Wagon Wheel
Oh, north country winters keep a-gettin' me down
Lost my money playin' poker, so I had to leave town
But I ain't a-turnin' back to livin' that old life no more
Arthur readied his rifle, a deer in his sights as he did his best to manipulate his gun one handed. He couldn't admit to feeling weak as it shook in his hand, rattling around as he struggled to calm it down.
He held it up to his shoulder, attempting to steady it using his cheek, but the awkward placement just didn't feel safe. He put it down again, frustrated at his failure. He would try again later, because if Charlotte found out he was still trying to learn how to shoot a rifle one handed, she'd be on him again about rest and recovery.
He walked back into the cabin, leaving the gun by the door and out of her sight as his senses erupted into pleasure at the scent of a homemade meal being prepared for breakfast.
"I made you some coffee, Arthur." She smiled at him as he walked inside, proud of his recovery for the third time that day alone. It had been about a month since she found him wandering around in the wilderness, four full weeks since he cut off his own arm in her dining room. And she had found she was truly enjoying his company, even if he was getting blackout drunk every night just to deal with his continuing pain.
"You're an angel as always, Charlotte."
"I try." She handed him a cup of the hot, bitter liquid. He blew on it for a bit before taking a swig and putting it down on the table, sitting down and opening up his journal that he had placed there the night before, doing his best to learn how to use his left hand for writing and drawing. Yet more difficulties that he was determined to get through.
"Try not to get frustrated again, okay?"
"Well if my brain could just understand that we ain't getting our other arm back, I'd be fine," he said as he grasped his fountain pen, a gift from Charlotte, as well as the new journal was. He could barely remember how he held it before, why was it so easy, so natural with the other hand? What was he not doing right with his remaining fingers? Why did it feel so bizarre no matter how he held it now?
"It's going to take time. Just be patient with yourself." She presented him with a plate of fresh bread, rabbit meat, and eggs.
Arthur moved the journal aside, at least he had caught onto eating much quicker. He just used his bare fingers now, Charlotte served him bread with every meal so he could scoop it up inside the fresh, savory dough.
She didn't say it much, but she adored having him around. While the nights were still long and lonely, and Arthur's defense abilities had been nearly halved, she felt safe out here with him. She didn't feel alone and anxious anymore, she wasn't bored anymore, and she didn't spend any more days talking to birds or dead rabbits as a substitute for company.
He had even encouraged her to start writing. She was working on a novel now, a romance about a prince and a damsel in distress. So cliché and yet, it felt so new to her.
The added bonus of him being a handsome inspiration for her titular character was undeniable as well. Describing a tall, striking, war torn man with a heart of gold and a tenderness for treating women fairly was a lot easier when that same man was standing in front of her.
Arthur usually didn't worry about being lonely. In fact, he preferred it to being with people most of the time. But the enjoyment of getting to know the woman he saved coupled with her exquisite caregiving abilities in his time of need was a special feeling in itself.
Sure, he didn't want to admit he needed the help. He was immortal now, he would have certainly survived out in the wilderness, even if he did lose his remaining appendages. But, he wouldn't have been comfortable, he wouldn't have been cared for, he wouldn't have pleasant home-cooked meals every morning and every night, and he wouldn't have a warm bed to lie in at the days end.
For once, he too felt safe and sound.
They had their disagreements over the past four weeks. Arthur didn't easily admit to pain or exhaustion, and he felt he needed to earn his keep from the moment he woke up the day after cutting his arm off.
He wanted to do something, he didn't know what, but he believed he needed to. Chores, sweeping, cutting wood, hunting, something other than lying in bed all day.
Charlotte wasn't even awake yet when he stumbled out of his room, at about 4 in the morning, hungover and in pain, but feeling he had slept enough and needing to prove he wasn't a worthless bastard.
He took a couple swigs of rum for the pain, stole a cigarette he found, lit it up and went outside, looking for something to do.
His arm was aching, what was left of it at least, and he was tired as hell. His feet felt like he was walking on broken glass, his clothes were so bloody he had resorted to just cutting off the right sleeve, he smelled like an animal farm blew up and his head would be hurting less if someone had just stabbed him through the eye, but he couldn't just lie around all day. He believed better than that.
He figured he could go for a hunt, surely shooting a rifle with one arm wouldn't be that hard, would it?
He was violently mistaken. Charlotte awoke to the barking and snarling of wolves, and two gunshots being fired off, both sounding like they missed their target.
She grabbed her rifle from her bedside and ran out in her nightgown, witnessing Arthur on the ground, struggling for his gun as two wolves very nearly made a meal of him.
With two shots fired from emotion and maternal passion, one wolf dropped to the ground, the other ran off into the woods, severely wounded.
"Arthur Morgan! Are you trying to lose your other arm too?!"
He shook his head in embarrassment, all those years of making fun of John for being a dumbass, and here he was nearly facing the loss of another body part because he couldn't sit still and heal for more than a day.
"I was trying to surprise you with a nice meal in the morning." He mustered a smile as he wiped the dust from his pants, rising from the ground while hiding his pain.
Charlotte shook her head. "Don't go playing hero, Arthur, you need rest. Maybe you believe you're immortal but you're not."
"If only you knew."
From then on, while retaining his stubbornness, Arthur began to rest a bit more, admitted when he was tired and took to practicing his writing in bed rather than running out after rabbits in the dead of night.
Charlotte would bring him a fresh coffee, a glass of rum, and breakfast in bed every morning for the first week, until he got too antsy and insisted on helping with at least some small chores by week two.
And she indulged him, giving him small, one-handed duties just to make him feel helpful.
She even presented him with plenty of clothes to change into, it turned out that Cal's old garments fit Arthur perfectly. She sewed off the right-side sleeves on all of them to help keep his healing wound clean, and she washed it off every night for him as fresh, sensitive, pink skin began to encompass the edges.
For all the rough and tough stories he had shared with her from his past, he was the most gentlemanly figure she had ever met aside from Cal. No man in the heights of the city or the depths of the country could come close to the amount of warm compassion Arthur had shown her.
Each night, they settled in with some drinks and shared tales with each other, what was on their mind, Charlotte's ideas for new stories and Arthur's many regrets.
He opened up about John, surely the man believed him to be dead. He felt reaching out to him would release a can of worms that would end badly for both of them, if anyone caught wind that they were still both alive, they might be tracked down, and the thing they had run away from would come back to haunt them again.
Arthur sipped the last of his drink, placing it on the ground before sitting back and wishing his dependency hadn't gotten to this point. Even Charlotte was drinking now, he blamed himself for that. She had been one of those who didn't rely on whiskey and wine to get by, but at least she seemed to be enjoying it.
"I wouldn't be surprised if I never see that man again. He's probably gone and gotten himself killed too."
Charlotte shook her head and placed a tender hand upon his knee. "Well, maybe now just isn't the time. Just focus on surviving, on getting better. You'll catch wind of him sooner or later without kicking up dust."
"Part of me thinks I should just let them all believe I'm still in the ground. I mean, Charles buried me."
Charlotte raised an eyebrow. "Right, your whole buried alive story."
"Hey, you're the one who's choosing to believe I made it up."
She laughed through her closed mouth and took another sip of her drink. With the crisp parting of wet lips she responded, "Whatever you say, Mr. Morgan."
Arthur settled back in his seat on the couch, catching a hint of starlight in her eyes as the alcohol hit his liver. "Anybody ever tell you you're beautiful?"
She sighed, he got very complementary when he was drunk. She couldn't help but enjoy it, it came from a good place in a good heart, hidden in a man who had no bad intentions with her. If he wanted to, he would have taken advantage of her long ago. And even in his new vulnerable state, he still held an advantage over her. She knew he wouldn't even try and didn't want to.
So, when he complemented her, when he coyly flirted and broke into a ridiculous and horribly sung song about her beauty and her kindness, she didn't feel threatened or concerned, she took it as his way of saying thank you.
And, maybe, he was expressing an interest in her that he felt embarrassed to admit to while sober.
Her wounds from losing Cal would never fully heal, and they were still fresh and agonizing, but she couldn't deny that she felt the same for him, or at least, could feel the same when she was ready to.
"I'm going to bed now, Arthur, I think you should be too."
"I'll sleep when I'm dead."
"Suit yourself then." She raised up from the couch, leaning over and presenting him with a tender kiss on the cheek. Arthur couldn't help but reach up to her, ever so gently caressing her features, his dazed eyes barely being held open.
"Goodnight, darlin'." The sultry sing of his voice melted her core. How could a killer, a murderer, a thief, be so sensual, so romantic, yet never overreach his boundaries, never make her feel uncomfortable, in fact, make her feel like the most beautiful woman alive?
"Goodnight, Arthur." She responded in kind, rising back to a standing position, kissing his hand as she let it go and walked away.
Arthur watched her leave his side, part of him tempted to call it a night and return to his own room, the other part desperate for another glass of rum, or gin, or whatever it was Charlotte had picked up in town that day.
He grabbed a cigarette from his pocket and hung it loosely from his parched lips. He stumbled up to his feet, certainly another drink would be a bad idea. But maybe two more drinks, and he'd start getting some good ones.
He took his glass and walked to the table where the bottle of rum sat. Popping off the top, he contemplated whether he even needed this anymore.
His pain was nearly gone, some dull aching here and there but ultimately he was fine. What he didn't want to admit to was the emotional pain, the pain of not being able to write or draw, the feelings of inadequacy, his new obvious vulnerability, his lowered ability to defend himself or, if needed, to defend Charlotte.
He poured the rum, physically shaking the thoughts away with a quick head twitch and gulped it down.
One more, then bed.
He poured another, then one more. One more, then I'm going to bed, for sure this time.
Arthur's ears perked up like a deer as the slight sound of scraping arose from Charlotte's bedroom.
The door was ajar, always was so that she could hear if he called for help. He backed up a bit and peaked through the crack from about 5 feet away, he caught a glance of the faintest shadow of a man, looking in at Charlotte, appearing to try and find a way to open the window.
Arthur thought quickly, as quickly as he could after 4 drinks, 3 smaller ones in a row. He grabbed a knife from the kitchen, tucking it under his stump before running for the door and heading around back, quickly but quietly.
He caught the man in the act, if he could even call him a man, his pants halfway down as he found himself so enamored with Charlotte's gowned figure that he barely had time to react before Arthur had his throat in his hand.
The man struggled; he'd already be dead if his attacker were fully armed.
Arthur whispered under his breath to disturb Charlotte as little as possible, "Wha' exactly are yuh doin' out here, pal?"
Arthur tightened his grasp and guided the man away from the window. "What? At a loss fer words?" He turned to glance at the window, ensuring Charlotte hadn't awoken to the noise. "She sure is pretty y'know. And if she were awake, she wouldn' be putting up with any of your nonsense either."
"P-p-please…" The man squealed out, Arthur shoved him into a tree.
"I've seen her shoot a gun, she sleeps with one, y'know? 'Cause she's never going to be a victim or let herself become one." Arthur smiled sarcastically as the man struggled to pull up his trousers while the grip on his neck remained unfaltering.
Arthur chuckled, "I might be doing you a favor, partner, she'd have blasted your head clean off by now." He contemplated letting the man go or ending his sorry excuse for a life then and there. But with a bit of forward thinking, he figured it would be difficult to bury a body one handed, and leaving his body anywhere near here would attract scavengers.
"I'm lettin' you go this time, but if I see you 'round here, even a single one of your hairs on the ground, I'm killing you. And I'll be making it slow, and bloody, and painful." He shoved the man further up the tree before letting him go and pulling his knife out, leaving a single, floss-strand sized crimson slice across his neck as he held it against his sweating skin. "That ain't a threat, that's a fact."
The man ran away as Arthur glared in his direction, sighing with near pity as the stupid bastard tripped while trying to pull his pants up as he bolted away. Arthur shook his head, ensuring the man had cleared his sight before heading back to the cabin.
He stood on the porch and lit up his cigarette, not quite feeling calm enough to go to sleep yet. His senses were heightened, and his thoughts of vulnerability were wracking his brain.
He was immortal, yes, but his body was not. He knew that if he had his head blown off or his body blasted to bits, he would be a mere spirit with no ability to interact with the world around him.
For Arthur, that sounded worse than hell. Though his lonesome side rang true, Arthur was a romantic at heart. To never touch the skin of a beautiful woman again, to never be able to fall in love or be fallen in love with, to never make love again, it sounded so miserable.
And now without an arm, his risk for losing his entire body was higher than ever before. And the nightmare of one day not being able to help someone he cared for, the thought of that gross, vile piece of shit coming back and hurting Charlotte and not being able to do anything about it, it hurt.
But he acknowledged it was unlikely that a foe so insignificant could better him. Even just then, one handed, he sent the louse running for his life. Men like that didn't scare Arthur, not even now. He just proved to himself that he could handle them.
It was the armies of men he had made enemies with through his involvement with the Van Der Linde gang. The Pinkertons, the US Government. They knew his face, they believed him to be dead, but if word got out, they'd come for him, and they'd come for Charlotte too.
He was a confident man, but not a stupid one. And he refused to put Charlotte in danger.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure approaching soft and slow. He turned, heart racing, ready for a fight, but it ended up being none other than Arthur's own personal deity, God or whatever, as he liked to call him.
"You again." Arthur took a drag of his cigarette and relaxed a bit, following up his comment with, "Been a while, ain't it?"
The man nodded. "Indeed it has, you even went and started losing body parts."
"I do hope I was right on that call, mister," Arthur took another puff and tossed his cigarette under his boot, extinguishing it, "it wasn't gonna grow back miraculously or somethin', right?"
The man shook his head. "No sir, you have the same healing abilities as you did before. It won't grow back, and it was never going to be usable again."
"Good to know." Arthur looked up at the sky, a question falling down with his gaze. "So, why don't I have tuberculosis anymore?"
The man's eyes opened wide, he placed his hands behind his back and tapped his foot. "Consider that a gift on my part. A cure for TB won't be invented for a while and, well, it would be violently inconsiderate of me to have you running around for years infecting people."
"So, I'm cured?"
"Unless you go and get yourself sick again, yes."
"Well at least I got something going right with regards to my body."
"Troubled with body image? Feeling less of a man?"
"I," Arthur paused, "I just… I don't know how I'm gonna protect her."
"You care for her."
"That woman is… I don't know. She's strong but, she's not invincible, and I can't let anything bad happen to her. She's had enough of the bad in this world, I just wanna give her somethin' good, or let her have somethin' good."
The man nodded and came to stand closer to Arthur. "Because of you, I'll be meeting John many years from now, rather than months ago. His son will live even longer. Generations were saved because of your bravery and resilience." He laid a land on Arthur's shoulder. "Your choices will always be your own, but the future will bring what it may. And you never had the strength to fight it all alone, with or without your other arm. And you never will. And that isn't a bad thing."
"Why did you do this, why did you give me immortality? What happens if I lose this body, what happens if I just wanna die one day?"
"I'll answer one of those questions. If you ever want to die, you will not be able to. You can put yourself in whatever crazy death contraption you can think of, the only thing that will die is your body." He began to walk away. "But I will leave you with this, if you find yourself naked, suffering, and at the absolute end of your rope, come to the lightning. That's where energy belongs."
Arthur stared and watched as he walked away, a single bolt of lightning striking the ground behind him, entirely without sound yet it's sight as glorious as can be.
Arthur could barely muster up a phrase to fixate to what he just witnessed, so he contemplated it for a moment, logged it into his brain, and came back with this.
"Wha'?"