In the quiet morning hours that day after Arthur had left sometime in the night, and after she'd read his letter and shed enough tears to carry ships on their way, Eliza finally rose and left Isaac's room to dress. As she walked to the bedroom, her attention was snagged by a burst of color on the kitchen table. She turned to see a little glass jar filled with a sprig of the pink and magenta flowers from the bushes out front.
As she brought her hand up to feel the fragile velvet petals between her thumb and finger, its image quickly blurred before her. It brought to mind the treasures of life and love. How fragile life and how painful love, yet neither any less resilient, neither any less worthy of being pursued and cherished. Sniffing, she looked up to the raw wood boards in the ceiling and shook her head. She envisioned him picking these that held so much meaning and leaving them for her after having written that letter. He'd known very well what this meant between them.
She went to her room, dressed, and returned to Isaac's room to wake him. She'd dreaded his reaction to finding his father missing, but nothing could've prepared her for it.
He'd smiled when he opened his eyes to see her, the way he always did. She'd helped him down from bed, and they'd walked out to the kitchen together.
He turned and looked back at her with a carefree, expectant grin. "Dah. Ah-tur." he said.
She was unable to keep from frowning as she softly shook her head.
"Dah. Ah-tur," he quietly said again, the grin still on his face. He squatted and turned his head to the side to look under the table. "Ah-tur?" When he wasn't there, he continued looking around the sitting room, finally looking back at her. "Where go?"
She leaned back against the side of the table and held onto it on either side of her as she watched him look for him. "He's not here, Isaac," she frowned.
He finally toddled to his mother's bedroom. "Where Ah-tur?"
"He's not here," she whispered, her brows drawing up as she forlornly watched him disappear into the room. She brought a hand up to cover half of her face as she imagined him going around the bed, looking under it, coming up empty.
When he finally reappeared, his expression was changed with understanding. His doe eyes were near panicked and full to the brim with tears. And his innocent, unknowing smile had been flipped to a frown, pulled deep and tight.
"He went away. I couldn't stop him," she sniffed, her voice beginning to pinch. "He went away again, baby. I couldn't stop him." Her face crumpled, and she kneeled as he ran to her, his breathing coming in big, fragmented gasps.
"Ah-tur!" he screamed, rubbing one of his clenched eyes with his fist as he fell into her waiting arms.
"I know," she cried, the tears streaming down her cheeks and her chin trembling. She held the back of his head as he wept into her neck. Her heart was breaking into a thousand tiny, splintered pieces as she watched his heart break, felt it break. "I'm so sorry!" she gasped. "I'm so sorry, Isaac. Oh, Isaac. My baby." She sniffed and sobbed with him, rocking to the side and gently stroking his head. Even as she did, she knew this memory would be a scar on her heart. "Our baby."
He'd grown increasingly sullen after that. And she began to notice only too late that he'd tucked his voice away, hardly ever speaking or uttering a sound. A two-year-old. So somber and heartbroken he couldn't bring himself to speak.
She tried so many things, to no avail. And the days without his voice forming her name, 'Mama,' or his tinkling laugh ringing in her ears was stretching on longer than she could bear.
One evening when he was lying on his back in his bed, she knelt on her knees beside the bed and smiled brightly at him. She inched his shirt up and blew a couple big, spurting kisses into his belly, the way Arthur had done as a sure-fire way to make him cackle and giggle. But he only opened his mouth big as a watermelon slice and smiled wide; no sound emitted from him.
Her smile fell abruptly and she frowned deep, her brows coming together in sorrow and panic. "Isaac. Baby, please. I miss your laugh. Mama misses your voice. Please, honey," she sobbed, bringing her hand tight over her mouth and crumpling to the floor. "Please, God," she covered her face in her hands and wept. "Please don't take this from me. Not this."
It had been the last shred of joy left in her everyday life; but it was quickly slipping through her fingers like sand, and there was nothing she could do to hold onto it.
After Isaac had fallen asleep, she'd gone to the kitchen table to frantically put pen to paper:
I swear to God, Arthur. I can't do this alone anymore. Isaac's... I'm... Please...
She scratched out each of the last words and finally crumpled the letter, dropping her head into her hands. He'd already told her, already made it clear that she was alone in this. Alone in the world.
One morning when the two of them were sitting at the table for breakfast, she stared off at nothing as she nibbled her thumbnail. The color had drained from her face and a shadow had taken up residence under her eyes. Wiping the side of her face and shaking herself out of it, she finally got up, dressed them both in black, and rode into town.
As they came down main street at a trot, she dismounted, tethered Samson, and unwrapped Isaac. And the two of them went into the general store hand in hand.
Mr. Andrews looked up at the sound of the door opening and smiled when he saw them. "Mornin' to ya both," he said at they approached the counter. "If you're here for that blue dye, I ain't got it in yet. By next week, surely. I guess there's a shortage on dye at the moment. Can't seem to get any a' my orders filled for the time bein'."
Without much change to her expression, Eliza slowly walked to the wall, looking over the shelves. "Life is disappointin', Mr. Andrews. You learn to get used to it."
As he watched her, his brows came together deeply in concern and outright surprise at such a sentiment coming from its source.
"No, I'm here for a bit of ribbon, or even some twine if you have it. Figured if you did, it'd be cheaper here than Mrs. Michaels' place."
"Oh—well sure, I keep a few spools just there," he tried to grin as he pointed past her to a row of them on a shelf just below her waist.
She ran her fingertips over the spools of pastel ribbon and rolls of twine, but kept her eye on Isaac where he remained at the counter.
Mr. Andrews leaned forward on the counter. "Let's see, Isaac. What can I getchya today, huh?"
Isaac looked up at him in his crisp white shirt and little black vest, his sweet blue-green doe eyes hitting just above the counter from where Mr. Andrews stood.
"Will it be…chocolate?" he said, pointing to a jar on the counter.
Isaac gently shook his head.
"Horehound?" he said, pointing to another jar.
Isaac shook his head.
"Lemon drop?"
When Isaac made a face, Eliza softly chuckled. "He hates sour things."
"Hmm…" Mr. Andrews mumbled. "Licorice rope?"
Again, Isaac shook his head.
"Well, I'm hard pressed to give ya chewy caramel at your young age. What about a peppermint?"
Isaac's eyes jumped up to his for the briefest moment when he pointed to the jar of white candy pillows with swirling red stripes around them. As he eyed the jar, he slowly nodded his head.
"Ha! Peppermint woulda done it this whole time? You're an easy kid to please…"
"Isaac, what do you say, honey?" Eliza said quietly as Mr. Andrews removed the lid of the jar. "Hm?" As Isaac looked over at her, she felt her chest swell with anticipation. And she wondered if it would always be this way, or if her heart would eventually learn to let go of the hope that continually kept it in such shreds.
Isaac looked back up at the storekeeper, took a breath, and swallowed. "I… I ca ha sum, peas?"
Eliza's eyes grew wide, and her face crumpled as a loud sob suddenly erupted from her throat, racking her chest and spurring her forward towards her son. She crouched beside him and brought her arms around him just as he popped the candy into his mouth with a bright smile. She nestled her chin into the little crook of his shoulder. And when she brought her hand to the back of his head, she hurried to tear her black riding gloves off so she could feel his soft hair. Sniffing, she finally drew back and stroked his chin. "Say it again, baby. What do you say?"
"Tankoo," he looked up at the storekeeper with a sheepish grin.
She whimpered and smiled bright. It was a few more moments before she realized what a scene she'd made and stood, wiping her cheek in embarrassment. "Sorry…" she sniffed.
"Oh…i-it's all right."
She could tell he wanted to ask after her general well-being. She sniffed again and swiped her hair out of her face, stooping to pick up her gloves. "This ribbon'll do," she said placing a roll of pale blue ribbon on the counter. "It's just like one I have at home. Just a foot please," she said, going into her coin purse. "And how much for the candy?"
"Oh, no charge for the candy," he smiled. "My pleasure."
She grinned. "Thank you."
He snipped the ribbon and watched as she pulled a small bundle of wildflowers from her satchel and tied the ribbon around the stems. He gestured to her black gown. "Goin' to see 'em?"
Her smile slowly fell as she nodded. "Been too long."
He nodded along with her. "Give 'em my best," he said.
And the two of them exited the way they'd entered—hand in hand.
When they reached the cemetery in the lot behind the little church on the edge of town, Eliza made a beeline to them. Instead of standing or kneeling as was customary and proper, she sat criss-cross in the grass, close to the gravestones.
"Hi, Mama. Hi, Papa." She reached out and laid the bundle of wildflowers in the grass between them. "You shared everything, so…I figured you'd like to share flowers." Noticing the moss and dirt in a couple letters of their names, she quickly slipped her bare finger into the etching and dusted it away. She reached for her son and drew him to stand close to her. "Say hi, Isaac."
"Hi."
"This is your Memaw and Pappaw, baby."
"Memaw and Papa?" he looked at her.
"Memaw and Pappaw. Your papa is—" She slowly frowned and swallowed.
She looked up at the gravestones. "I miss you so. I wish… I wish so many things. Maybe I am selfish. I've thought it for a while now," she whispered as her eyes filled. She bowed her head and brought her fingertips to her closed eyelids as the tears fell down her cheeks.
"I wish you were still here, and I wish Arthur were here. I wish you could know him. You'd both love him so, like I do. He's a lot like you, Papa. He's big and tall, tough and brawny. But he has the same good, sweet character and tender heart. Only he's…an outlaw," she scoffed a laugh. "So he…he can't be here. Well, I'm sure you know all about it."
Her eyes crinkled together, and she sniffed. "I'm trying to be a big girl without you. I am. Really, I am. But I don't think I'm doin' a very good job." She rubbed her forehead hard. "You probably think I'm…gone astray."
"Mama…" she heard Isaac whisper.
She glanced at him and struggled to smile as she took his little hand in hers. "This is your grandbaby. Isaac. I named him after you, Papa," she smiled bright at the gravestone on the left. "You were both meant to be grandparents. I remember wishing it so for you. But I was real worried that it…it would never happen. There just…" she sniffed and looked down, "just didn't seem to be a man patient enough or kind enough left in the world."
She looked at Isaac with a smile and stroked the side of his chin with her thumb. "You look so much like him, baby," she whispered.
She looked back up at the gravestones, her smile quickly twisting into a frown. "Well, now it's happened, and your grandson's the most wonderful thing, and you're gone," she sobbed.
Isaac came and folded himself in half, resting his cheek on her thigh to give her a hug.
She brought her fingertips through his soft blonde hair. "Come here, son," she whispered. She finally slipped her hands under his arms and brought him into her lap, and they looked together at the gravestones.
"Isaac's got a little sister. Up there. Hope," she managed a frail grin at the marker to the right, her namesake. "Maybe you can still be grandparents. Maybe you two can look after her for us. 'Til I…" she swallowed hard, "'til it's finally my time." She licked her top lip and sighed. "To tell you the truth, I…I sometimes have this strange feelin' that death is so near. I guess death is all around us," she sniffed.
"All I can give you now is to remember you both." A sob burst from her that racked her shoulders. "I don't…" she shook her head, pursing her lips as her tears came fast, "I don't think anyone'll care to remember me once I'm gone." She brought her trembling fingers up to her mouth.
She finally took a deep breath to try to steady herself as she wiped the top of her cheeks with the heel of her hand and rubbed her nose. "You taught me so many things. Most of all, I remember you taught me to look for the best in others, to hold out hope that they'll see it too. To cling to that hope, to life and love." Her brows drew together, and the tears finally overflowed.
"It's been hard," she sobbed. "It's been real hard."
Late one evening back at the cabin a couple weeks later, Eliza stepped through the threshold of the front door and onto the porch, the pads of her bare feet silent against the rough wooden panels.
She looked out into the wilderness, trying to find where the dark night sky met with the rolling hills. The sky was such a deep, dark violet, it almost resembled her black ink well, and the sorrow she carried.
There were only a few pinholes of light in the sky to greet her tonight. She looked down, trying to forget how the sight of stars in such a dark, expansive sky made her chest feel so heavy it was difficult to breathe. She sat in the wooden rocking chair and looked down, taking her nightgown between her fingers and rubbing the knobby eyelets in the fabric.
Looking back up, she saw Arthur's face walking toward to her from out of the darkness and shut her eyes. He would not be coming to her tonight. Not even the endless sea of night-covered hills would bring him to her now.
He didn't love her. There wasn't a day that passed when she didn't think about that, at least once. How she'd suspected it all along. How she'd wanted to be wise but couldn't be. How he'd duped her and played her for a fool, played with her heart. How she'd finally all but pushed him to confirm it, her own worst fear. He hadn't even had the guts to say it outright to her face. He'd had to put it in writing, so she could hold onto it as proof for the rest of her life.
It made her feel so that it was all foolishness—caressing him so softly to her as she had that night before he left again without a word. And truly, it had been foolishness—to let herself get so close to a man who would never give her his heart, never choose them. She had practically thrown herself under his feet to be trampled.
She grit her teeth and felt her face go red as the hot tears streamed down her cheeks. Go on. Treat me like the little girl I am to you, that you know I'll always be to you. Ignorant and pathetic. Little and insignificant. A nuisance. Don't make me feel I mean anything to you. Don't pretend you love me. Not anymore. No more pretending. No more. "No more."
But, oh, how desperately she longed to return to what it felt like when he pretended and she didn't know the truth. What it felt like when she was left wondering, hoping there was some chance of his loving her. It was only a sweet memory now.
She sobbed as she felt herself grow cold towards him. She'd always love him. But she could already see so clearly in the days ahead, in the ever changing seasons, the two of them growing distant. Her heart was breaking so for it, but she could see it. Life without his love. As clearly as if it were before her—a somber gray cloud hanging over them when he came home, making everything pale and dull and muted. Avoiding each other's eyes, never speaking of anything but daily chores, secluding themselves to opposite corners of the room, hardly touching each other. Pretending and maybe truly forgetting that they really know each other well. Him, forced to see her to see Isaac. Her, forced to be in the presence of him whom she loved but who wouldn't choose her, couldn't and wouldn't love her in return.
She could see Arthur's forlorn and sorry face: captivating, entrancing blue-green gems looking up at her from under the brim of that damned beautiful hat. Silent eyes, maybe even remorseful. Puppy dog eyes like the ones he'd shown her the night they first met. She could see it. Let him feel it. It was only a fraction of what she'd been made to feel, what he'd made her feel.
A sob racked her even more forcefully, and her chest caved inward at what she'd just thought, because she didn't mean it. She didn't mean it. Not really.
She took a deep breath and let it out. Resentment was a real risk they were running. But she knew the true nature of his heart, and she'd be his defender until she let out her last breath. Even against himself, if need be.
In her mind she was taken back to an experience a few days ago, when in town with Isaac she'd looked up and suddenly been struck, smack in the face, with the image of Arthur gazing back at her. Her breath had caught.
WANTED
$400 Reward, $500 if brought in alive
Aside from his brow being woefully warped and distorted, pulled tight in a cruel arch, it had been a rendering so like him. She could hardly bring herself to believe he'd been so careless. She'd held her breath as she read the name of her baby's father. Her lover. Her Arthur. Or as it turned out, had he ever really been hers?
ARTHUR MORGAN.
Known Alias: Arthur Callahan.
Known posse: The Van Der Linde gang.
Do not be deceived by their flowery claims of do-goodery and their odious lies of 'righting wrongs' in society. They themselves are a testament to everything broken and immoral in society.
She'd swallowed and forced herself to continue reading.
A member of the fledgling Van der Linde gang and a close associate of Dutch Van der Linde himself, this audacious and repugnant young criminal is wanted for heinous crimes across these United States, particularly the western regions. His crimes include numerous counts of bank robbery, theft of private property, rustling, public endangerment, inciting brawls, assault of law officers, and, at the time of this printing, four known counts of murder.
She'd begun trembling, and found it difficult to restrain herself from making a scene. You don't know him, she'd thought. Isaac's favorite person. The one who'd held him so softly to his chest and soothed him from crying. You don't know him. Gentle, sweet, thoughtful, and caring. The only man she'd ever taken into her bed, the only man she'd ever let hold and kiss her. You don't know him. The only man she'd ever loved.
It had only been the one poster. She'd looked around and, closing her eyes tight, had quickly reached up and clenched her hand on it, crumpling it and bringing it into her bodice.
"You don't know him," she'd whispered before quickly stepping into the nearest alley with Isaac on her hip and bursting into tears.
As she sat there gently rocking in the chilly night air, she covered her face in her hands as the tears quietly ran down and made a pool in her palms. She'd forgotten what she'd promised herself at the beginning: that she wouldn't risk pushing him away by asking for more than what he could give.
He didn't love her. So maybe it was for the best, like he'd said. Maybe he really should stay away as much as possible, after all. But then again, she still wanted to believe that he could choose her and Isaac, and they could leave all this behind together.
She'd always love him. It didn't matter how he felt about her. And amidst all the noise and pain, there was still a quiet voice in the very back of her mind wanting to be heard, telling her he couldn't possibly be telling the truth. Telling her not to be deterred, to go on hoping. That he did love her, that he had to. That he'd left the flowers for her as a tentative, yearning whisper of a plea: Don't give up on me. That maybe in some sick, twisted way he was only lying to protect her, to protect them. That in this tug of war for the rest of his time, he truly was convinced he couldn't give it to them, and that lying was his way of attempting to put an end to the tug of war.
But the louder part of her mind was trying to drown it out, telling her it was the foolish, lovesick, naïve part of her, and that listening to it would only bring her more needless pain.
Poison. She knew he was. This whole situation. How she'd welcomed him in. How she would welcome him again. She'd traded losing him once for losing him over and over and over again.
The most caustic poison of all was how dearly Isaac, the crown jewel of her life, would pay for his parents' foolishness. He would never know the priceless blessing of having a father the way she had. He would never have Arthur as the wonderful father she knew he could be, wanted to be.
Sniffing, she finally rested her head back against the cabin and swallowed as the cruel night air bit at her arms.
Two hearts in the fire we are, darlin, he'd written. Always have been, haven't we, from the very first moment. And there ain't no way out.
There truly was no way out of this. Of this situation, this road. This love.
Isaac. The name of her precious son. The name of her father.
He used to say that she deserved to save herself and give herself only to someone who would love her with "impatient zeal"—someone for whom there was no one else, someone who simply could not stand to be apart from her. That only that man would gain his favor and blessing.
How very sorry her parents must be to look down at her from their place in the heavenlies now.
She sucked in a sudden, terrible breath at the thought. Her chest tensed and flooded with immense pain as her heart tore again in a way she could almost audibly hear. Her face crumpled as the tears streamed down her face. She raised a hand to her mouth, pressing her fingers tight against her lips. As she shut her eyes, the tears fell even faster.
"I'm so… I'm so sorry, Papa. Forgive me. Please, please forgive me."
I lit a fire with the love you left behind,
and it burned wild and crept up the mountainside.
I can't look out the window.
I can't look at this place.
.
All those times we looked up at the sky,
looking out so far
we felt like we could fly.
And now I'm all alone in the dark of night.
The moon is shining,
but I can't see the light.
.
I can't look at the stars,
They make me wonder where you are.
Stars, up on heaven's boulevard.
And if I know you at all,
I know you've gone too far.
So I can't look at the stars.
- Grace Potter, "Stars"
Three months later when she was on her hands and knees in front of the porch—after she'd become accustomed to the silence Isaac's voice had left, the silence Arthur's absence had left—Isaac suddenly rose from his spot on the porch with big eyes and rushed down the steps with his little arms out wide and a huge, unrestrained grin plastered on his face.
"Ah-tur! Ah-tur!" he squealed.
And she slowly stood and watched him. With both a loud gratefulness—that he was speaking, that he was all right, that her ears were hearing his voice even though it wasn't her name on his lips. And a quiet longing—that he would sound that way, look that way, for her, for someone who was always there for him, day in and day out. The two things somehow resided together peaceably in her heart.
As she followed him with her eyes to see Arthur lift their beaming son up into his arms and settle him on his hip with a grin, he looked up, and their eyes met. She noticed his smile slowly fade, the expression in his eyes growing forlorn and remorseful.
It was like she was stuck in molasses as she looked down and brought the couple sprigs of pink flowers she'd picked behind her skirt. But she couldn't have hurried herself if she'd tried. And she was still certain he'd seen them.
She swallowed past the pain in her throat and took a small breath, all it seemed she could manage these days, and turned to go into the house as the two of them followed her inside.
.
Dearest sweetest Readers,
I want to make it clear that it's never been my intention to make Arthur out to be a villain or cold and unfeeling. On the contrary, I utterly adore him. And I truly believe that where he was coming from with regard to Isaac and Eliza was a place of selflessness, not selfishness. But I see that he has a lot of very human torment in him, even with high honor, and I wanted to explore that. One of my main goals has always been to understand him better.
Another major goal of mine has been to give life and voice to a couple souls in his life who I felt deserved it. To honor them. Even though this is just one possible way things could've happened, I feel I've done that.
And I realize that this work and this topic in particular will most likely never be very popular in the RDR2 community-if for no other reason than there is no way around the fact that it is truly tragic, depressing, and unchangeable. We as humans generally do not enjoy dwelling on tragedy, injustice, and death. So we tend to turn a blind eye to it, especially in our art and entertainment; it's completely understandable. But there's a time for everything. And we wouldn't have the beauty and depth of Arthur's redemption and growth if we weren't able to clue ourselves into the vast, unspeakable tragedies in his past.
At the same time, I've had ideas popping off in my head of a different (and even fun and sweet) nature. Though the next work will have some intensely difficult things before it gets better, it WILL get better! I sincerely hope you stick with me.
If you haven't read Part 2 of "Disaster Road," (the first work in this series), now is absolutely your time to do that! This work was a prequel to Part 2 of that work. The end of "Disaster Road" leads right up to the next work, and I will be picking up right after that chronologically. I'll give you a week to read that. Next weekend I'll be going right into the next work, posting at least the first chapter (it's ready!), maybe more.
Readers! Even though it's only the second work in a 3-work series, it feels like the end of an era. I've had so so much fun with you on this sweet journey. I told myself at the start that I'd do this for self-expression-to get out my thoughts, emotions, and appreciation for Arthur and the game. Because of that, my #1 goal has been to finish, no matter if no one read it or if it was read and hated. But I don't know if I would've gotten this far without you. I think I speak for most creators when I say it can be truly difficult, burdensome, and even painful to spend time, energy (sleep), and effort on something you're endlessly passionate about, only for it to be met with mostly crickets. And I'm keenly aware that my writing ability has improved (gone from kinda-bad to eh-so-so) since the start of this. So from the bottom of my heart, I'm grateful for you. Each of you who read, even if you don't comment, mean so much to me and are a true treasure.
[To my readers on FanFiction . net: I've had the thought that maybe I'll post the next and final work only on Ao3, because it seems to have garnered more traction there. And Ao3 seems to have a format more conducive to what and how I've been wanting to post. With all that said, it seems a little overkill to be posting each chapter twice. I don't like the idea of leaving the series unfinished anywhere. At the very same time, I realize it's entirely possible that I'm not talking to anyone right now, or at least not anyone who doesn't have access to Ao3. If you can only read here or truly prefer to read here, please pipe up!]
- Rosie
