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As Arthur watches the sunrise, he’s startled by the clarity of it. The rose tinge on the edges, the clouds painted a faint purple. He can feel the soft heat of it inching along his body, still carrying a twinge of chill from the night. He’s seen hundreds of sunrises — this is by far the most beautiful. Sentimental old fool, he starts to think, but is too tired to keep thinking. Everything hurts so Arthur sighs and shuts his eyes, the light of the sunrise brightening even the inside of his eyelids.
Arthur wakes up.
It’s a slow prickle into awareness. First thing he recognizes is the hammering in his head, like his mind is a horseshoe being forced into shape. He groans, but the sound is a bare rasp, his throat and mouth dry as a creek bed in drought.
The rising tickle of a cough, a promise to be a violent one, is what wakes him further. Arthur turns onto his side, convulsing on the dusty bed of rocks as he coughs. He passes out several times and finds himself cursing his existence when he somehow finds himself waking again. Couldn’t even have the decency of a peaceful death. Once, he woke so delirious, he thought he heard Dutch’s voice. The relief he felt when he thought the man had came back for him and the crashing disappointment of the silence and stillness that followed was so fierce and hot he felt tears sting the corner of his eyes. That hurt drowned out the pain of his body.
It takes most of a day, but he crawls his way back to the abandoned camp in Beaver Hollow. The Pinkertons had torn the place apart, their tents and bedding shredded, their belongings crushed under unforgiving boots or tossed into piles and burnt, the smoke still strong enough to send him into a coughing fit. They left Grimshaw where she fell, treaded around her like she was simply an object. Arthur, barely conscious, slumps next to her with his head bowed, barely able to catch his breath, barely able to even cry. Hurting, just hurting.
He manages to find a waterskin. He drinks, vomits half it, drinks some more. Near one of the piles that might have mostly been his belongings, he finds the picture frame of his mother, trampled. The photo of him, Dutch, and Hosea was discovered trapped under a plank of wood, burnt on one side so that his youthful face bubbled and warped, but he folds that and tucks it into his pocket along with his mother’s photo. Mary’s photo is buried somewhere, he doesn’t have the strength to dig for it, unsure of whether it survived or not.
A camp horse, loyal to a fault, wanders back to the wreckage. Arthur coaxes her closer with tender words, so tired he can barely do much if she bolts. She neighs softly and presses her snout to his hand, sniffing him. Arthur murmurs sweet nothings to her, grateful and full of grief, remembering his own horse’s last breath.
He gathers a few more things around camp: two tin cans of beans, a knife with a dull edge buried in the ashes, three scattered bullets for his emptied revolver. The money is gone, no doubt found by the Pinkertons. Arthur stills each time he hears movement at the edge of the camp, dreading to find one of the gang member coming back, hoping to see Micah because he still has three bullets and he believes if he held his breath he can force himself to see straight and his hand to stop quivering just long enough to put a bullet in his eye.
No one comes back.
He doesn’t dare to sleep in the camp, in case the Pinkertons decided to come back and check for stragglers. He rolls Grimshaw’s body onto her back, and the effort was enough to make him tremble. He couldn’t bury her in this state, so he shuts her eyes with a hand and brushes a few strands of her limp hair out of her scarred face. He covers her with a thread worn blanket, the edges of it singed.
“M’sorry, Susan,” he rasps, his breathing wet with phlegm and blood, “you didn’t deserve this.” He leaves the remains of the flower he kept in a bottle for his mother next to her.
It’s undeserved, but perhaps expected, for what they all were.
Arthur thinks he should have died alone on that cliff as the sun rose. But here he is. Undeserved and unexpected, the fact that he’s alive. He drags himself onto the horse, grunting and moaning from the effort and the pain. He hadn’t had a chance to review how broken he is. He clicks his tongue at the mare. They go north.
It takes two days — on the subject of what one deserves, Arthur finds it an undeserved miracle that he managed to live through that — but they approach Willard’s Rest. The widow Balfour is sitting on her porch and sees him as he approaches, her hand flitting to the repeater by her side before she stands in a hurry when she recognizes him.
He hears her call his name — “Mister Morgan? Arthur?” — before he slumps over on the horse in a coughing fit.
When he wakes again, it’s in a bed. The cabin seems quiet at first, but soon he hears the shuffle of footsteps and tinking of cutlery from outside the room. He wriggles his fingers, then his toes, and tilts his head carefully. His clothes are still stiff with blood, though Charlotte had taken off his coat and boots. He spots a tin cup of water sitting on the table stand next to him and reaches for it with a groan, a pain like a knife stabbing him through the second and third rung of his ribs.
The door opens and he glances up, still mid-reach.
“Oh, Mister Morgan, let me,” Charlotte says as she approaches, picking up the cup as Arthur settles back into bed. He lifts his head, her hand braced on his nape, and drinks, water trickling down the corner of his lips and dotting the blanket.
“I have some of my husband’s clothes for you, when you have some strength to change. I would have helped, but it was difficult enough to get you into the cabin and in the bed, I must admit,” she murmurs as he drinks. When the cup empties, he slumps back into the bed and glimpses blearily at her. Charlotte looks better, not half starved and wracked with grief like the first few times he’s seen her.
“Didn’t want to be a bother — “ he murmurs, “but I didn’t know where else to go.”
Charlotte shakes her head.
“Mister Morgan — Arthur, You saved my life. I — well, I told you, what’s mine is your’s,” she says, “you can take your time to recover here — “
“Oh, Mrs. Balfour,” he sighs, the exhale ending in a cough, “I’m afraid there’s no recovering from what I have. It’s — I don’t even know how I’m still here. Feels like my time should have been due days ago.”
Charlotte looks his face over. Arthur thinks he must look ghastly.
“You’re here,” Charlotte says finally, “and however long you’re here, I will take care of you. Like you took care of me.” Arthur’s mouth twitches, his chest feeling strange and tight. He fights the urge to look away.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I hunted us a rabbit for dinner. I’m off to skin it and we shall have stew for dinner,” Charlotte says with tinge of pride. The corner of Arthur’s mouth quirks up. “I’ll bring more water in a bit. You rest.”
And rest he does.
His cough doesn’t get better, but it also doesn’t get worse. The air here is too wet and he thinks he’s too far gone for anything to help with his illness. The cuts and bruises at least, starts to heal, the throbbing lessens, though he’s still sore all over.
It’s been ages since Arthur’s spent this long housed between walls, and at first other than Charlotte’s comings and goings, he found the silence eerie. Over time, he realizes the cabin have sounds of its own. The walls groan over the day, probably soaking up the wetness of the forest and the waterfall nearby, expanding and shrinking as the days grow hot and cold. He can hear the wildlife through the window, and Charlotte leaves it open for him during the warmest parts of the day, bringing him meals and water throughout the day. Arthur finds the sounds, and her care, to be things he got used to easily.
He sleeps a a lot, and when he sleeps, he dreams of the buck, the one he’s been seeing since he got sick. Sometimes he dreams of a wolf, well fed with its pelt gleaming under the warm haze of the sun. The buck and the wolf runs, side by side, neither falling behind or ahead.
When he’s finally well enough to get up, he helps Charlotte with the cabin in bursts. He’s lost so much weight her husband’s clothes are ill fitting even on him. She didn’t need his help much anyway, keeping a tidy house and doing most of the hunting, skinning, and cooking. For the first time in a long time, Arthur finds himself sitting around, reading the books she brought in from the city, or sketching, or just watching the forest.
“You’ve improved,” he comments one day, watching Charlotte drag her knife through the pelt of a rabbit. When he has the energy, he teaches her how to sharpen her knife, among other things he thinks will help her survive easier out here. Though he had given most of his things and his satchel to John, Arthur gifts her the gunbelt and holster he had around his waist, and the dull knife that sharpened under his care. Charlotte took to his lessons easily, her blade slicing through the sinews like butter, not even hitting bone.
“I have you to thank,” Charlotte says without looking up as she slips her thumb under the skin and peel back without flinching.
“Your husband would have been impressed, Mrs. Balfour,” Arthur comments. He was also impressed, how well she took to his advice. A part of him had thought he’d find her starved and dead the last time he returned. Or eaten.
She huffs a laugh as she wipes the side of her face on her shoulder to avoid getting blood on her cheek. “My dear Cal, bless his heart, might have wanted to uproot our lives and come live in the wild, but he would have balked at the sight of me up to the elbows in blood. He was such too gentle a soul.”
Arthur’s mouth twitches around a breathy laugh, still finding city folks puzzling.
“I’ve seen worse. The girls around my camp used to make a right mess of themselves — “ Arthur trails off. He had told her he had escaped from the law as a warning of danger he might be bringing, and that he used to belong to a gang, but not much else. Charlotte had scoffed at the idea of anyone stumbling on them here, seemingly at the edge of the world.
“Tell me more, Arthur. Please,” Charlotte says, glancing at him. “I know you miss them. I’ve seen you looking at your pictures.” He averts his gaze with a sigh, missing the brim of his hat to cover his eyes. He had fished the folded pictures out of his pockets after he had finally changed. He had set his mother’s by the bedside and kept the one of the three of them under his pillow. While still confined to the bed, he’d gaze into Dutch’s dark eyes, wondering if he could have known what was going to happen. Probably not. Not much use, looking for deceit when it’s already been done.
Arthur glances out into the woods. But he does miss them, fiercely.
As Charlotte divides the rabbit into parts, Arthur tells her about the gang. Mostly about the members: Grimshaw, how the camp stayed orderly under her watch, but also how she always made sure he was fed and clean and had clothes to wear growing up, things Dutch and Hosea often overlooked caring for a boy; Pearson and his sometimes good, most of the time bad stews, but mostly how he waited until everyone at camp ate before getting a bowl for himself; Karen’s clear-voiced singing near the campfire, and how he didn’t want to give up on her; Mary-Beth chattering excitedly to him about writing, and how he wished he did not hide his journal from her, when she so openly shared her writing with him; Tilly, like a sister, admonishing him for trying to cheat at dominos, but it was the only way he could beat her; Lenny, who should have been a lawyer, and how bad it hurt him when he died; Sadie, crazy Sadie, who stood by his side and did what was right till the end, how he hopes she managed to find some peace; Charles, silent and formidable, but he remembers the few times he caught him playing the harmonica for the girls, and that the last embrace he gave Arthur was strong and steadying. He tells her of Molly, Sean, and Kieran. He wonders if there is anyone left who’ll miss them otherwise.
Hosea — he quiets when he gets to Hosea, his spoon slacking slightly in his grip. Charlotte looks at him expectantly, but catches the look in his eyes and returns to her stew.
“I have a brother,” Arthur pivots as he gathers up the plates. He’s taken over dish washing duty since he’s so useless for everything else. “Well — he’s like a brother to me, much younger. We were raised by the gang.”
Arthur scours the tin plates. “Probably the only thing I ever did right — made sure he got to live. Too late for me, but I made sure he got back to his family and that he has a chance to live like the man he should be.”
Charlotte sips her coffee, quiet.
“You did right by me as well, Arthur,” she reminds. Arthur looks down at the plates he’s cleaning and nods. That he did.
“You were — well loved. It sounds that way to me,” she adds. Arthur clenches his jaw, swallowing.
“Maybe,” he manages, before his voices snags on a cough. His mouth tastes of bile and tinny blood. He pushes away from the sink, his hands wet and soapy, and stumbles towards the room. Charlotte’s voice ring in the back of his head and he hits the floor hard, his shoulder smarting. He blacks out.
He starts writing letters, since getting out of bed is no longer possible now. He thinks, if he’s being generous, that maybe he has a few days left. As if the last two weeks weren’t generosity enough.
Charlotte only leaves his side to fetch him water and meals. He’s never felt more cared for, yet feeble, stuck between frustration and gratitude. He’s too tired to express either.
“I should have died on the mountain,” Arthur says to her one evening. He was too weak to even finish his meal, the bowl sitting cold next to him. Charlotte writes To: John for him on an envelope before stuffing his letter into it, the paper bulging from the bulk of it. He doesn’t know where exactly to send these letters, but Charlotte says she’ll figure it out. “Felt like it was what I deserved — not this.”
Charlotte looks at him as she seals the letter.
“Maybe so,” she says. “But…I feel as if you’ve once again saved me, Arthur. Perhaps it’s bold of me to say so, but you gave me two weeks of companionship, taught me more things. If you had gotten what you think you deserved, we wouldn’t have had this time.”
Arthur listens, his eyes fluttering open and shut as he struggles to stay awake. A fire roars in the fireplace, though it’s warm enough that Charlotte doesn’t need it and he could see her hair sticking to her cheek and hairline. He feels cold.
“I think you’re a good man, Arthur Morgan, I know you say otherwise,” Charlotte says. Arthur shivers, remembering Mary’s final letter to him. Charlotte mistakes this for a chill and leans over him to adjust his covers.
“I know you did bad things, but you seem to be a good man to a lot of other people. Maybe not to everyone, but — well,” Charlotte continues before she sits, “that’s an awful lot to expect out of one man, to be good to everyone.” She glimpses Arthur, who had finally shut his eyes, her stomach dropping with dread — then he breathes a rattling breath. She sighs.
“I think you deserve this small bit of grace,” Charlotte murmurs, “and I think a lot of others will agree with me.” She leans to press a chaste kiss to his cheek, like she did the last time she said goodbye to him.
“Thank you, Charlotte,” Arthur murmurs quietly as she leaves. Arthur sleeps; he dreams of the Van der Linde Gang singing by the fire, his Mary, Isaac and Eliza, maybe waiting on him if he should be so lucky, then of the buck and the wolf, side by side.
When Arthur wakes, he’s startled by the clarity of the morning light through the window of the cabin. The light is tender and the room is warm. He feels almost like a child for the first time in a long, long time, tucked in bed watching the sunrise through the window. Comfortable — safe. He sighs.
Charles is the first to find Charlotte, alone again in her cabin.
“Are you Mister Smith?” Charlotte asks as soon as he approaches. A flash of surprise crosses his face. He looks the woman over, recognizing the gunbelt she’s wearing, and the revolver with the carved handle tucked in the holster— Arthur’s.
“Arthur told me about you,” she says with a smile. Charles nods before glancing at the cabin — longing for a glimpse of the man though he knows he’s not there anymore.
“Was he — did he go easy?“ Charles asks as Charlotte mounts her horse, promising to lead him to where she had buried him.
“Yes, he was comfortable until the end,” she answers as they ride towards a cliff top, “I think he went in his sleep. He was gone when I went to check on him in the morning. He looked...peaceful.”
They stop by the grave on the cliff overlooking the forest. The flowers Charlotte had left crowds the front and wild poppies sprout among the grassy overlook in joyous pops of orange. The sun is just starting to set before them.
“He asked to be buried facing west, so he can see the sun set every day,” Charlotte says, looking at the grave. Charles nods, remembering Arthur mentioning that in camp, and remains quiet for a long while. Charlotte says nothing, feeling the breeze caress the curve of her face and flutter the petals of the flowers on Arthur’s grave. An eagle weave through the winds above.
“I’ll make him a grave marker,” Charles says finally.
“Thank you, I felt I couldn’t provide him a proper one,” Charlotte says. In the end, she didn’t feel like it would have been proper for her to be the one to sum him up in a few words.
“He missed you all till the end. I sent out all of his letters,” she says to the quiet man later as he searches for a perfect piece of wood near her cabin. The sun is setting fast, and she welcomed Charles to stay in the cabin for the night, though out of courtesy, he settled on camping just outside of her cabin. He’ll stay for a few days, to finish the marker and keep Arthur company. “I wasn’t sure if they’d all reach the people they’re meant for, although he gave me some clues. You’re the first one to find me.”
Charles tests the weight of a log in his hand. He thinks he knows what he’ll carve into the marker.
“I won’t be the last,” he says. Charlotte nods and breathes a laugh as she looks to the west fondly, admiring the setting light that paints the sky a dreamy purple.
“I know, there were a lot of letters.”