#raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh my sad cowboys

[primasveraas-writing]

go gentle into that good night

Hosea outlives Arthur.

word count: 2087

warnings: major character death

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Hosea’s joints protest when he sits back down; his shoulder and back in particular ache. But he ignores it, just as he’s done for many days prior, and settles in at Arthur’s bedside.

The other man attempts a smile at him. His lips are cracked and bloodstained. It’s a sorry sight; Arthur’s face is stained purple and yellow with bruises, and worse still are the signs of sickness that have refused to fade. Under the bruises, he’s sickly white. His eyes are blackened and red-rimmed and clouded with fever. Every inhale is a wheeze and Arthur shudders with pain on every exhale.

Hosea reaches out to his boy, wiping the sweat from Arthur’s face with a handkerchief. He tries to smile back.

“You don’t hafta…” Arthur whispers, and Hosea shakes his head.

“Stop that, Arthur. I’m going to take care of you.”

Three days ago, Arthur had directed him to a veteran’s homestead, not far off from camp. At first, Hosea had protested that he should go with Arthur or stay with Tilly and Jack, but the Marstons needed to flee far and even weeks after Guarma, Hosea could only manage to travel short distances. Arthur had pleaded with him, told him that Hamish would take care of him, and said that he’d find him soon. He’d been lying, Hosea knew, about that last part. But Arthur had begged between coughs, and he couldn’t deny that their family was finally beyond saving, so he’d gone. And when night fell, Arthur still hadn’t appeared.

Hosea had left Dutch to his madness. John was said to be dead; he’d left young Tilly and Jack behind. They’d parted with words of love, but he’d abandoned them to their fates nonetheless. Maybe the gunshot wound in his shoulder prevented him from holding a rifle, maybe he’d felt sapped of strength since returning to the mainland, but knowing this made the farewell no less painful. And in the early hours of the morning, Hosea decided he would not let his goodbye to Arthur be final. 

“It’s dangerous,” Hamish had warned. “The law’s been all over the area. Not to mention your own people running amok…”

“He’s my boy,” Hosea had said. His throat was oddly tight. “If he’s out there, I have to look for him.”

So he had. He started at Beaver Hollow to find dead Pinkertons and Susan Grimshaw staring sightlessly into the surrounding woods. It was some hollow, bare consolation that he hadn’t recognized any other bodies, but the weight in his gut had only deepened. After closing Susan’s eyes and whispering a soft farewell, Hosea continued on into the night. He wandered until he found more bodies; first of lawmen, then Arthur’s horse. 

He’d known then that what he discovered next would break whatever pieces remained of his heart. He’d climbed the mountain. And although the sight of Arthur’s ruined body on the rocks had indeed shattered him, when Hosea heard the rattle of his breath, something like hope warmed in his chest.

On the fourth morning, Arthur sits, propped up by pillows with Hosea in a chair next to him. He’s been awake for almost an entire hour. He doesn’t talk much, for if he does, then coughs will tear through him, and blood will dribble from his lips, and Hosea cannot stand to see that any more times than he already has. But Arthur is awake, obediently taking sips of water until he starts to cough and retches some of it up. When that happens, Hosea wraps his arms around Arthur’s shoulder and holds him while the fit passes, watching as blood and phlegm and bile spill from Arthur’s mouth. Then, when Arthur is done gasping for air, Hosea leans him back against the pillows with shaking arms. It takes several minutes for his breathing to return to its normal, trembling wheeze.

“Do you remember…” Arthur starts after Hosea has cleaned him up, and Hosea shushes him. But Arthur shakes his head and continues on, his voice a rasp. “We talked about how we wanted to be buried. D’you ‘member?”

“I remember,” Hosea says quietly. He takes Arthur’s hand in his own, stroking the back of it with his thumb. The skin is cracked and thin.

“Facin’ west,” Arthur murmurs. “Please, Hosea. Don’t want it any other way. Hamish’ll help you.”

“I’m not going to bury you, Arthur,” Hosea says, frowning at the man before him.

“Well somebody’s got to,” Arthur says, and he has the nerve to crack a smile. “I’m dyin’, Hosea. ‘s only a matter of time.”

“You’re going to get better, do you hear me?” Hosea’s voice cracks. “ I went back there to save you. And I have.”

“You have,” Arthur agrees. “But look at me.”

Hosea does. Arthur’s chest rises and falls unevenly. Each breath is shallow and pained; Hosea is sure that under the bandages wound around his chest are broken ribs, and underneath that, lungs ruined beyond repair. His right hand is broken; his face is swollen and flushed. Somehow, Hosea didn’t think it could get any worse than it had been when Arthur returned to them on the shores of Guarma. He’d been half delirious, exhausted, and gaunt. And the coughs had been awful. But now, looking down at Arthur, he knows it's far, far worse. This is not the man he knows, not even when that man had been at his hurt and sickest. This is the shell of a person who’d once been living.

“‘m sorry,” Arthur says. His eyes are still closed, but he squeezes Hosea’s hand. “Ain’t right to bury your child. I’m sorry, ‘sea.”

This is the worst pain he’s ever felt. With Bessie, it had felt like the ground had been swept out from under his feet, that he was drowning. With Arthur, it feels like the world is at an end, like even if he surfaces there will be no air to save him. With Bessie, he’d hated dawn for coming, but now Hosea cannot see a future without Arthur in which the sun still rises.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Hosea whispers, the words barely audible. Arthur doesn’t respond, lost to pain or sleep. Hosea bows his head, resting his forehead on their intertwined hands. 

Arthur slips deeper into fever that night, shivering against the cold despite the blankets covering him and the fire roaring in the hearth. It feels cruel. As if Arthur weren’t sick enough- and Hosea knows that Arthur’s body can’t take much more. There will be no fighting off this bout of illness.

Hosea tries to sleep when Arthur sleeps, although he’s afraid that Arthur will slip away without him realizing. He can’t tell which he dreads more- the prospect of holding Arthur’s hand as he breathes his last, or waking and finding him already gone. All he knows now is fear and grief as he watches Arthur die.

Moments of lucidity and consciousness are fleeting. Mostly, Arthur groans in pain or coughs. He’s no longer able to stomach the mouthfuls of broth Hosea spoons into his mouth. It’s quiet, aside from the ragged sounds of Arthur struggling to breathe, and impossibly lonely. 

Arthur is going to die.

There is nothing now that Hosea can do other than watch it happen.

He wishes they had more time. That Arthur felt just a little better, that they could have one last ride together, one last fishing trip. One more conversation that lasts more than a few minutes before Arthur falls asleep. He wishes they could talk about all that’s happened, about Dutch, about how John got away. About their hopes for the Marstons and the others who got out in time. He misses Arthur already.

In the end, he decides there are only two things worth telling. Before Arthur dies, Hosea only needs him to hear two things, and maybe then, he’ll be able to let Arthur go.

When Arthur wakes next, it’s because of a coughing fit that lasts for several minutes. As soon as it fades, Arthur slumps back, his eyes shutting. He hardly acknowledges Hosea when he wipes the blood and spit from his chin, and Hosea pauses.

“Arthur, wait,” he says suddenly, and Arthur’s eyes slowly open again. “Don’t go to sleep just yet, I need to tell you something.”

“What’s wrong?” Arthur wheezes, blinking the fatigue away. He tries to sit up, but Hosea sets his hands on his shoulders and pushes him back down. 

“Nothing’s wrong. I just-“ Hosea breathes in. “I need you to know, Arthur, that you are loved.”

“Hosea-”

“The way Dutch treated you weren’t right. It weren’t- weren’t the way a father should act. And I’m sorry if that made you feel as if you weren’t appreciated. But there’s people who care about you, son, and always will- me, John, Tilly, Abigail, Jack. I need you to know that.”

There’s a long pause. Something works its way across Arthur’s face- first, confusion, then something much different, something that reminds Hosea of when Arthur was small, still learning to trust them, still figuring out that he wouldn’t be left behind, that he was safe, that he had family. 

“I know, ‘sea,” Arthur breathes, and when his eyes close, a tear slips from under his eyelashes and runs down his cheek. 

Hosea wipes it away, and blinks back tears of his own. 

As Arthur sleeps, Hosea begins his second refrain, unsure of whether or not Arthur can actually hear him. But he speaks softly anyway, recounting each act of kindness he’d ever seen Arthur do. Rescuing John, taking Jack fishing, bringing the women coffee in the morning. The way he’d cared for his horses and for Copper. The way he’d spoken about Jack and Eliza, before it became too painful to recall. Taking Lenny under his wing, standing up for Molly before she’d died. Giving money to strangers on the street, helping anyone he came across who looked like they needed a hand.

“What’re you talkin’ about, old man?” Arthur mutters hours into it. His eyes are cracked open; he looks bleary and confused.

“You’re a good man, Arthur Morgan,” Hosea says. “And I know you don’t believe that. But I know it. I’ve seen it.”

Arthur shakes his head, but Hosea squeezes his hand, tight.

“You’re a good man,” he says again. “If you’re not going to die believing it, die knowing myself and a few others know it to be true.”

Arthur mumbles a protest, but he’s already being dragged back under by the fever and the exhaustion. Hosea doesn’t mind. He hopes that Arthur can rest.

He’s said his piece. Now, he prays that when Arthur goes, it’s gentle and quiet.

Arthur is conscious, but clearly in agony. He pants, thrashing in the bedsheets, and Hosea shushes him, smoothing the blankets down. 

“That’s alright son,” Hosea says quietly, pushing a sweaty clump of hair from Arthur’s forehead. “You’ve done good. You’ve fought long enough.”

Hosea clutches Arthur’s hand tighter. Once strong and nimble, his hand feels thin and frail in Hosea’s. His skin is clammy and cold.

“You rest now,” the older man continues. “I have you. It’s alright.”

Arthur’s eyes slowly open a minute later. He looks at Hosea, really looks at him- for the first time in days, there is no clouded confusion of the fever in his eyes. He’s covered in a sheen of sweat, his breaths coming in labored wheezes, and his face is gaunt. Heavy purple bags under his eyes stand out against his pale face, and he’s so weak he can’t turn his head. But his eyes are clear. There’s just a single moment, an instant, where their eyes meet- before Arthur’s eyelids flutter closed again and Hosea is left alone.

Hosea wakes to daylight creeping in through the window, flooding the small room of the cabin. The first sounds that register are birds chirping, and then that is drowned out by Arthur’s breathing, ragged inhales shaking his unconscious frame. There’s a rattle in his chest that’s worse than ever, and each exhale stutters.

There’s a weight in the center of Hosea’s chest, a gaping pit in his stomach that threatens to swallow him. 

“I love you son,” Hosea whispers, and he hopes that at this end, Arthur can hear him, or at least he knows the words are true. 

They stay like that, father and son, as the sun rises. And when Arthur breathes his last, he is not alone, and in his final moments before oblivion, he is loved.