

Step. Raise your foot, bring it down, stabilize, raise the other foot, bring it down…

And repeat.

One step followed by another, endlessly.

19. But You can buy shoes. (Merlin/Arthur)

“Hello Sir. Welcome to Gaius’. How may I help you?” Merlin looked up when the door chime jingled, and stopped short at spotting one of the most breathtakingly handsome men he had ever seen step inside. Young, build like a sex god, with sun kissed hair and sharp cut jaw.

(I am gonna be self indulgent and add a Loki/tony one too cause it’s OLD but i love it)

20. Red. (Loki/Tony)

Loki did not like red on Stark’s skin.

When it adorned his body, an armor, which Loki had caressed reverently many times, there was something majestic about it; like the color of a warrior unafraid of anything; like the color of a king. In a battle, the crimson and gold whipping past you, smashing enemies many times its size, annihilating them, was awe inspiring. Beautiful, like a blooming first rose of the season, and mesmerizing, like the sun dipping over the horizon.

I should’ve linked the stories... but I was lazy! also i am kinda blown away that I HAVE 20 STORIES. I never thought i would so many. Okay the only author I know with a lot of stories is @talking2thesky so i am tagging you. But do it only if you feel like it :D