The Stars in You and I

by MarinersRevenge

sort through the rot of your heart and hold it in your hands until it hurts. look at it until you start to understand why it was in you. then you must mend the holes that it left. -Emery Allen [Arthur Morgan/Tilly Jackson]

Summary:

sort through the rot

of your heart

and hold it in your hands

until it hurts.

look at it

until you start to understand

why it was in you.

then you must

mend the holes

that it left.

-Emery Allen

Author's Note:

"I've become skeptical of the unwritten rule that just because a boy and a girl appear in the same feature, a romance must ensue. Rather, I want to portray a slightly different relationship, one where the two mutually inspire each other to live - if I'm able to, then perhaps I'll be closer to portraying a true expression of love."

Hayao Miyazaki

Thank you to vivalaellie and azurejewel over on Tumblr for being my sounding boards for this story. Without your help and encouragement, I probably would have not completed this.

Disclaimer:

Red Dead Redemption 2 and all characters belong to Rockstar Games.

Unfortunately.

Tags:

Arthur/ Tilly

Mentioned Dutch, mentioned Micah, Mentioned Hosea, mentioned Eliza, mentioned Mary, Mentioned Isaac, Charles Smith, Dutch Van Der Linde Gang

Alternate ending, hurt/comfort, mentions of suicidal thoughts, descriptions of wounds, feelings of deserving ones happiness, finding home, coming to terms with the past, knowing it will be ok eventually, even though it doesn't seem like it, character studies, journals and journeys, high honor Arthur, no tuberculosis, mutual pining, requited love, hope is a thing with feathers, running away, friendship

---

1.

Arthur groggily opened his eyes before shutting them as a wave of pain and nausea washed over him. His side spasms, radiating searing heat through his veins. He gasps, his fists clenching, teeth clicking together harshly as he rides it out. His exhale is a wet, gurgling staccato of iron. It fills his mouth with its acrid taste, as bile lashes his throat. He turns his head quickly rolling his body sideways as it pulses from his mouth. He convulses with each expulsion, harsh coughs wracking his frame. Tears unbidden gather, burning the inside of his tightly closed eyes. He clawed the ground, long fingered tracks harshly pulling up roots and plants as he caught his breath before another voidance forced it out again. Finally his body lets him rest, stomach clenching and rolling. He rolls again onto his back and lies there numbly staring up into the darkened canopy of the forest. His breath coming in harsh pants, clouding the cold air.

He needed to move.

His arms slowly pushed against the ground, trying their best to loosen the firm grasp gravity held. His movements were uncoordinated, arms limply pushing against the ground as his body tried to stand. He was conscious of the wound on his side. The cold tacky wetness that aches and weeps with each motion. He can feel the haphazard clotting of his skin prick and tear, warmth seeping uncomfortably onto his skin. Ragged puffs obscure his vision, his face hidden in a cloud of desperation. Of pounding agony. Sweat beads at his brow, cold against the heat of his skin. It accumulates, sliding down his face into his hair.

Finally.

Finally his body and arms sync, turning him from his back to his front in one shuddering movement. He lays there for a moment, digging his forehead into the forest floor, hands clawing, gritting his teeth against the pain throbbing from his efforts. Dry leaves prick his skin, scratching the cuts and bruises from his fight. Fertile dirt and the fetid scent of his mess mixed and his stomach rolls. He reaches one hand forward grasping the ground and he pulls. A guttural cry escapes, echoing through the trees. His shoulders heave with each pass of his breath fanning the dirt away from his face. He reaches out a second hand placing it on the ground. Taking one last deep breath he pulls biting his lip to stifle the growl of pain.

He had to be careful.

There could still be Pinkertons combing the forest.

Micah could still be here.

He bites his lip, tearing into it with each clamp of his teeth as he drags his body across the clearing. Dead leaves sticking to his sweat and blood dampened shirt. A wide and bloodied path follows his progress. Sticks and stones scratch at his arms and face as he continues to drag himself.

Just a few more.

Get to the edge of the forest.

Just a few more…

Black bleeds into the edges of his vision. His body racked with a wet cough, globules of bloody spit fall from his mouth. He feels the heat of the fire. It's flames licking the brush as it spreads, consuming everything in its path. Faint shouts echo over the roar. The pop of gun fire. Smoke clogs his lungs, burns his throat.

He was so tired.

Darkness swallows him once again.

---

2.

Hands close around his arms.

He tries to shake them off as they grasp his shoulders.

A hand presses into his neck.

He swipes at it, trying to roll his body away but they hold him firm.

He can't see.

He can't see-!

Darkness is all he's known.

A bitter and constant companion that ate away at him.

He feels the serrated claws of pain and torment latch onto him.

It screamed in triumph.

Primal and discordant.

Gnashing its sharp and bloodied teeth.

It clamped onto his side, worrying the muscle.

The razor-edge claws digging further into his chest.

Hell had finally come to claim him.

More hands grasped his body and he thrashed in their hold. Weakly swiping his arm out to push them away.

No no no-

His eyes roll in his head. He couldn't focus-!

He couldn't-

Get off

Fear and anger and pain and regret-

No

Please

Cool hands gently grasped his face.

Gardenias.

A soft murmur.

"Arthur…"

A reprieve.

He slips away.

---

3.

Embers floated through the air, their ambient light drawing the fireflies close. He watches them in contentment. A rare reprieve from the violence of his days. They float around him in lazy blinking circles, never staying for long in one place. The humidity of the swamp had melted away in the absence of the sun. Its cool fingers trace his jaw and he reclines against the log by the fire, relishing in the quiet of the night.

"My mama told me a story once about fireflies."

He opened his eyes and watched her settle on the log across from him.

"She said that fireflies glow so bright because they are actually stars that come down to earth every night."

Her eyes glow in the light of the fire, two twin stars burning within a universe he wants to map and explore. Fireflies float near her, their lights shimmering against her skin. He wants to touch her. Reach out a finger and trace it along the column of her exposed neck. He wants to see if she is real. His fingers twitch at his side.

"Do you think that people could be stars too?" he asks, immediately feeling foolish. He wants to take it back. It is a childish question. A part of himself that he hides away. It has no place in a world like this. For someone his age. His face flushes and he looks down at his hands, fingers curling into fists. He braces himself for the impact of her ridicule. The way her laughter will crush the withered husk of his heart; leaving only dust behind in the cavern of his chest. Another reminder of the slowness of his mind. The dullness of his senses.

He waits.

But nothing comes.

He chances a glance from under the brim of his hat. She's quiet, staring contemplative at the fire. Her fingers tap an unknown rhythm on her knee and his heart beats in time. Her smile is gentle. Nothing like the gentle smiles that hide the cruelness, sharp and brittle, of others. It's genuine, real, and it's directed at him.

"Maybe," she says as their eyes meet across the fire, "Wouldn't that be something?"

Fireflies alight in her hair, a crown of ethereal light.

Fire kisses her skin.

And in that moment, he knows he knows he knows-

---

4.

Dreams are strange.

They twist and turn.

Hallways upon hallways upon terraces of broken disjointed images.

He must be dreaming.

He knows he has to be if he's smelling gardenias.

She was safe.

He had sent her away.

She was safe.

They were supposed to be safe.

Far away.

Darkness and light filter through like sunlight passing through leaves.

He's floating.

Untethered from the earth.

A soul cast out.

He deserves it.

He doesn't deserve heaven.

But he didn't think that he didn't deserve hell as well.

Maybe this is worse.

A soul cast into the ether.

Lost.

Forgotten.

He screams.

---

5.

"Shhh, it's ok…"

A soft hand caresses the hair away from his brow.

"I got you."

The hand shifts down to his stubbled cheek and he leans into the touch.

It's foolish to be so trusting of a hand and voice. He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know. But the hand feels familiar. The voice is something he's only heard in dreams. He can't place it but he knows it. It itches his brain, a memory that's right on the surface but it slips from his grasp. He desperately wants to see. He needs to see. But he's afraid. Afraid that this is only a dream. Something sent to him by whatever entity keeps him trapped in limbo. This voice can't be real. This hand can't be real.

"Rest."

The hand flutters over his brow and he falls.

---

6.

Fire light.

Hosea's voice.

Smoke.

Lenny's smile.

Gun powder.

Sean's laugh.

Sweet grass.

Keiran's hands.

The smell of rain.

Eagle Flies.

Velvet.

Molly's eyes.

Soap, sharp and crisp.

Susan.

Screaming.

Faces. Warped and bitter. Giant maws opening and closing with gnarled blackened teeth. They reach for him twisting and scratching like the ends of rotten trees. A cacophony of sound. It breaches against him, pushing him down down beneath it's waves.

He's drowning.

Oh God, he's drowning.

Gardenias.

Fireflies.

Stars.

---

7.

This time he is awake.

His eyes trace the darkened ceiling of the tent. Wooden poles bracing against the thick walls. He's lying on the ground, body bracketed by soft fur. He feels warm. Almost unbearably so. But it's nice. The warmth. It's different from the icy spirals of the space inbetween. It's difficult to turn his head. It feels sluggish, loose, like if he turned too far his head would slip right off his shoulders. Still he turns, head lollying to the side like a doll. The tent is empty for now. Sparsely decorated. It takes him a moment to recognize it.

It's Dutch's tent.

Fuck.

Arthur tries to move but he feels like he's been weighed down with lead. He needs to get out of here. He has to get out of here. In his struggle, he misses the tent flap opening. Dark curly hair shading a face. They stop, watching the feeble motions of his arms trying to push the fur away.

He's awake!

Their gasp startles Arthur. He freezes and turns his eyes in the direction of the sound. They widen in surprise, alarm, anger.

Tilly.

Why was she here?

Oh God.

They found her.

Tilly makes her way over to him quickly, her footsteps light against the ground. She's smiling and he's devastated. He opens his mouth. To cry, to scream, to rage. He wasn't sure but his voice wasn't working. He becomes aware that his tongue feels like sand and his throat is tight. They aren't safe. He has to tell her. He has to protect her. She kneels next to him on the floor, a jug of water in her hands. She tilts his head up and he greedily drinks from the jug until he starts to cough and sputter.

"You're awake. I'm so glad."

Her eyes are filled with tears, glittering and pooling like dew on leaves. He makes an attempt to reach his hand for her but it lays limply on the ground. He grunts trying to work the disused chords in his throat.

"Not...safe…"

His voice comes out a gasp, broken and raspy. Tilly's brows furrowed in confusion, her fingers pushing the hair away from his forehead.

"Hey, it's ok. Don't try to talk right now."

Arthur's face grows hard and she sees the frustration start to settle in.

"Not… Safe-!"

"Arthur, what-"

"Dutch-!"

His throat spasms in pain at his shout. He had pushed it but he needed to tell her. Warn her. She doesn't understand.

"Alright, hold on," Tilly eyes him with worry, "I'll be right back."

No, don't go.

Not safe

Not… safe...

His body rebels against him. He fights the heavy boot of sleep that comes. He needs to stay awake.

To protect-

---

8.

When he wakes again, he knows it's night time.

The hazy shadows of the other time have been replaced with an orange glow. He smells the smoke of fire, the char of meat. He hears the murmurs of conversation, laughter. He stares again at the tents ceiling, his mind cataloguing, trying to pinpoint the sounds. It didn't sound like the camp he is used to. The fact he isn't tied to a tree means something. If he was a prisoner, they wouldn't have bothered keeping him here inside, out of the cold.

It's safe.

For now.

A rustle of fabric draws his attention. This time it's easier to turn his head.

"Tilly told me that you woke up. I had to come see it for myself but when I got here you were already asleep again like an old man."

Arthur would laugh if he didn't know it would cause him pain.

"Charles...:"

Charles' eyes twinkle in the dim light and Arthur gives him a smile in return. His expression falls and he moves to take a seat next to Arthur. He rubs his thumb and forefinger together, the sound of the camp encapsulating them.

"I'm sure you have some questions."

They had found him in the forest, near the edge. Bodies of some of the Pinkertons, Dutch and Micah had shot in their escape, not far from him. For a moment, Charles had feared that he was dead. They weren't even sure it was Arthur until he had flipped over his body and recognized the face. They had felt a pulse, it was weak but it was there. He had loaded him onto his horse and brought him back to the Wapiti.

Arthur closed his eyes, relief washing over him. The Wapiti, of course. But that didn't explain-

"Why is Tilly here?"

"She was the one that told us where you were."

Arthur looks at him in surprise. How? He had sent Tilly off with Abigail, Jack and Sadie. Charles laughs. "She came riding into the reservation like wolves were on her heels. Told us you had stayed behind." He looks away from Arthur, his mouth turned down. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you."

Arthur shakes his head, "There was nothing you could have done. I mean, having a second pair of guns would always be welcome but Dutch… Dutch were too far gone. I don't think he even realized it had happened until it was too late."

They sit in silence. Both reflecting on the what ifs. On their shared past. What if Charles had decided to stay? Would everything have ended differently? Would it have mattered? Arthur didn't know. A part of him thinks that it wouldn't have made a difference. That Dutch would still have sided with Micah. Would have still left Arthur to rot in that clearing; surrounded by Pinkertons and fire. His fingers curl around the fur of the blanket.

"There is one good thing though."

Arthur huffs, tilts his head towards him, "And what's that?"

"You don't have to worry about a bounty on your head," Charles grabbed the jug of water and brought it to Arthur's mouth. "I took the clothes you were wearing and put it on one of the Pinkertons before pushing their body into the forest fire. They think you burned to death trying to escape. So, how does it feel to be a free man?"

Arthur pushes the jug away from his face and closes his eyes.

Free.

What a strange concept.

He had always measured his life in time periods. Before Dutch, With Dutch. He never once stopped to dream of the future. It was too risky, prone to failure. Time stretched in front of him. Time he didn't have before. It frightened him. What was he supposed to do with it? Charles watched him silently before patting his shoulder.

"You'll figure it out. You always do."

---

9.

Tilly comes back to see him after Charles leaves.

She stands by the open flap, the orange glow haloing behind her head. Her eyes wide, glistening. She stares at him in disbelief. In awe. She isn't quite sure he's really there. He had almost died. The thought squeezes her chest and she clutches the skirt of her dress. She almost lost him. The space in the tent feels both close and yet expansive. Like there is a canyon between them. She desperately wants to cross it. She wants to go back to how it was between them. That easiness she couldn't find anywhere else. That openness. But she's afraid. Afraid of the things that had transpired, of what will happen. She almost lost him and it destroyed her. Of all the things, his death… She can't even think of what it might have done.

When they had brought him back to her, she screamed. He didn't look like her Arthur. He looked like some poor animal that met an unfortunate end under the wheels of a train. She couldn't look at him without crying, couldn't hold the needle and thread in her hand steady enough to help. The Wapiti women kicked her out of the tent, gentle yet stern. They understood her anguish, her worry, but they needed to work and couldn't do so with her around. He was in and out of consciousness for weeks. Sometimes he would mumble things, names sometimes. The other times broke her heart even more. She had awoken one night to screaming. She ran out of her tent and into his. He was thrashing in the furs, blood dripping from the still healing cuts. His screams were anguished, tormented by some unseen assailant. She rushed to his side, bracing her hand against his cheek. She was vaguely aware of others joining her, checking to make sure more wounds had not opened. The activity in the tent quieted and died away as he leaned into her touch and for a moment, a second that stretched and stretched, it was just them. She felt the heat of his skin, the stubble on his cheek, the soft but labored breathing. His movements slowed and stilled, arms growing heavy and slack. It wasn't until the others left that Tilly finally let go. She moved her tent closer to his that night.

He turns his head to look at her and smiles.

"I hear I have you to thank."

His voice is soft, raspy from disuse. Healed cuts littered his exposed chest and arms. If she dared to pull back the fur covering him she would see the long jagged scar that ran along his left side. The bruises and swelling on his face, now yellowed and puffy. She looks down at her hands, fingers bunching the dirtied fabric. She shrugs not sure how to articulate the panic, the frenzy that had spurred her. Filled her. She must have looked like some sort of wild thing. A creature from fairy tales, invading spaces- wide eyed and wild- screaming into the night.

"It's what anyone would have done…"

She feels like that answer was the wrong one. She could almost see the crumble, the way his expression shifted from open to close. Like the shutters on a window. She takes a step towards him, the space between them yawning and pulsing.

"Not everyone."

She takes a step closer, the gap less daunting.

"No," she agrees, moving closer still and kneeling beside him. Her fingers clutch the fur and she curls in on herself. Tears unbidden fall from her eyes.

"You stupid, foolish man!"

She doesn't mean it. She doesn't but she feels out of control. If he hadn't gone back, if he had just left with John, if he had just left with them- her-! He wouldn't have gotten hurt. He wouldn't have had to fight for his life. But she can't be mad at him. Her Arthur always did what was hard to make sure they were safe. If he hadn't stayed behind to draw more attention away from them, they would all be dead or in custody. He wouldn't be free.

His hand slides up her forearm and cups her fists. They work the fingers of her hands, rubbing her knuckles until she loosens her tight grasp.

"Oh, Tilly…I'm alright. I'll be alright…"

She let out a wet scoff. She was the one supposed to be comforting him not the other way around.

"I know. I know…," she keeps her eyes on the fur blanket, "But you almost died and I didn't know if you would ever wake up and you were so hurt and and-"

His hand leaves hers and presses gently onto the side of her neck, stopping her. His palm cups below her ear and she melts. He's here. He's alright. He'll be fine. She takes a shuddering breath, quelling the next set of tears that threatened to fall. No, she needed to be strong. She can cry later.

Her fingers tremulously reach for his face, cupping his cheek. He looks at her now, the shutters opening. She sees all of him. Anger, regret, guilt, sadness. An unnamed emotion swirls behind them. The others she knows. They hang around him like a lead cloak. Too heavy to lift fully off but he's always been strong enough to keep it from dragging him down completely. This new emotion confuses her in its foreignness. The shutters close suddenly, like he's ashamed of what she saw. Of what she'll find if she looked deeper.

Don't hide, she wants to say, Not from me.

Instead she offers him a smile. It's a ghost of what it was before. Something else that was taken. Perhaps one day she'll get it back. Perhaps things will be easier now. Now that the gallows aren't hovering over their heads. She can only hope. And in the quiet of the tent, they breathe.

---

10.

He remembers once the first time he's ever felt at home.

It was after.

After his mother had died. After his father had been arrested. After.

He was young, a lad no older than twelve. It was raining and cold. He desperately wanted to be inside. It didn't matter to him what building. Any would do. He felt the icy prick of rain slide down the back of his neck. The too warm heat radiating from his fingertips. Maybe he could sneak into one of the kitchens and warm up. Maybe he'd hole up in one of the storage rooms of the saloon.

He had met a man that day.

One that would change his whole life.

For better and for worse.

But here in the afters.

After the harried escapes, the brushes with the law, the fighting, the deaths.

He feels at peace.

It unsettles him.

He doesn't deserve this.

This happy ending that would only come at the end of some story.

The man lives happily ever after with the woman of his dreams.

He doesn't deserve that.

He watches Charles carry supplies across the encampment, children dogging at his heels laughing and yelling. They were getting ready to leave soon. Head up north. He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure about much these days. For once his mind is silent. Unbothered by the here and now. He's content to watch but he feels the prickle of his skin. The squirming otherness of unrest.

Maybe he could slip away. It wouldn't be terribly hard. Ride off in a different direction when they were busy. Go his own way. Maybe finish what Micah and Dutch had started all those weeks ago.

Micah.

Dutch.

Those names no longer meant anything to him. He had spent his whole life fighting. Scrounging for the things that were promised. Taking things that were promised to others. He wasn't sure if he could keep doing it. By the end he had seen his hands covered in so much blood he was drowning. Each face of the ones he had wronged, hurt, would forever be etched in his mind.

Maybe he would continue what they had started.

A yellow flash catches his eye. It's bright against the grey and brown. Tilly is talking with one of the women. She watches them weave a pattern in the air. She follows along, hands motioning. He thinks of birds, wings expanding in flight. She's smiling, packing away her things onto the cart they had salvaged from the wreck of Beaver Hollow. He wants to go over to her. He wants to run his fingers down her arm. Hold her hand. Hug her to his body and never let go.

But he won't.

His hands are tainted.

The soft thread of feet approaches his resting place. He doesn't have to look to know it's Rains Fall. They often sat together in silence and he appreciated it. It reminded him of the times when he was younger when Hosea would sit up with him. They would just be. It makes his heart clench. The wounds even months later are still too raw.

He doesn't think he could ever pay Rains Fall back. Not for what had happened before, for saving his life again, for taking him in. He wants to. God, he wants to. But he gets the feeling that he would just smile and wave him off. It wasn't about owing anything. It was just what honest men did. Arthur remembers all the times when he had done something because it was the right thing to do. He always felt foolish afterwards. He hears the voice of his father, berating him for his bleeding heart.

The world doesn't work that way, Arthur.

But maybe it does.

Still, he can't bring himself to join them. He feels incomplete, bereft. He's not sure what exactly it is but he knows that he can't follow. Not yet. He turns his head catching the eyes of Rains Fall. A million things sit on the tip of his tongue. Thank yous and apologies and explanations and questions. He can't get his tongue to work like he wants it to but Rains Fall understands. His eyes are kind, sad. He knows what Arthur is failing to say. His hand pats his forearm, once, twice. A blessing, an understanding.

He looks towards Tilly still standing by the cart organizing bags. She feels the weight of his gaze, turning her to him like the head of a sunflower. He's on his feet before he can even think about it, approaching her. She watches him, her expression falling with each step. She knows that look, that purposeful gait.

He stops in front of her. His eyes bouncing between her own. A question. She reaches towards him both hands grasping his. They dwarf hers. Scarred and calloused fingers, rough and warm. She traces the deep lines in his palm and his heart chants. He can feel a rough patch on her thumb and forefinger. The smooth yet textured skin of her palm. He loves the contrast between them. The deep brown of her skin, the softness on the back of her knuckles. He drinks her in, enraptured. She leans her forehead against his chest, tears forming in her eyes. She knows he's leaving. He's going somewhere she can't follow. She relishes in the warmth of his body, in his scent.

Arthur Arthur Arthur

Her heart sings.

His hands slide up her arms, feeling the soft fabric of the sleeves, the firm muscles underneath. They come to rest under her jaw, his thumbs sweeping the tears from her eyes. Her hands curl around his forearms, keeping him in place. Their faces are inches apart. The blue green of the ocean crashing against brown and gold rocks. Their foreheads meet and he lets himself dream. Dreams of them now. Of her smile, her laughter, her voice. Of them in the future. He hears her laughter and anothers. A mirror of hers, of his, but smaller. He can't bear to look for long. If he does he'll never leave. He feels so full.

His heart answers her.

Tilly Tilly Tilly

She nods her head against his before leaning back and he misses the contact deeply. She lets go of his forearms, reaching behind her head to pull the pin from the broach she always wears. Her braid unfurls behind her like a flag, lying heavily against her back. She takes his hand and slips it in, curling his fingers around it. She meets his eyes, a silent command in their depths.

This isn't a goodbye.

It's a promise. One he fully intends to keep.

He watches them. His eyes never leave hers. He watches them crest the hill, wheels of the wagons and horses kicking up a cloud of dust obscuring his vision. Still he watches. Long after they leave his sight. Long after he can no longer feel the weight of her gaze.

He watches.

---

11.

He had decided to head west towards the mountains. He didn't have a destination in mind but it wasn't like the frenzied migration he experienced with the gang. Haphazardly choosing their next destination from scattered memories of their youths and whatever was farthest away from the law breathing down their necks. He stuck to the trees, walking his horse through forgotten pathways avoiding the main roads for as long as he can. He may be free, legally dead, but he wasn't an idiot. Still he relished in the natural silence of the forest. The freedom to just ride without a care. Without worrying about someone coming to look for him like he was a naughty child staying out past curfew.

The first thing he noticed when he visited the old camp was the map that had been tacked on his wagon. He was surprised to have found it still intact. He touched the faded pencil markings he had made of all the places he had been. The things he found there. The corners were singed but otherwise it was undamaged by the fire that had burned through most of the camp and forest. It was fitting, he thought, to see remnants of his past broken and charred. He's sure Dutch would have had something to say about this. Maybe how it was a new start, a step in the direction of the true West. Maybe some rot he got from all those philosophy books he kept reading in camp. Something sad and yet profound. He was never one for speeches. He never was able to say the right words that would inspire people. Too awkward, some would say. Too dumb. Too cynical. But looking at the wreckage of his old life, Arthur found that he wasn't sad to see it go. All the people he cared about- his heart squeezed at the thoughts of the ones who didn't- had been able to escape. That's all that mattered to him.

Or maybe…

Maybe it just hadn't set in yet.

He wrapped his old winter coat around him, drawing up the collar to block the cold wind. He thumbed the strap of his new satchel, gloved fingers running against the smooth beads that decorated the supple deer hide. He found it strange. Riding on a new horse, a new bag around his torso, a new journal to fill, all while still wearing his old winter coat. It was like when they had fled to Blackwater. He had gotten a new journal then as well after leaving his old one behind. A new horse too. Everything was different and yet the same. A part of him still expects to see Lenny ride up to him, hear Hosea tell a terrible joke that you couldn't help but laugh at it. It had taken him a long time to come to terms with loss. The gang had given him something to focus on when his engagement to Mary fell through. When Isaac and Eliza had died. He had spent many years pushing those thoughts and feelings deep within himself.

But now.

Now there aren't any distractions, no work to draw his focus away from them. He finds that the more he is alone, the less he knows of himself. Well, that's not true. He knows that he's a crack shot, strong, resilient, and a good hunter. But those are just physical traits. Things that he's developed because it was a need for the gang and his life before them.

Maybe this is why he felt incomplete?

Nah, you're just a fool, Arthur Morgan, he snorts as he hitches his horse to a tree.

But he can't help but think as he stares up into the cold night sky if maybe it's true.

---

12.

October 1, 1899

I cried again today.

I think my mind is finally catching up with everything that has happened in the last few months. It's strange to not be woken up by Mrs. Grimshaw's yelling. Or hear the soft voice of Abigail talking with Jack. There isn't any hurry, no running this way and that. No plans. I think that's the strangest thing of all.

There isn't a plan.

I have been travelling with the Wapiti for the last couple of weeks. They're heading away from the heartland, according to Rains Fall and Charles. I don't think they have a plan exactly for where they are going but I think the general idea is to just get out. I think it's for the best, really.

I'm not sure why I decided to take up journaling. Maybe it was because I always saw Arthur with him everywhere. Making notes, writing entries. He even drew in it! He showed me some of his drawings he did of the animals around the area. I'm not like him though. I don't have much to say.

---

13.

He stood in the inn room, placing his satchel and bag on the bed. The wooden floor creaked under the weight of his boots as he looked out the small window situated over the dresser. Johannesburg was a small mountain town. One of many that had sprung up seemingly overnight when gold was found in the mountain cliffs. It wasn't a hub of commerce and society like Saint Denis or Blackwater but it was nice in a way. He turns away from the window and gathers his clothes, heading into the bathroom across the hall. Setting his things down on a chair in the room, he braces himself on the wash basin's table. A large mirror leaned against the wall, smudge and hazy. It had been a long time since he actively looked at his reflection. The last time was a few months ago. He almost didn't recognize himself. He knew he was an ugly, sour man. Angry, gruff, unkempt. But the harshness and stress of the last few months seemed to have aged him considerably. Crows feet lined the sides of his eyes, dark circles smudged the skin underneath. Worry lines ran along his forehead like dry riverbeds. His brows sunk low over his eyes. His hair had grown out in the weeks since he left the Wapiti. It curled around his ears, laying against his neck and shoulders in greasy clumps. His beard was an unkempt mess, small pieces of hay dotting the scraggly brown hair.

He turns away in disgust.

Shedding his clothes he settles into the tub. Water sloshing against the sides of the metal basin. The heat stings the sensitive cuts on his skin and he hisses a curse. He shouldn't have looked. He knows, objectively, that he is his own worst enemy. A bitter man unhappy with the lots life has given him. He thinks back to the many instances he's repulsed someone. To the way Mary's eyes raked his body with disdain when he would meet her; his shirt front smudged with dirt from where he had nervously wiped his hands. He had always wished for her to look at him when he hovered over her. He had wanted to see the joy, pleasure in her face when he kissed her, touched her. But she always turned away, disgust flashing in her expression before she smothers it behind a simpering smile, a compliment on her lips.

His wet hand scrubs his face with the soap harshly. He has spent many years thinking about Mary. At least with Eliza he knew his place. They didn't love each other. Not the way Mary and he had. Or at least he thought she had. He cared for Eliza and Isaac. It was the first time he had anything that was his and his alone. The gang was his family but when Hosea would talk about Bessie, about the life he had with her. He wanted that. A want he had felt so keenly.

A desperation filled him when he heard she was pregnant. He wasn't sure if it was from the need to protect a family he didn't even know was an option for his life. Or maybe it was that he feared that she would keep Isaac from him. That he would never be able to see him grow up. He couldn't blame her if she did. He was a man living a life of danger, always on the run from the people that aimed to hurt and maim. He would be forever grateful to her that she let him in. That she became a friend he never knew he needed. A perspective outside of the gang that wasn't about robbing or running. He knew that they would only ever be good friends but he relished in the companionship. Their life together was brief but joyful. He watched Isaac grow into a fine little boy, curious about the world, a lover of horses and animals, learning to read and write at the school in town. He remembers the time he taught him to fish, joy and pride in his eyes when he showed his catch to Eliza. She had smiled at Arthur, bumping shoulders with him in thanks as they prepared their dinner.

That was the last time he had seen them.

And he knew that it was his fault they died.

That they became a consequence of the violence that follows him. It was a blow that struck him deeper than any bullet could. Than any knife.

He blames the sting of his eyes on the soap running down his face.

That night as he lay in bed, the sheets cold against his skin, he thinks of another pair of eyes. Ones that shone like moonlight reflecting on the surface of water. He could almost feel the warmth of her hands, feel the softness in her gaze. His thumb rubs slow circles on the broach and he dreams.

---

14.

October 20, 1899

Charles escorted the Wapiti to the border of Canada. He says he doesn't need to go any further. That Rains Fall told him that they'd make it on their own from there. We're going to say goodbye to them tomorrow before they make their way over the foothills. I know I'll miss them dearly.

To think that right over this hill is a nothing but wide open country. Charles said he had come over this way once. It was nothing but forests and plains and a few small towns. But they were so far inbetween, you'd miss 'em completely unless you went looking. Arthur would have loved it here. He'd want to go explore and map the whole region. Disappear for a few days and come back with a buck, some money and a story.

I miss him… so much.

[tear stain, smudged pencil mark]-les says that he's thinking about heading back the way we came or maybe going west. I told him that I'd like to try going back to St. Denis. Maybe try to find some work there. Charles says he thinks he'll join me. When I told him he didn't have to come, he just waved me off and gave me a "don't argue" look. I think he just doesn't want to leave me by myself. I'm happy he's coming with me but I feel bad all the same.

---

15.

Arthur stayed in Johannesburg for a few more days. He hunted in the surrounding woods and made some money off the pelts he brought back. The locals, while polite, gave him a wide berth. It might have been because of the beard or the general way he looked but he didn't mind too much. They all thought he was just some trapper looking to sell his stock before heading back into the mountains. He didn't dispute it.

After that first night in the inn, he had packed up his things and moved back into the woods. The hustle of the small town grated on his nerves. He could only take it in small doses before he needed to seek the quiet of the forest. Maybe this was it. This was the final sign telling him that he wasn't made for civilization, even after all his attempts at trying to blend in and understand it. Or maybe he's just a crotchety old man with little patience for other people. That could be it too.

Dutch had always been drawn to cities and towns. At first they mostly kept to themselves, travelling outside of smaller villages. Hosea and he were content to stay in the woods, keeping to themselves while they planned their next con. But Dutch… Dutch would always head into town, go to a saloon, pick up a girl. He claimed it was to keep his association with Hosea and him a secret. Can't be seen heading in and out of town with the same group of people. It'd look suspicious. For a while it made sense. Less attention meant less chance of anyone catching on. But each job took them closer and closer to the cities and towns that Dutch claimed to hate. It didn't make much sense to Arthur but he wasn't the one making the decisions. But each time they settled outside of a town larger than the last, Hosea's mouth would tighten slightly at the edges. A tick so small you'd miss it if you weren't paying attention. He never said anything and Arthur followed his lead.

Eventually the gang grew to a point where it would seem unusual to come upon such a mixed bunch of people in the woods.

For all of Dutch's shortcomings, Arthur couldn't find it in himself to hate him. Not like he did Micah or Ross or Milton. No, he didn't hate Dutch. He was just disappointed. Dutch had been this legendary figure in Arthur's eyes when he first met him. Suave and in control. He embodied everything that Arthur had wanted at the time. He was his father in every sense of the word and Arthur relished in it. A man that commanded a room and instilled loyalty in all who followed him. A part of Arthur knew that he shouldn't be this disappointed in finding out who Dutch really was. He had seen it in glimpses and flashes. A smile that glinted like the light off a knife, a promise of violence in the clasp of a hand or the danger that rumbled under the pleasant tones of his voice.

In Blackwater, the curtain had finally been drawn back to reveal the blood soaked visage of the actor. And it was then that he knew the signs he had chosen to ignore, what he had simply thought were just actions done in the necessity of the job. There was no necessity in killing an unarmed woman. No honor. But when he would ask what happened, trying to piece together the broken and disjointed stories from the ones that were there, it didn't make sense. Nothing made sense.

If only he had stepped in sooner. If only he had spoken up sooner before Micah slithered his way in. If only, if only…

Arthur runs his thumb over the broach in his pocket, the relief smooth against his finger. He can't think like this. Going in circles trying to find the logic to see where he went wrong. In what could have been changed. He did what he could. He got the people he cared for away. They will have a good life because of him.

She would have a good life.

She deserved it. He just didn't know if he deserved it as well.

---

16.

November 15, 1899

We made it to Saint Denis in one piece. I was half expecting our train to be pulled over by outlaws. Charles watched the train, looking at all the people in their finery loading into the first few cars. I'll admit, I watched them too. I guess old habits die hard and all that.

St. Denis is just as dirty as I remember. It wasn't hard for us to find lodging in a small apartment above a bar. They didn't want to give it to us at first. Some reasons about unwed couples aren't welcome. I told them I was married but my husband was away on business. I told them that Charles was my half brother. They let us have the room after that but I think they are suspicious of us.

I have been trying to find work since our arrival but so far nothing has turned up. Charles was able to find work at the docks. The pay isn't great but it feeds us. I told him I was sorry. Sorry that I couldn't find work. I'm not used to this. I was always doing something in the gang. Chores, finding leads on jobs, working. I don't know what to do with myself now. I'm worried and a part of me is scared. It's silly to be scared. I have nothing to fear now. Now that Anthony is gone. Now that the camp is gone.

I feel so empty. Like a part of myself was left behind somewhere. Maybe that's why I'm scared. Because I know exactly what's missing but I don't know if it'll ever return…

---

17.

Cold wind funneled down the open track ruffling through his long hair. It stung the skin of his cheeks and nose, his beard protecting his lower face and neck. It burned Arthur's lungs with each inhale. A sharp rasping sound escaped his mouth as he closed his eyes to the frigid air. He takes a deep breath before he forces it out harshly, swinging the heavy iron hammer down on the nail. It glanced off the metal, clanking loudly in the air, joining the chorus of the others. He sets the hammer down, breath clouding the air before him. His chest rises and falls in great pants as he listens to the clanking echo through the forest surrounding the track.

It had been 4 months since he decided to leave Johannesburg. The last day of his time in the town he heard talk of work on the railways. They were trying to expand to the coasts of Oregon. It had been a long time since he had set foot there. The last time was with his father. He was running from whatever debts he had accrued from the failed dealings and poker games. One too many IOUs turned into years of his life spent in the back of a wagon watching towns fade into the darkness, their lights winking out one by one like the stars. He had promised himself that he would never be like his father. That he would never gamble away his fortunes, owe people money. But life is funny and the older he gets the more he realizes that he is his father and maybe something more.

He shakes his head from his reverie, picking up his hammer and swinging it down harshly on the next nail.

The workers camp took up a large area of the forest. Tents scattered here and there between the trees. Men gathered around fires, their voices hushed whispers as they tried to settle their tired bodies onto wooden logs. The cold winter air and work chapped their faces and hands raw. They stretched them out towards the fire, hoping the warmth would seep into their bones and stay. Arthur had built his tent near the edge of the encampment, still choosing to isolate himself from the others. On the first day, some of the men from Johannesburg had tried to talk to him. His stony silence and monosyllabic answers quickly put a stop to any attempts. It's not that he didn't want to talk to them. Alright, maybe it was, but he had always felt that talking never got you anywhere.

Actions, now actions can get you everything.

He had learned that lesson when he was 15. He had joined Dutch and Hosea on a small job. At least it was supposed to be small. He had found it strange that the train was so empty. He signaled to Hosea his confusion at the lack of passengers, the train staff. It felt like the jaws of a trap ready to snap close. They kept going, Hosea assuring him that this was normal for transport trains. They found two guards in the furthest most train car guarding a safe full of gold bars and bags of coins. A king's treasure. It was so easy to take the money. To leave the two guards tied up and gagged on the floor, yelling obscenities through the clothes in their mouths.

Until they left the train and were confronted by the rest of the guards who had been following at a distance.

He'll always remember the shootout that followed in disjointed flashes. Gun smoke, a cry of pain, the wet smack of flesh being torn. The sound of Hosea's gritted teeth and sweat streaked face. The grim expression of Dutch as he shot bullet after bullet into the guards. Arthur had clutched his gun tightly in his hand, firing into the melee sporadically. So focused was he on the guards in front of him, he never noticed the guard from the train coming towards him. He had slipped his bonds, leaving the other guard to find their guns while he pulled a knife from his boot. He had snuck up on Arthur tackling him to the ground, knife swiftfully making its descent towards his face. Arthur had braced his hands against the man's forearms, stopping the knife right before it plunged into his cheek. Hosea and Dutch turned toward the commotion, guns raised to assist but Arthur had yelled for them to keep shooting.

Before then he had only shot to injure. He never did more than what was required. A punch to incapacitate, a gunshot to an arm or leg or hand. But in this moment- anger, adrenaline, fear- flashed white hot through him. He pushed the knife back from his face punching the man in one swift motion. The man fell off him and grasped for the knife that had fallen out of his hand. Arthur grabbed it from where it lay and stabbed the man in the chest, in his neck and then his face. Blood roared in his ears like a river, muffling the voices calling out to him. He felt a hand grasp his shoulder and he quickly swung the knife in their direction, adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

"It's alright, son."

He stared into the middle distance. His eyes barely registered the man beside him, the rapidly cooling body under him.

"He's dead."

"I know."

"I killed him."

"Yes."

Arthur's fingers had grasped the knife until his knuckles turned white. The leather of the hilt squeaking under his hold. He couldn't tell you when the knife was taken from his hand. When he was led to his horse or when he had mounted it, riding swiftly into the night leaving the train behind. All he remembers is the next morning, his hands, arms and face prickling from the dried blood. He scrubbed his face and arms until the skin of his knuckles cracked, until his face was raw from the lye soap that stung his eyes. He sat on his cot afterwards, staring numbly at his hands in his lap. He felt the dip in the mattress beside him, a weathered hand covers his knee gently.

"Was there another way...Hosea?"

"...No."

Arthur nodded his head like he expected that answer. A part of him still expected- hoped- that it would have been different. That he could have avoided that outcome.

"Sometimes…," Hosea sighed deeply, breathing in the air of the mountain, "Sometimes we have to do what is necessary."

His fingers curl into fists in his lap. Yes, action got you everything. But at what cost?

---

18.

January 30, 1900

Charles has been coming back late for the last few days. I didn't think anything of it at first. It's been a tough few months, hell, tough year for all of us. I wouldn't blame him if he was out at a bar in the city. But these last few times he has been coming in with a bruise on his face or cuts on his cheeks. I've asked him if he's getting into fights with some of the guys at the dock but he denies it. I wouldn't put it past him to break a few noses of some dusty old man who looked at him wrong because he was Colored. I had half a mind to burn that shop in Rhodes to the ground after the way they treated us but I figured that would draw too much attention. Still I am worried. As much as Charles says he doesn't need me to worry about him, I do. He is my brother, in every sense of the word, and I want to return the favor for always watching out for me.

If I'm honest, I have been staying out too. I have been staying longer and longer at the Pierre's house. They hired me on as a nanny for their daughter. Mr. Pierre's wife was told by the doctors that she needed bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy. They're just so welcoming and they live in this big house with servants! I didn't think I would ever see a Colored couple like me ordering servants around. Hah! If only the others could see me now.

I have found myself writing more as the months go by. I didn't think that I would have much to say but now that my head is clear, I have found myself with all sorts of ideas. I don't have the talent that Mary-Beth did. She could string together words so prettily, makes me think I was right there in the story! She wanted to write the Great American novel. Maybe I could… one day. A girl can dream.

---

19.

You shouldn't have gone to St. Denis.

It was a stupid decision, Morgan.

You couldn't help yourself, could you?

You saw a woman that looked just like her.

Only it was her and you followed her like a fucking creep.

Just like that prostitute in the bar, holding her hand like a love sick fool.

You disgust me.

Stop.

And what did you find, huh?

Stop it.

You found her happy.

I said stop.

She was happy. Just like you always wanted, huh, Morgan?

Leave me alone.

Except that wasn't with you.

She doesn't love you.

Nobody loves you.

LEAVE ME ALONE.

The mirror shattered under the weight of his fist. His breath came out in ragged puffs, fogging the broken shards on the wall. He pulls his fist back, knuckles broken and bleeding around the shards of glass embedded in his skin. His hands shake as he brings them up to his face, covering his eyes.

They had finally reached the coast, bringing the railway to some backwater logging town. The foreman had thanked them all for their hard work but unfortunately he could not pay them at this location. The railway's office was back in St. Denis. He didn't want to go back toward all that civilization. But the money he had saved from the pelts he sold in Johannesburg had dwindled considerably over the last few months. He needed the money and- damn it!- he wasn't going back to his old life.

He had a promise to keep.

St. Denis was a shit place when he first rode into town and it hadn't changed much since. The only difference was that this time he wasn't with the gang. The old brick buildings swept by the open window of the train car, he could smell that strange mix of salt water from the delta and the earthy scent of the river that flowed to it. They mixed with the smell of food from the shops, bodies, horses and the odor of their excrement. After so many months in the mountain, breathing in the cold fresh air, the smell of the city overwhelmed him. He felt his stomach roll and his head begin to pound. He sighed, rubbing his temples. All he had to do was collect the payment and leave. In and out.

"Name?"

"Matthews. Arthur Matthews."

"Here you go. Next!"

The headquarters was located near the church. Memories of Sister Calderón's smiling face and the talks they had in the gardens brings a smile to his lips. He pulls the brim of his hat lower over his face as he passes a policeman, thankful for the months worth of beard and hair growth to obscure his features. He stopped to breath in the scent of the blooming azaleas, when another scent caught his attention. A flash of green and red, dark curly hair braided around her crown, deep brown skin glowing in the afternoon light.

It was her.

It had to be her.

His body moved without hesitation, following after her as she turned into the opening of the garden. His long dead heart beating once, twice, surging to life in his chest. He wanted to run to her. Reach out a hand and touch her shoulder. Watch the light in her eyes dance as she looks at him, her mouth curling into a smile. He could almost feel the skin of her hands, hear his name passing from her lips like a prayer. He was so close. She walked around the path, body obscured by a bush and he stumbled after her; desperate to keep her in sight. He reaches the edge of the bush and stops. He looks down at himself. His beard, long and scraggly, reaching down to his chest. The skin of his hands cracked and dirty, mud stuck under his nails. He knows his face is wind chapped, dirt patches covering the skin on his face. He rubs his hands on his trousers, takes off his hat and combs his long hair back from his face. He should have stopped at the inn, taken a bath before going to the office. But then he would have missed her. He brushes his hand down the front of his worn shirt, smoothing out any wrinkles from the train ride. He keeps his hat in his hands, fidgeting nervously with the edges. He takes a deep breath and steps around the bush, his face stretched into what he hoped was a friendly smile.

It immediately falls from his face.

She wasn't alone.

She stood before another man. He was dressed well in a tailored suit and tall hat, his deep brown skin contrasting nicely with the light cream color of his suit's jacket. He was standing in front of her, a smile on his face as he listened to her motion with her hands toward the garden's gate. He nods and steps aside revealing a small baby pram. She reaches in tucking the blanket around kicking feet inside. The man opens a small parasol shading them as they move on down the path.

Arthur stood there frozen in place. The hat crushed between the white knuckle grasp of his hands. His chest felt like something was sitting on it, his breath coming out in sharp puffs.

She had moved on.

His blood roared in his ears. He could hear the rapid pounding of his heart. Feel its pulse pound through his body.

She had moved on. She had a baby. She had moved on. She had a baby.

Arthur was suddenly sick. He quickly turned to the bush, acid burning his throat as it forced its way up. He coughed and sputtered, hands braced on his knees as he caught his breath. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, eyes closed to the tears that stung his eyes. Filled his mouth. He fled the garden, the memories of happier times now shadowed.

He wasn't upset with her for moving on. She deserved the world and then some. He wasn't even upset at the lucky bastard that was with her, that had the good fortune of being worthy of her attention and time. He knew that he wasn't worth her love, her attention or time. He knew it with Mary, with Eliza. He knew it but still his traitorous heart gave him hope. Hope he could never afford.

This was his fault.

If only he wasn't such a fuck up. If only he hadn't left. But no, he just had to go west, just had to leave her behind with only a promise of possible return.

She deserved to move on without him. Deserved to find happiness and love. She never would have been happy with him. Never would have loved him like he did her.

He wasn't worth it.

---

20.

April 13, 1900

I thought I saw Arthur today. I was with Mr. Pierre, walking near the park around the church. He was telling me about his wife's family in Canada and that they were going to visit them soon after the baby was born. As we turned the corner I thought I saw him. Or at least it looked like him from the back. My whole body froze in place and my heart started jumping. Mr. Pierre asked me if I was alright and frankly I don't know.

It wasn't him. I know it wasn't. But I can't get the thought out of my head. What if it was him? What was he doing in St. Denis? Did he track us down? Did he come to find me after all these months? Did he miss me like I missed him?

---

21.

He had left St. Denis months ago. He couldn't be in the same city as her. It was an exquisite torture to be there and not seek her out. Not try a way to find her, convince her, that he had given his heart to her years ago before he had even known he did and all he wants is to just bask in her presence for five minutes, just five minutes, and then she'll never have to see him again. He couldn't do it. He couldn't disturb the peace she had found. He was a bastard- damn, him- but he couldn't bring himself to do it. So he left. Took the train back to Oregon, where he had left his horse in the stables of the logging camp. He paid the stable, bought months worth of supplies from the camp's general store and disappeared into the woods surrounding the sea.

But even here at the edge of the world he could not escape his thoughts of her. He had tried, had tried so hard to stifle his dreams. For days on end, he had stayed awake. Fighting sleep with each step, each breath, until one day he simply collapsed on the floor, missing the fire by mere inches. He slept for days, his dreams flowing in and out of his subconscious. Dreams, nightmares, blackness. They haunted him, consumed him, until he woke up covered in sweat, his face pressed into the dirt. He couldn't keep doing this. He couldn't keep torturing himself. For the first time in months he pulled out his journal and began to write. He wrote about his childhood, about his relationship with Dutch, Mary, Eliza… Tilly. By the end of the day he had filled his journal. When he went to sleep that night he dreamed of her smiling up at him, her hand in his as he brought it to his lips, kissing the fingertips.

Salt licked his ankles as he waded slowly into the rolling sea. He feels the rush of the water flowing underneath him, pushing against his lower legs. Feels the prick and scrape of the sand and shells as they sweep across the top of his feet. He sinks lower into the sand, the water hollowing out spaces beneath him. The next wave rushes in skimming the rolled bunches of his pants. He stares towards the horizon, the clouds heavy with rain melding together with the dark rolling waves. He closed his eyes, relaxing slowly. The strong cool winds bracket his body, swaying him slowly from side to side, mimicking the cold waves that lash his feet. He sinks lower into the sand, the water wetting the bottom of his pants. They cling to his skin, joining the other salt stains and sand from his sojourn at the sea. He'll move back to the forest soon but something drew him here. Something called him to stand in the surf.

It would be so easy to disappear into the waves, sink below their surface and float away

His mind still whispers to him. Thoughts and ideas he had long locked away floating in from time to time. He embraces some, pushes away others back into their neatly ordered box to be examined later. He made a new journal, filling it with the thoughts that would not leave him. If he is really meant to be alone then he would rather keep his mind then devolve into the madness he's seen in some.

"I knew I'd find you here…"

He opens his eyes slowly, body swaying in the wind and waves. The water has reached his knees and he turns slowly, careful of the loose sand that shifts into the spaces left by his feet. A figure stands on the shore and he blinks slowly.

"Charles…?"

"You need to come with me."

---

22.

May 7, 1900

He's here! Mrs. Pierre had the baby today and he is so cute! Well, cute when his face isn't all red on account of him crying so much. It reminds me of when Jack was born. He was so cute at first with his tuffs of dark brown hair and little button nose. But then he opened his mouth and everybody knew immediately who his daddy was. Everyone except his daddy of course. At least John did right by his family in the end.

I'm just.. I'm so happy for them.

June 20, 1900

The doctor came by and said that Mrs. Pierre and the baby look very healthy. But he recommends that she go outside for an hour or so in the morning. So we've been taking walks by the garden in the back of the house. Today Mr. Pierre suggested that they all go for a picnic by the lake. I minded the children while Mr. Pierre took his wife out on a boat. Summer has well and truly set in. By the time we came back inside, my legs and arms were covered in mosquito bites. Charles gave me some of the salve he uses to keep the mosquitos off of him when he's at work. He said he'll make me some tomorrow. For now I have to find something to distract me so I can stop scratching the bites. Maybe I'll work on that story I started?

July 12, 1900

I haven't been feeling right lately. I think the heat is getting to me. I remember this one time we had set up camp outside this little town in Nevada. It was so hot. The only people in camp not bothered by the heat were Javier, Arthur and Hosea. Everyone else was sweating so much that even John would have jumped into the nearest river to cool off. Javier told us that we had to drink more water cause the sun could make you sick if you don't. Marion didn't listen to him and only drank beer. I guess he was trying to prove a point but I think he failed at it cause he passed out from the heat. Hosea had shook his head and looked like he was tempted to just leave him out in the sun but he told us to move him to a tent to cool down and they put a bunch of wet rags on him.

If it were up to me, I would have left him there. Let the sun make him red like a boiled crawfish. Haha, now that would have been a sight to see.

July 20, 1900

I…[unintelligible word] feels like- [word crossed out heavily] fainted- [blurred word] -thur

---

23.

"Tilly, she… I don't…," Charles rubs his tired eyes, bags prominent under them, "She came home three weeks ago and told me that she wasn't feeling well."

Arthur stood in the middle of their small apartment's sitting room watching through the doorway as the doctor gently took a hold of her wrist. He counted under his breath, feeling the pulse of her heart under his fingers.

"Was there anything unusual that happened between when she first started feeling unwell?"

Charles glances towards Arthur in the sitting room, his expression closed.

"Two weeks ago she fainted at her job."

Arthur's body tenses and then all at once he was falling. He gripped the arm of the wooden chair beside him, lowering his body down into the seat.

"Did she complain about anything? Any pain in her abdomen? Headaches? Body chills?"

The doctor moved his hand from her wrist and felt under her jaw. Arthur's fingers tightened on his hat as the doctor lifted the blanket covering her legs and examined the skin. He placed his hands on her abdomen and pressed into it eliciting a low moan of pain. Tilly weakly moved her arms to push the doctor's hands away.

Charles rubs the back of his neck, uncomfortable with the amount of questions he had to answer.

"She said her stomach hurt and she started vomiting."

The doctor finishes his examination and gently places the worn blanket over her body. He takes a rag from the pile that Charles and Arthur had gathered for him. Wetting it, he places it on her forehead and Tilly sighs slightly in her sleep. He motions for Charles to go first and follows him into the small cramped kitchen washing his hands in the sink. Arthur watches him, his face blank as he waits for the doctor to finish.

The doctor sighs, wiping his hands on the dish towel beside the sink.

"I noticed that she has some swelling in the bites on her legs and arms. Did she go near any water recently?"

Charles nods his head, "Yes, she had gone to the lake in the park a few weeks back. Said she got bit by the mosquitos."

"Yes, that would do it," the doctor says as he moved to pick up his bag from the table of the kitchen. He opens it and begins to rummage through its contents, bottles clinking against each other as he moves them. He picks up one, squinting at the label in the half light filtering through the windows. Satisfied, he places it down and goes to grab another bottle from his bag. Arthur waits on pins and needles for the doctor's assessment, Charles placing his hand on Arthur's shoulder.

The doctor picks up another bottle and places it down on the table beside the other. He turns to the two men waiting in the sitting room and smiles slightly.

"Everything will be just fine. She has malaria. Very common around this time but don't worry it is treatable."

Arthur sinks back into the chair, his mind had feared the worst. Cholera, tuberculosis. He felt Charles' hand squeeze his shoulder once before releasing it. The doctor picked up the two bottles on the table handing them to Charles.

"She needs to take this once every eight hours for the malaria symptoms. It's very important that she takes these on time."

Charles turns the bottle over, Quinine written in tiny script that scrolled over the parchment adhered to the side. He nods in acknowledgment knowing that Arthur and he will make sure of it.

"This one is just general pain medication. It will help reduce the fever and with the tenderness in her abdomen. You can give her both pills now. The quinine every eight hours, the other every six."

He hands the second bottle to Charles who inclines his head in thanks before retreating back into the room. Arthur remains seated waiting for the doctor to finish packing his bag. He stands slowly, quietly following the doctor out the door of the apartment and down the rickety stairs that lead up to it from the courtyard. Arthur holds out his hand, relief and gratefulness reflecting in his eyes.

"Thank you, doctor."

The doctor smiles again, the crows feet around his eyes crinkling. He reaches out his hand to take Arthur's.

"It was no bother."

"How much do I owe you?"

The doctor grasps Arthur's hand in a firm handshake, his other coming to cover the tops.

"There's no charge. I'm repaying a good deed with another."

Arthur lets go of the doctor's hand in surprise.

"But I have to pay you something-"

"You've already done enough for me. Without you, I would never have been able to continue treating anyone. I would have still been stuck in Rhodes without my cart."

Arthur looks down at his feet, a small smile sliding across his face.

"I didn't think you'd recognize me."

The doctor laughs, his head shaking in amusement.

"You can't put anything past these old eyes."

Arthur chuckles and reaches into his back pocket, pulling out the last of his money. He places it in the hand of the doctor and takes a step back. The doctor sighs, pocketing the wad of money, knowing that it would be useless to refuse.

"Be well, doctor."

"You as well, Arthur."

---

24.

He had demanded to know once the doctor had left why Tilly was here. Why weren't they with the Wapiti? Why St. Denis of all places? Charles had looked at him strangely, his tired mind failing to catch onto the meaning of the questions Arthur had demanded answers to. He blinked slowly and looked down at Tilly's prone form, her breathing steady. His voice was soft as he spoke of the last few months. How hard they both worked before Tilly got a job as a nanny for a wealthy Colored couple. How her eyes had lit up after months of dullness. How she never thought she would see anyone like them be so successful. She told Charles of the big house they live in and all the servants they have. The times they laughed thinking of all the sour faced bastards who told them they'd never amount to anything.

"This is her home. Why wouldn't she be here?"

He doesn't tell Arthur that sometimes he hears her cry in the night. That he knows she obsessively reads the newspaper, her face falling in relief before it grows pensive. How he would find her staring into the night, mind far away. After Charles had spoken, Arthur places his face in his hands. His mind replaying the scene he saw all those months ago over and over. He had gotten it wrong. He was a fool, a goddamn fool. All this time he could have been here with her. He squeezes his eyelids together harshly as he fights the wave of self-loathing. He breathes in deeply and releases the breath slowly as he lowers his hands. He was here now, that's what matters. He was here now and nothing would chase him away.

They took turns sitting with her that night, administering the medicine and taking naps when needed. Charles had gone back to work the next day, leaving Arthur by himself in the apartment. He spent much of the day counting the hours until the next dose, wetting rags and placing them gently against her feverish face. He opened windows to air the apartment out, allowing a breeze to run through. He read out loud from the books on her bedside table, his voice unpracticed. He stumbles over words and phrases but keeps at it, eventually reading an entire chapter as the day wore on. Sometimes he sang quietly under his breath and he swears that he saw a smile form on her lips.

Mostly… He tells her of the stars in the mountain. How they had shone against the night sky like flicks of diamonds. How every night he would try to count them. How much he missed watching the fireflies, even though he absolutely hates the swamp. Of how it was so cold at night it made him think of when they had rode into Coulter, the blizzard nipping at their heels. Bits of stories and times before she joined where the gang was happy and strong.

In the night, when Charles was asleep in the next room, he would whisper the secrets he kept close to his heart frightened of what they even meant, could even mean for him. Of how every night he would hold her broach in his hand and rub the relief with his thumb that it started to form a spot worn smooth. How much he wished he hadn't left. That he had stayed. That he was sorry. For leaving. For everything that had happened and then some.

He held her hand, reasoning with himself that it's only as a comfort. Only as a way to make sure her heartbeat is strong and steady. But that traitorous part of his heart whispers in his ear, each time he falls asleep with her hand in his, that he should really stop lying to himself.

On the second night he fell asleep with the broach in one hand, her hand grasped between the fingers of the other, resting on the bed. He missed the opening of her eyes. Her gaze cataloging his tired face, the new lines and creases on his hands. soaking in his presence by her side. She had heard his voice in her dreams, felt the coolness of his skin as he held her hand. Parts of her, still affected by the fever, think he's not actually here. That this is simply an illusion. Her heart's deepest desire manifested by her feverish brain. But a quiet part of her mind whispers that it's real. That thought pulls at the strings of her heart, lulling her to sleep with his name as a lullaby.

"'It bounced off the shoulder of Andrew. At the same time he saw those banked heads at the windows of the saloon, and knew it was a trap for him. All the scorn and the grief which had been piling up in him, all the cold hurt went into the effort as he stepped in and snapped his fist into the face of Buck Heath. He rose with the blow; all his energy, from wrist to instep, was in that lifting drive. Then there was a jarring impact that made his arm numb to the shoulder. Buck Heath looked blankly at him, wavered, and pitched loosely forward on his face. And his head bounced back as it struck the ground. It was a horrible thing to see, but it brought one wild yell of joy from the saloon—the voice of Jasper Lanning.' Damn, that's a good punch," Arthur murmured, scratching his beard. He closes the book on his finger, marking the page as he turns his attention to the bed. Tilly's fever had started to break in the night. She still had not fully woken up yet but things were looking better. He waited by her side, only leaving when he needed food or to change the water from the jug. He wondered if this is how they felt when he had passed out from his injuries after the hell the O'Driscolls put him through. After he had been recovered from the burning wreckage of the forest clearing.

He laid the book down gently on the nightstand, leaning his elbows onto the bed while he rubbed his tired eyes. He closed them against the light of the gas lamp, breathing in deeply as the weight of his upper body sinks into the soft mattress.

The house was dark and quiet. It's windows opened to the breeze coming off the plains surrounding it. It carried the smell of the evening rain that had turned the grass of the plains to a vibrant green that shone like jewels against the setting sun. He sits on the lower steps of the back porch, watching the sun slowly lower over the horizon. He closes his eyes to the light of the sun, feeling it's warmth against his skin. The wind gently blows his hair off his face and he breathes in the scent of the rain, the smell of the grass and dirt.

"Arthur…"

A hand smooths over his shoulder, sliding down the front until it rests over his chest. He reaches up to take it, pressing it against his heart as he leans back into the cradle of her legs, his head resting against her breast. Her head comes to rest on top of his and they sit in silence watching the sky change colors. The crickets chirped softly, their songs filling the twilight. The breeze cooled in the absence of the sun and he felt her shiver behind him. He carefully leans his body closer to hers, willing the heat of his to warm her. He feels her tense slightly behind him and knows it's almost time for her favorite part. It began slowly at first, flashes of light that blinked in and out of existence so quickly you wondered if it was simply a trick of the light. As the sun's rays barely reached over the horizon, more lights joined the others, until the yard and plains surrounding the house turned into a field of stars. Her other hand reaches up, fingers running through his hair as she gently places a kiss upon his crown. He moves his head forward, turning his body slightly so he can look into her eyes. He traces her face with his gaze, wondering how he had ever gotten so lucky to be here with her.

"Arthur…"

Her voice whispers to him again. It passes from her lips like a sigh and leans closer, his hand coming up to cradle her cheek.

"Wake up…"

Arthur smiles, his face shifting into confusion.

"If this is a dream, I would rather be here with you, sweetheart…"

She graces him with a smile, leaning forward until their lips are brushing together as she speaks. The fireflies fluttered around them, their light growing brighter as more joined the others. The light reflects in her eyes like constellations in the sky and he falls impossibly deeper.

"Come back to me…"

Arthur's eyes slowly open, confusion running through his mind as he takes in his position. His face resting on top of his folded arms. He quickly sits up, frantically patting his pockets for his watch as he berates himself. If they had missed even a dose, they would have to start all over again.

"Don't worry… It's only been an hour."

Arthur freezes, his hands stilling their search. She was awake. Finally, fully awake. His mind stuttered and started, jumping from thought to thought, trying and failing to reconnect.

"Arthur…"

Her voice kicks his mind into motion and he stands quickly from his chair. His eyes dart around the room, avoiding the bed. He starts to move towards the door.

"I'll go get-"

"No, stay."

Arthur pauses near the doorway, his hand on the door knob. This is what he had been waiting days for, really if he's honest, months. To see her eyes, to hear her voice once more. He still feels the bitter sting of his assumption that had cost him months. It clings to him, guilt warring with his heart that bleeds for her. The silence stretches into the room, the faint ticking of his pocket watch vibrates in time with his heart. He lets go of the door knob and turns around slowly, avoiding her gaze as he settles back near the bed, his knees brushing against the side. He fiddles with the crude patch on his pants as they sit together. They've done this before in camp, before everything fell apart around them and they were lost. And yet this time he can feel the space between them, though he is only inches from her hand. He glances up towards her, taking in her tired smile, the slight lines under her eyes, the paleness of her skin. He forces his eyes away, finding the pattern of his corduroy jeans more interesting. He feels her shift on the bed, her body turning towards him.

"I…," she sighs softly, hands coming to rest in view of his lowered gaze, "how are you?"

Arthur scoffs quietly drawing a quiet chuckle from Tilly.

"I should be the one asking you that."

Tilly nods looking toward the stack of books on her bedside. The silence is awkward, heavy, between them. She had longed for him for so many months, vowing to tell him all the things she held close. Everything she had realized all those months ago when she almost lost him to betrayal and fire. She had hoped then when they were safe, when they were both unburdened by the thoughts of death that clung to them, that he would stay with her. That they would finally explore what could be. But she knew that he needed that time to himself. She wouldn't begrudge him for that.

If she were honest, she needed it too.

She takes in the length of his hair, falling below his shoulders in waves, curling around his ears. His beard was longer than she's ever seen it before. It fell to his chest in great bushy tuffs, the hair a mixture of blonde and brown. There were new lines around his eyes, circles under his eyes, that spoke of restless nights and harsh winds. Her eyes trace the silvery line of a scar bisecting part of his eyebrow, the one that ran along his temple into his hair. The new ones that adorn his hands, spidery cracks that flared alonged the bones of his knuckles like fissures on a clay pot. Even with the changes he was still her Arthur, the one that would sit silent as a statue next to her when dreams of her old life hounded her nights. When she feared that Anthony would come back with what was left of his gang despite Arthur's threat.

The silence fills the spaces, rushing in like water. It makes the space between their hands seem like a canyon.

"I'm sorry."

Tilly blinks.

"For what, Arthur? It's not your fault I'm sick."

Arthur shakes his head, his mind still clouded.

"I'm sorry for leaving. I'm sorry for being away for so long-"

"You don't have to apologize for any-"

"But I do. I do. I left you behind."

His voice is quiet and firm.

"Arthur…"

His hands still against the patch on his thigh and her voice cracks.

"Arthur, look at me… please?"

He slowly raises his eyes to her. The tide rushes in, warm water against the jeweled rocks of a cove. She sucks in a breath at the intensity, the depths of the shallows in his eyes. The months away had ripped away the blinds that covered them and she could finally read the emotion that eluded her, the one that he hid from her. Tears pool into her eyes as she reaches an arm to him, fingers outstretched in a silent plea. They float in the air, an invitation, a chance, a promise fulfilled.

He reaches towards her, hand grasping her fingers tightly as she pulls him towards her bed. He pushes the blanket down and pushes his boots off as he climbs under them. His arm automatically encircles her and she cries into his chest.

"I'm sorry for crying and being awkward and I hate this beard!"

Arthur chuckles, his voice wet as he squeezes her closer to him.

"I'll keep that in mind."

---

Ending.

Time is a strange thing.

It speeds and slows and is often lost.

The days rolled by in slow progression.

She doesn't ask him where he's been or what he's done. He'll tell her in time, when he's ready.

But she makes good on the promise she made to herself.

It comes out in bits and pieces, broken and disjointed as the dreams she holds. The things that she's kept secret from everyone. Only one confession is left and she folds it into the spaces of her heart. She will tell him with time.

When the last of the illness leaves her and summer begins its descent, she fears his departure. He has started sleeping in the sitting room on a bedroll tucked into the corner and she fears each morning she wakes that she will find it gone. There was still so much she wanted to say but they are not ready to be spoken out loud. Instead she fills the spaces of her journal with them. Bits and pieces of thoughts and feelings flowing from her. Her heart pounds when he enters with Charles, having taken up working with him. The time spent inside out of the elements brings color back to his face, the hard lines smoothing out.

Not yet, her heart says as she watches him trim the ends of his beard.

When?

Soon…, it whispers back.

As the last throes of summer fade into the coolness of fall, she begins to find little things in her room. Flowers from the fields outside of the city. Beautiful combs with wide teeth for her hair. A new book she had mentioned in passing.

Her heart whispers to her each night as she traces the soft petals of the flowers with her eyes, fingers tapping a rhythm on the jeweled surface of the comb.

Almost, almost, nearly there

She began reading out loud- to him- from the book she was gifted, watching over the edge as his eyes spark like the embers of a fire.

Fall quietly departs, tracing its fingers along the paths of the sky. Frosted patterns spiraling on the panes of glass, melting with the rising of the sun. During the quiet times of the night, she thinks back to the summer months where she heard his voice in her dreams. Felt the cadence of his fingers as they stroked her into semi-wakefulness. She hums the songs of her heart onto her pages, filling them. As the last of the ink bleeds in she knows it's time.

She finds him sitting against the wall, eyes closed. She settles beside him, fingers tapping his arm gently. When she knows she has his attention, she begins to read. This time not from the books he's gifted her.

Winter's icy touch gives way to the cool fingers of spring and she traces the panes of his chest beside her, relishing in the warmth of him. The light of the moon filters in through her window and she wishes she could stall time. Her hand runs up to his neck, running through the shorter beard around his chin, the hair that curls around his ears, falling into his sleeping face. His eyes, the color of the sea, open slowly as a smile curls sleepy and relaxed on his lips. They drift off together.

She feels a change, a shift inside, like a key unlocking a door and he comes home with a flyer clutched in his hands. Hushed whispers and ideas form between them and she folds another secret into the spaces of her heart.

She must be sure before she tells him.

Three months later

They stand beside the wagon.

An open range swept before them. High sloping hills dotting the horizon as far as they could see. The feelings that swept through them were ghosts of the past. Trepidation, excitement, wonder. Both of their minds harkened back to the time where freedom scared them beyond measure. But they are no longer afraid.

Before them lay their future.

Silently they turned to the wagon. He held her hand to help steady her as she stepped up to the high seats. His thumb caressed her knuckles before he gently kissed them. He released her hand and made one last check of the cargo before stepping up as well. She takes in her companion. The gentle curve of his smile. The brightness of his eyes. The strong shoulders that lay now relaxed beneath his coat. She leans in, a gentle hand placed on his forearm and he looks to her in question. She takes his hand in hers and places it onto her stomach. His face slackens, emotions flitting across the surface like fish in a stream. Fear gave way to astonishment to admiration to love. It bubbles within her, a cup filled to the brim. It overflows and she doesn't even try to stop it.

"I love you."

The brightness in his eyes glitters like stars on a winter's night.

"I love you."

He watches her eyes brighten to a fineness that no jewel could ever hope to recreate.

Before them lay their future. A future so bright with hope and a dream so tangible that she feels it thrumming in her chest just as strongly as any heart.

"Tell me again."

His thumb rubs across her stomach.

"A house for you and me…," he trails off but she isn't upset. The newness of this revelation still amazes her even now.

"Where everyday I wake up to your face beside mine and I wonder how lucky I am. How surely some god must be playing a trick on me because I could never have deserved someone like you..."

He pauses, thumb stilling. His expression is hesitant, unsure.

"And…"

He looks into her eyes and she nods, a smile slowly blossoming onto her face.

"And our child."

His voice cracks but he continues.

"And they'll be a loud energetic little thing with wild hair that refuses to be tamed no matter what you do," his voice is stronger now, a dream that has been forgotten. Something he dared not hope to speak out loud or else it disappears.

"And they'll look so much like you. Beautiful and fierce and smart and-"

He stops, his fingers grasping hers tightly. His eyes closed as the images of their life flashes before him. The hazy vision that he had only glimpsed so many times before. He was still scared. Frightened of the what ifs. But he knew that no matter what came he would be ready. He opens his eyes and looks toward her. The rest of their dream is left unspoken but he knows it as well as any gun. As well as he knows her. They both cast a long look at the way they had travelled. In the past they had overcome.

"Ready?"

"Always."

He hitches the reins of the horses and the wagon jerks forward. She gasps a laugh in surprise. The bright sound fills the air as they crest over the hill and disappear.

---

Author's Note:

I am wynkenblynken over on Tumblr if you want to stop by and say hello. Or throw tomatoes. Whichever!

This is a story of death and rebirth. Of two people finding their place in a new world after the one they knew crashed around their ears. It's a story of journeys and journals. Of past memories, of regrets, of heartaches. I realize that my story doesn't have a ton of romance in it apart from the longing they feel for each other and the courtship they have at the end when they are reunited. That's because I didn't think it would be realistic to portray them as love sick, constantly pining after each other. Yes, they think of each other but in the game Arthur has shown little patience for love sick fools. And I wanted to portray a different approach to romance than we are sometimes given. I love Arthur because he is self aware of his past/present actions and it is clear he regrets them but puts off any examination of them by staying busy or trying to justify them. I believe that without a distraction he would start to look at those parts of himself and try to figure out who he actually was outside the gang.

As for Tilly, I wanted her journey to be soft. I wanted her to be successful because at the end of her story in the game she is. She has a baby on the way, lives in a big house and is married to a man who obviously adores her. I still want that for her because her story was important to me as a woman of color. I loved that they made her a living breathing person and not a sounding board or 1 sided cutout. So while Arthur's story reflects the end stages of the Hero's Journey. Tilly's journey is one of seeing that she isn't relegated to simply dreaming of a good life. She'll actually be living it.

And hopefully I was able to portray that.

Just some background notes and clarifications:

Tilly released a book of poems.

Arthur is reading from the end of chapter 3 of "Way of the Lawless" by Max Brand.

Around the start of the 1900s, there was an event known as the Great Migration. African Americans were moving from Oklahoma, Texas and other southern states due to racism to Canada. They had applied for homesteads and formed Block Settlements in Alberta and Saskatchewan. They joined the already sizable communities of other African immigrants from various British and French colonies and former slaves that have been living in Canada for more than 200+ years.

Arthur and Tilly settled in the province of Alberta, Canada.