Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He remembered letting the darkness take him as he watched the sun rise from the mountain, breathing through scorching lungs in his last moments.

Finding himself awake again in a den of fire was at first unexpected, then immediately and dreadfully unsettling.

Waking up next to a fire, body aching like a fractured mountain after an earthquake, wasn’t so unusual. Arthur suffered a lot of pain through numerous encounters with the law, street fights, and rival gangs wanting to kidnap him. He didn’t envy the others in his own company of outlaws who had to drag such a lumbering boor back to camp or a remote cabin, then tend to his health when he could hardly take care of himself.

Arthur knew no one would find him in the wilderness this time. The Van der Linde gang was in dire straits. Pinkerton agents swarmed their camp at Beaver Hollow, and they had no intention of sparing anyone after all the trouble they caused. Micah turned out to be a traitor feeding details about their location to the government, while convincing Dutch to turn against his loyal followers. It came down to Arthur to help John, his family, and the others who were looking for a way out. Arthur was the next in line to die for their dangerous ways, and he hoped to be the last.

He perished that very morning.

Arthur could have expected a burning hellfire would await him. He certainly feared it. There could only be one destination for him on the other side, and it most certainly wasn’t those pearly gates above the clouds.

Arthur tried to scan his surroundings, as much as he could with his bleary eyes and aching body, and he realized he was not alone in this dark hollow.

His weak croaking alerted someone... or something. Some large, shrouded figure moved towards him. If any one else could have been there to feel the ground tremble, and hear its strides thundering through the infernal chamber, they would have understood why he felt terror the way he did.

The being revealed his dreadful form to the outlaw lying before him. The embers outlined his ghostly skin. Marks were drawn like war paint upon his face and bare chest, red like the blood of sinners. He held fire from the deepest pit of Hell in his eyes.

Arthur always believed he knew what monsters were. They walked among people, and looked just like them. The ordinary person possessed a great capacity for evil - he only had to look upon the blood on his own hands to know that.

Arthur had come to a place where a monster did not have to hide his true form. A place most fitting for him to depart to, and suffer for the rest of time. There was no one better to carry out his sentence than this hellish beast.

“So... that’s what you look like.” Arthur muttered something to mask his horror. He had his whole life to prepare for eternal damnation. He supposed he should face it with dignity. The demon’s glare seared him throughout every inch of him from his skin into the depths of his cold heart. Arthur wondered if he could see into his own condemned soul if he looked into those burning eyes long enough. “Had a special place in Hell for me? You must’ve been waitin’ on me a long time.”

The devil spoke.

“Hell is much colder. I assure you.”

His drawl was of a beastly and thundering resonance. His manner was stoic and calm, but foreboding like a brewing storm. It could have been God talking to him as good as it could have been Satan. Nothing pleasant was in store for him either way.

“Heh... yeah, you’d probably know.”
Arthur found himself chuckling, bitterly and almost silent. Not one ounce of his strength or his willpower remained. The thought of escaping his cruel fate was a hopeless and laughable idea. An eternity of suffering awaited him, and he could not even muster up the energy to show how it terrified him. But he sure as hell knew he deserved it.

Yes, he tried to do some good in the end. He figured he should make amends and help others when he could no longer help himself. But nothing could atone for a lifetime of robbing from poor folk and hurting innocent people.

“Go ahead, I guess. I ain’t fightin’ back.” Arthur whispered morbidly, turning his head away. “Ain’t no fight left in me.”

The ground rumbled again. The devil crouched down, perhaps to inspect his offering. He was sure the beast looked forward to carrying out his well-deserved sentence. But as menacing as he appeared, he held his gaze with composed curiosity, his eyes merely observant rather than predatory.

“You are not dead... and you will get your strength back, in time.”

The blurriness in Arthur’s vision was starting to wear off. He looked past the stranger to notice his surroundings appeared... normal.

There were walls around him, and the fire illuminating the chamber burned within a hearth close by. He was inside a house or cabin of sorts, arranged in a way that was somehow familiar. He tried to prop himself on his arm to get a better view of the cabin.

He immediately realized moving was an agonizing labor. All of his bruised limbs and muscles trembled and quaked. His grunt was anguished and sunken like a wounded animal.

“Do not move.”

“Wait,” he huffed through the effort to lift himself up, clenching his teeth through his pain. He looked across the cabin. “I know this place.”

A table sat under a window, topped with a white cloth, with two chairs on either side. He knew he sat there recently. Shadowy silhouettes of wild animals turned into trophies hung on the wall. He recognized the cabin that belonged to a dear departed friend.

“Hamish...”

The stranger’s large, callused hand touched his shoulder suddenly, making Arthur stiffen with trepidation. He thought maybe his hand would burn him, or inject him with venom or something else equally ridiculous. His overseer simply urged him to lie back down. The push was assertive, but surprisingly gentle somehow.

“Rest.”

Arthur noticed his heart racing after the stranger took his hand back. As it slowed down, he released the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

...His breath.

He took another one in... then exhaled again.

It was... easy.

He was on the mountain when the ghost of his terminal illness nearly finished ravaging his lungs with its poison. It seemed like the whole world was hunting him down. Pinkertons and government agents swarmed everywhere. Micah, the deranged predator, so viciously wanted him dead. The image of his sickening glee as he slowly beat the remaining life out of him burned in his head something fierce. And Dutch...

...

The despair his name evoked went to such depths he did not know a man could feel. Twenty years being his loyal enforcer suddenly meant nothing. Dutch wanted him dead in the end, and John right alongside him. All that talk about being his “sons” was all meaningless. Even after he watched Micah kill Susan, Dutch sided with him and turned his back on the ones who really loved him. The man he gave his entire existence to hated him so much in the end, that he would watch him bleed out and suffocate at his feet. Then he left him there... to die.

Cold air turned to fire in his lungs, searing him as he choked, as he clawed across the stone towards the edge of the cliff. He watched the dawn over the wild valley of pines, mountains, and sunlit mist one last time, just trying to grasp a fleeting moment of peace...

Yet he lied in a warm bed, awake and breathing once again, with a strange man watching over him. His body ached, but his lungs were strong like they were before tuberculosis ever ailed him.

Arthur remained in the world of the living by some feat of chance. Someone found him, his loathsome soul having nearly departed, and decided he was worth saving. He still had time to make his way back to...

“Marston.”

Arthur believed his death was inevitable once he came down with the illness. He told John to leave him behind, to let the dying man be the one to lay down his life. “Don’t look back,” he told the younger outlaw. John would be with his family, far away from Beaver Hollow, Dutch, Micah, Pinkertons and all the other bullshit. If John heeded his advice, Arthur couldn’t waste any time if he wanted to find them. As long as he was still alive, he had to make sure they were safe.

He attempted to push himself up. Bruises and exhaustion gripped every muscle. He bit down on his tongue to keep from screaming in pain. His illness was seemingly gone, but it left his body frail and weak. Of course going to find John would be difficult for some reason. Arthur cursed his luck.

His overseer held him down, seemingly less than willing to allow his departure.

“You can not move.”

“Listen... I can’t stay here,” Arthur insisted. “There are some people I need to take care of.”

“You can take care of no one in your condition.”

This time, the large man did not remove his hand from his shoulder, urging the outlaw not to bring further harm to himself. It was true what he said, and it hurt Arthur to hear it, but he refused to stay put when the others were scattered and being hunted.

He rolled out of bed and pushed himself to stand, wincing with every movement. The pale man stood up to resist his advances. Arthur took in the size of the man before him. He cast a shadow over him that chilled his heart, like storm clouds conjuring a frigid gust. Arthur didn’t often encounter men who made him feel small.

He didn’t back down, despite the stranger’s posturing. He took one step towards the door and... the other man pushed him back with merely a thrust of his hand. Arthur fell back on the bed, knocking the wind out of him.

“The hell!?” Arthur crudely exclaimed as he stood back up, slightly disoriented. “I’m leaving this place, mister. I don’t want no trouble.”

Again, the stranger pushed him back.

“You are staying.”

“I ain’t stayin’ here.” Arthur raised his voice.

The stranger pushed back against his every attempt to leave the cabin. Arthur tried to get through, to no avail. The larger man did not yield.

“Let me go!”

“You will stay put.”

Arthur felt as if he was back at Beaver Hollow arguing with Dutch. His "leader" wasn’t appreciative of Arthur going about his own way protecting the gang. He rather liked to pretend his “son” was still an unruly child needing to learn his place. The memory struck a tender nerve, considering the recent upheaval and turmoil.

"Get out of my way!" The outlaw barked. Arthur swiped at the other man to push him aside. The stranger caught his wrist, and kept his grip locked onto him. Arthur growled as his frustration boiled over. The giant responded in kind with narrowed eyes and flared nostrils, in the way that a large beast might intimidate another to mark its territory.

“I will fight you if I have to!” Arthur challenged. It was the most ridiculous threat he could muster.

Arthur tried to wrestle his arm free. The stranger’s grip was firm and overpowering, not so aggressive as to hurt Arthur, but he applied more pressure as the seconds passed.

“Choose your next words carefully,” the stranger warned.

The outlaw realized, perhaps with some exasperation, he was not leaving without a fight. He tightened his fist. His brow creased. His eyes turned strained and bloodshot. He let the wild man inside him take control.

“I’m not afraid of you.” Arthur boasted through clenched teeth.

The demon revealed his own fury to meet the outlaw’s combativeness. Arthur saw the fire in his eyes re-emerge. He bore his teeth ever so slightly, a warlike snarl emerging from his depths. He bellowed dangerously low.

“You should be.”

Every moment the outlaw defied him further deepened the giant’s ferocity. Waves of terrible power and anger brimmed to his surface. His grip on the outlaw’s wrist tightened, silently threatening to crush his bones.

Arthur felt like prey at the mercy of a tremendous beast. So he resorted to instinct, the way the survivor inside him fought and fled from terrible men and creatures alike.

Everything that happened next was a blur. Arthur lunged forward. His body crashed. The collision rattled him like a wagon running into stone. Arthur was hauled around as he staggered and he lost sight of the stranger and the fire, now facing the dark wall behind him. Arms were pinning him across his shoulders and his lower chest with alarming swiftness and tact. Arthur was locked in.

“Get the hell off me!”

He succumbed to fear as the larger man constrained him from behind. He tried to fight back, but he only thrashed about ineffectively under the giant’s ironclad grip. Much of the strength Arthur needed to break free was spent on his confrontation on the mountain. His body ached too much. The heat of the fire clawed the sweat from his brow. Dripping streams of salt burned his eyes.

“I have... to find them...” Arthur seethed, exhaustion and desperation creeping on him like a wild stallion about to be broken.

“Free yourself. Prove that you can survive.” The monster’s guttural whisper chilled the skin on his neck.

These desperate struggles were becoming a frequent occurrence. His odds worsened against every skirmish with the law and bastards like Micah. His illness dragged him down. He didn’t have the wit to make up for the strength he lost. He wasn’t wise like Hosea.

“Just give up, Blacklung.”

He heard that rat taunting him from the abyss. Arthur feared he was somewhere in the darkness watching him squirm, relishing how he’d become so weak. Micah worked wonders turning their leader against Arthur and striking when he was most vulnerable, because all sense of honor was beneath him.

Arthur erupted with a despairing roar, as he fought the stranger and the battle raging inside. His wild anger could not overcome his broken body, his heart’s sorrow, and the terrors in his head. Arthur shut his eyes in his need to fight off the storm of grief. His heart raced. His pulse pounded against his migraine. Heat left him through frantic bursts of air. The stranger constricted him tighter as his resistance weakened, until he stopped thrashing altogether.

The demon slowly subdued him. The room became quiet again. The outlaw struggled for air to soothe his raw nerves. He exhausted his screams, leaving him with an aching hollowness. As the war in his mind became too harrowing, weariness took over his body. He lost another fight, with devastating swiftness.

“It’s over, Arthur.”

“No... Dutch...” a mournful whimper escaped through his lips. As the giant kept him contained in his arms, the storm of nightmares kept coming. Hosea. Lenny. Sean. Susan. Molly. Eagle Flies. He watched skin breaking and blood spraying out of every friend taken by a bullet. He trembled as his nails dug into the skin of the pale man’s arm, desperate to block out the gruesome images.

The stranger became oddly still. He steadied himself, and his fury seeped back beneath his ashen skin. Somehow, the screams of the outlaw didn’t fall on deaf ears. The stranger slowly loosened his grip, letting one arm fall, but holding the other across the smaller man’s chest, keeping him enclosed in his rigid bulk. He did not push the weary outlaw away despite their perceived animosity.

They stayed like this for some time, until the giant was sure the other man would no longer resist. His torso expanded against Arthur’s back as they breathed at different paces, the outlaw’s erratic and the stranger’s deep and steady.

“You can not help them.”

The stranger’s voice softened as he shifted his methods to calm the outlaw. The truth of his words pierced his heart like a bullet. As riddled with holes as it was, what was another?

The stranger finally released him, but Arthur couldn’t find his footing. His legs gave out and his body collapsed, paralyzing storms of pain flooding over him one after another. The hurt that Micah beat into him returned with a vengeance.

“You’re weak, Morgan.”

The outlaw’s limbs trembled as he barely stopped himself from hitting the ground. Arthur was only beginning to understand how utterly broken he was. He used to be a fighter. He was the Van der Linde gang’s reliable workhorse. This weakness frightened him. He couldn’t even stand up anymore.

“You turned your back on us, Arthur.”

He mourned for everything he lost, and all the while the voices of the men who left him for dead continued to taunt him. No one was there to stop him from spiraling. Ghosts painted over the shadows of his eyelids with blood. The dead outlaws of the Van der Linde gang lied together to create a corpse-ridden canvas. He clawed at his scalp, wanting to rip the nightmares from his head. Instead he only reminded himself of the blood on his hands.

A touch on his shoulder staggered him. The other man pulled his hand back, noticing the vulnerable outlaw’s distress. The impasse that ensued froze time around them. The giant’s hand approached again, slower this time, bypassing the tension between their gazes. The jarring change from his earlier hostility greatly confused Arthur, but he realized as the larger man’s hand met his skin that he’d broken through the chaos inside of him. He still saw ghosts and heard voices taunting him from the darkness, but the demon’s glare burned through it all, keeping the shadows at bay.

“I will not hurt you.”

The stranger put him at ease somehow. After a pause, the larger man hooked his other arm around him to support his body, allowing the outlaw to heave himself up by the giant’s shoulder. Arthur stood up and trudged to the bed with a limp, the larger man helping him along. The stranger was careful not to injure him further as he urged him to sit.

A quiet moment followed. There was no sound in the cabin but the wind passing through Arthur’s trembling lungs. It felt heavier the longer the silence stayed.

You can not help them.

With the echo of the stranger’s words, Arthur contemplated the memories of his companions, their bodies shot dead and bleeding out in the mud. They were all a bunch of dead men and he was trying to run after their corpses.

Arthur couldn’t be far behind following them into an early grave. Drying blood stains marked his clothing. Micah left his body bruised and bleeding. His torn shirt hung loose off his chest, revealing how gaunt he had become in the wake of his disease. He suffered through so much brutal turmoil in so little time. He did not want to acknowledge how much it destroyed him. He was a damn fool thinking he could be a hero for John and his family now.

“Why did you bring me here?”

Arthur could not hold back his bitterness as he asked his question. There was a part of him that wished the stranger just left him to die.

The pale man gave no answer.

“Do you just... go around the woods savin’ people? Is that it?”

It seemed like a ridiculous thought when it occurred to him, but upon saying it, some dark corner of his mind wondered if this man wasn’t so different from him.

Arthur vehemently rejected that thought. Maybe the stranger believed he was doing something good, but Arthur knew he was not worth saving. He could die trying to find his way back to John. He deserved that over sitting in a cabin not knowing if the others were out of harm’s way.

Arthur strained to stand up again, lungs wheezing as he did. He knew he must have resembled a starving lone wolf dragging a broken paw through the woods.

Surges of pain ravaged his weary limbs. His faltering heart sabotaged his last attempt to leave the cabin. As Arthur’s buckling knees dragged him down, the stranger’s arms broke his fall. He led Arthur to sit on the ground gently and painlessly.

Sweat covered his brow as he tried to pull himself back together. His gasps were haggard and quivering. His lungs nearly killed him before, and now they were all that kept his broken body from falling apart at the seams. Whether he lived or died, he thanked his maker he would no longer suffer those ragged blades carving up his chest. That was one comforting thought.

For as long as he struggled not to crumble to pieces, the stranger crouched beside him, hands on his shoulders, helping to hold him together.

“You will die if you leave this place.”

Another bitter chuckle racked his being. He felt like a ghost already. The thought that his body would perish didn’t quite evoke the same alarm it used to.

“I don’t have a choice, friend.” He still laughed, in an abhorrent way. The depth of his grief seemed bottomless - he swore he was drunk on it. “Just let me die. Kill me yourself, why don’t you?”

Arthur wanted his life to end. He was a horrible man. Years of mistakes, losses, and senseless violence were the ashes of the destructive fire in his soul. He hoped John, Abigail, and Jack would carry on after he helped them escape. It was all the chance he had to do something right, after a whole life of doing wrong. John could be free to live and make an honest life with the people he loved. The ones Arthur loved were dead in the ground, and he knew his path only lead to a grave right next to them. It’s what he deserved for failing to protect them.

“I ain’t got nothing left no more. Just put an end to me... please...”

The giant took his hands off the outlaw. He stood up, towering over where Arthur sat by the hearth. The beaten man dared himself not to tear his eyes away.

The fire’s light danced around the fiend as if enacting a ritual of sacrifice. His torso swelled as he syphoned air from his core like a raging bull. An energy flowed from him that was violent and horrific, an almost eldritch gust choking the air to every corner of the dark chamber.

Arthur felt assured the monster would carry out his wish. Should his nightmares end with his life, then he gladly welcomed his death. He awaited the beast to draw his blood.

“No.”

The demon did not subjugate the outlaw to his wrath. He drew himself back and expelled the crushing energy of malice radiating from him, like it would have overwhelmed him if he held it any longer.

The stranger backed away. He distanced himself until he reached the bed and sat down. His strides were recognizably weary.

Another quietness came, more eerie than the silence before. The stranger tore his eyes away, closing them as he rested his hands before his face. There were subtle movements in his furrowed brow. His chest rose and fell at a deliberate pace. The demon was... shaken. He sat with wide posture, his size no less tremendous and imposing even as he no longer stood. His act of mercy seemed at odds with his very being. Arthur saw the scars upon his skin, and his sunken eyes, where they once held great ferocity but were now weld shut to reign in his madness.

The stranger was a portrait of a sullen deadman. He let his guard down and showed himself to be a ravaged soul, lending a hand to a poor lost bastard like him for less than purely virtuous reasons. There were few things that betrayed someone’s past more than anger and scars.

Arthur could have imagined the stranger sitting at a campfire. He could have thought he was another in his company of criminals and outcasts, most likely longing for a drink after a long day of doing honest or dishonest work for the gang, and perhaps dwelling on some story about how he robbed or killed someone and had regrets about it. He could have imagined everything else - the cool breeze in the trees, the gentle chords of a guitar, a bowl of stew in his lap, and drunkards singing a ditty over at the poker table. And he could have laughed for being such a fool trying to live in his memories.

The giant began to slowly rise amongst the phantoms of his imagined cemetery. He jolted Arthur’s fear as he came forward, but the outlaw did not brace for his approach. He could only submit to the stranger’s every intention. Their gazes confronted each other again. Fire still burned in the demon’s eyes, though it softened to a calm ember.

“You will live.”

The stranger offered his hand to the outlaw at his mercy. He spoke this time with such an air of calmness and conviction. Arthur nearly believed he was right.

The outlaw took his hand.

He moved back to the bed, using the larger man’s shoulder to support him. The stranger gave one parting glance before leaving his side. He made his way past the fireplace, then stopped abruptly in the center of the cabin. With bated breath, the outlaw anticipated the stranger would say something.

The fire’s spectral radiance wrapped around his red marks and caressed the muscles on his back, as he cast a great shadow across the wooden floor. His shoulders’s expanded as he breathed in, and his shadow grew with him. A growl rumbled from his chest as he exhaled, then he simply continued on his way without a word. What a strange creature.

A large tool - an axe with a wooden handle - sat upon the table on the far side of the cabin. The stranger grabbed it before reaching for the door leading outside.

“Hey, where you goin’?” Arthur called out to him, his tone betraying his anxiety.

“You need nourishment,” the departing stranger answered. “I will bring us food.”

He made his exit, leaving the light of the fire and disappearing like the night’s apparition. The cabin was silent again. Shadows danced along the walls. The fire crackled. The isolated mountain shelter was a far cry from the commotion of an open camp Arthur was accustomed to. He felt disoriented by the haunted scene. He closed his eyes and inhaled, resting his face in his shaking hands and pulling back from the edge from which he was fatally close to falling.

Chapter Text

Arthur did not dare to fall asleep. He was scared to. He hated the stillness of the air, and the sounds of creaking lumber. Ghostly whispers replaced the commotion of an open camp. The fire’s dancing flickers held the cabin in a spell. The cruel moment in which he lingered began to hollow out his senses.

His splitting migraine, bruised limbs, and weary bones were heavier than any chain that ever held him down. The haunting voices on the breeze echoed the words traded at Beaver Hollow, prolonging the finality they carried. The woods were a blur as he fled with John, gunshots thundering through the mist shrouding the trails of Roanoke Ridge. The younger outlaw begged him not to stay behind. Arthur saw no way other than to throw his fleeting life to the ghouls, if it bought John more time to escape.

His family was broken and scattered. He may never see them again. Many had died. The ones who survived may have been captured, and he was too weak to save them. The thought sunk in his heart like a bullet buried in an old wound.

Why was he still alive? Death seemed to be all that awaited him at the end of his grueling path. Though he was still breathing, there hardly existed a world he recognized any longer.

Arthur was not willing to face the ruins of his own life. The night should have taken him, once the sun had set on the dying West. He would not meet the violent end he imagined, dying alongside his brothers while staring down the end of a barrel. He would have preferred to go that way, without the isolation and time for the last of his sanity to rot away.

He watched the shadows in the cracks of the timber, to keep from seeing the canvas of ghosts when he closed his eyes. Faces drifted from the edges of his dazed vision. He saw friends and enemies, guilty and innocent. Faces with names he had remembered and forgotten. Some he helped, amongst the many he hurt. Numerous were those he watched die by the bullet, the knife, and the fist.

He felt no horror like seeing the faces of the poor and the lost that he made his prey. He remembered every soul that trembled and cowered as if he was the spirit upon Death’s horse. He knew their terror, as reflections of the monster he became in their eyes, and felt it like blood becoming pulses of hatred burrowing through his own skin.

So quiet was the cabin. He lied awake for moments that seemed to stretch into hours, hearing the crackling fire until he believed he felt it scorching him through his flesh and searing his fractured heart.

The faintest of voices invited him into the dreadful void. He was afraid to go... for the loneliness of it all.

...

The cabin door opened again. Footsteps thundered throughout the chamber, shattering the spectral conjurations reaping upon Arthur’s state of mind. The stranger had returned.

The pale giant hardly acknowledged him as he carried a whitetail buck into the cabin. His immense shadow engulfed the walls as he moved before the hearth. He drew a knife from the sheath strapped to his waist.

Arthur’s eyes followed the stranger as he lowered the animal before the fire, bending his knee as if giving tribute. He took an interest in his choice of game.

The stag often appeared in his dreams when he slept. Every dream was similar - the deer would graze by the river in a woodland hidden in the far lands of the west. Beams of sunlight pierced the foliage, painting the forest mist in golden radiance.

The creature was kind enough to tend to him when he lied on the stone facing the rising sun. It smiled at him as he went under, soothing his last breath of all his pain. Such a departure seemed too peaceful for what he deserved, were it to be his last moment on this Earth.

“I hope that creature didn’t suffer before it died.” Arthur felt compelled to say for unclear reasons.

“It did not suffer.” The stranger answered as he readied his knife. He first pierced the deer’s skin with the blade and started cutting lines through its fur, creating a pelt. He did not remove his gauntlets covering his wrists. His hands became red with its blood. It took only seconds for the stranger to pull the skin off and roll it up to his liking. He put that aside and began to carve up its meat.

The stranger was a man of the wilderness. It came as no surprise to see he was a skillful hunter. He butchered his prey with strength and precision. Every push of the knife was deliberate. The fire’s light embraced his bulk as he settled into his aggressive rhythm. His muscles rolled and tensed with every movement - a modest display of his virility.

The giant leaned into the fireplace from where he kneeled, and placed slabs of meat into the pot to cook. The floor shifted under his weight. His eyes became lost in the fire. His shadow spread out from the floor of the hearth to the walls and ceiling of the cabin, a lingering phantom shrouding the ember.

The interest Arthur took in the stranger’s actions gave him pause. His presence broke the deafening loneliness from moments prior. He had a way of commanding a quietness in his mind. A strange comfort.

Neither man spoke. Arthur continued to watch him. When the stranger finished cooking the venison, he reached for a bowl placed on the shelf over the fireplace, next to a small, roughly embellished flask. He pushed the bowl into the pot, and used his knife to scoop out slices of meat.

“That don’t burn you?”

“It does.” The stranger assured flatly as he filled the bowl. He stood up with a push on his knee and moved to deliver his sustenance. The outlaw turned his eyes away.

“I don’t need you to feed me.” Arthur grumbled. The stranger paused, before bluntly placing the bowl at his side.

“Do not starve yourself.”

Arthur didn’t move. A bout of stubbornness came to him, as it often did, for reasons he did not quite grasp. The stranger didn’t stand to argue with him. He stepped away from the bed. When Arthur noticed the giant nearing the door, he shivered with cold dread.

“Wait!”

His outcry froze the stranger in his tracks.

“Don’t leave.”

The tone of his plea betrayed his desperation. He did not feel compelled to hide his fear, to his shame. He’d truly grown to hate his own solitude.

The stranger held still for a fraught moment. Arthur watched him breathe, his back rising and falling. He stepped away from the door. His immense shadow grazed the walls as he came back to the outlaw’s side. The demon’s eyes peered into him, holding a calmer inferno. He kneeled at the bedside.

“Then I will stay.”

Arthur’s turned wearily to face the ceiling again. He noted the age of its wood. Shadows of the flame danced along its subtle rot. He took in a breath. Not much time passed since the death of the veteran whom this cabin once belonged to. Arthur was nearby when Hamish was impaled by the tusk of a wild boar. Another life he failed to protect.

“You should’a let me die.”

The stranger withdrew very faintly. His eyes grew distant. Only a touch of the giant’s hand on his own neck betrayed his buried reticence. His manner became contemplative.

“You need time.”

Arthur focused a look at the stranger. He carried only glimpses of a burning flame from some place far away in his solemn gaze. Some intuition told him the stranger could understand his grief, behind the sternness of his bearing.

He asked himself how familiar an acquaintance death was to the stranger. Enough was told by the scars he bore on his skin and the weapons he wielded. With a clearer mind, he thought about the ghostly man’s own solitude. He pondered the questions behind the stranger’s emergence, but he wondered moreso if he could help him overcome this feeling of loss... God willing he was deserving of that grace.

Time could not restore what he lost. The world he knew faded into a tragic memory with every passing moment. There was no work to be done. There was no dream to pursue. No one left to protect. Arthur could never be strong enough to heal a broken family. He could not defeat the hunters that preyed upon his brothers and sisters lost in the night.

Arthur recoiled away, drained of his will to face the other soul in the room. He remembered the moment years ago when he realized the vastness of the emptiness inside of him. He had not known a day when he felt whole. He knew all too well just how alone he always was, and it was on that day that he stopped denying it.

He closed his eyes. He possessed an impulse to conceal his sadness, but no longer a need to. His head became heavy with burning tears.

Arthur heard the stranger moving, reminding him of his presence. He hated knowing how pathetic the pale man must have seen him. How pitiful was he to think pride was worth anything now?

The stranger stepped back. Arthur did not know how far he would go, as he no longer faced him. He listened to his heavy footsteps, stopping after two. He then heard the floor creaking. The other man did not move far, respecting the outlaw’s earlier request.

The cabin was quiet again. It was the unnerving, dreadful quiet Arthur was beginning to recognize as his new normal. He wondered if he would get any sleep that night, or anytime soon.

...or perhaps he would go to sleep and never wake up again.

He had to make peace watching the shadows dance along the ceiling, like the edges of the void perpetually trapping him in a cursed limbo.

“You are ashamed to grieve...”

The pale man’s words broke the silence.

“What?”

He spoke softer than Arthur had so far beheld, yet still rumbled greatly with roughness like earth and ash, setting words upon his mind that somehow quieted his turmoil. Arthur wondered if he meant to pose a question.

Watching the stranger take in the fire in his calm respite, Arthur mused over his stoic facade for any hint at his thoughts. He casted a somber reflection, like the outlaws sat before the campfire in his quietest memories - an apparition of his past. Did he desire to hear the whispers behind his silence?

He bore witness to light dancing on ashen skin, feint shadows emerging in the crevices of his rugged bulk. He felt it again. The way the strange man commanded his mind, staving off his dread. Arthur focused on him, and no longer on the dark cracks on the rotting wood, and the voices of phantoms.

The stranger did not move. He committed to granting the outlaw his presence. Arthur was grateful. Before long, his eyes grew heavy with every moment he observed. Knowing the pale man would respect his wish, he allowed himself to rest.

It was the stranger’s words, not the ghostly whispers, that echoed in his sleep.

Chapter Text

Arthur awoke again under the ceiling’s hanging lumber. He no longer saw dancing shadows in the fractures. The dimmest of light reached the bed from the windows on the far side of the cabin. He leaned up to look about the chamber. The ghostly man was nowhere to be found.  

In his solitude, he felt his own immense weariness and hunger. Arthur's hand touched something laid beside him on the bed. He had not eaten any of the cooked venison the stranger prepared for him before falling asleep. He took the dish filled with bland and charred meat in hand, the fire’s heat having left it hours ago.  

Arthur’s gut felt heavy. He remembered where he was, and how he came to the isolated cabin after all the losses he suffered. It was hard to reason with himself to keep going. He watched Hamish die, and here he was resting in his cabin. The veteran's gift was wasted on a lowlife like him. 

He put the bowl aside, and threw his legs over the side of the bed. He held his hand to his head, still ailed by the migraine that Micah beat into him.  

Arthur gnashed his teeth. He couldn’t keep the thoughts about that night at bay. He couldn’t forget the pain of lying on the cold stone as the wind ravaged his lungs like blades of fire.  

Another bowl was laid on the floor near his feet. This one was filled with water, a gift from the strange man to help him parch his dry throat. Arthur reached for the bowl and held it up to his face. His image was reflected in the water, but the cabin was still too dark to see his eyes or any details in his face. A mercy that was, knowing the manner in which he appeared frail and defeated.  

He tilted the bowl against his lips and drank with aching gulps, until the water was empty. He growled and struggled with the effort to do something so simple. No undertaking could come easy for him now. The reality of his own weakness deepened his anguish.  

He grabbed the bowl of cold venison again and took one bite of it. The meat was as bland and tasteless as it looked, but it was not the taste that he abhorred. He found it difficult to swallow. His stomach churned. His body seemed to want to reject any nourishment.  

He wasn’t willing to finish. The urge to lie in bed until he withered away had not left him. He pressed his hands against his knees, locking his body to push down his nausea.  

Arthur sighed. Although his disease had been cured somehow, his body wouldn’t stop fighting him. He felt his chances to recover were dire and elusive. Every bit of his strength, and his worth, had been drained from him. Even if he were to regain his liveliness, fleeting as it ever was, what further purpose did he serve? He could not return to his family - to a world that no longer existed. He couldn’t go live amongst the common, decent folk. He tried to go steady before... he only ever left broken lives and promises in his wake.  

His hand grazed something attached to his thigh. He felt his grip locking up. Arthur was frozen by a deathly chill. He could end it all so easily. 

Before he parted ways with John, he gave him his guns and his satchel, with all of his money and supplies - and the journal - knowing the younger man would make better use of them than a dead man. Arthur kept his revolver and used it to fight off their pursuers while John escaped, but that was lost in his skirmish with Micah. All of his weapons were gone – except his knife.  

Or so he thought.  

He grasped the sheath on his waist, dreadfully slow, but the feel of it was hollow. The blade was not there. He knew he never drew the knife during the battle.  

The ashen man deprived him of the weapon sometime before he woke up in the cabin, precisely because he believed it would protect him.  

Upon that realization, a strange calmness and clarity washed over Arthur. He stopped trembling, and took a moment to breathe.  

“You will live.”   

He remembered the simple words the ghost stated hours ago, strong and confident enough that Arthur nearly believed them.  

He grabbed the bowl of charred venison again, his nausea having somewhat subsided. He held a piece with some trepidation. He breathed slowly again. The stranger wished for him not to starve. Arthur didn’t find comfort in the thought of disappointing him.  

He took another bite.  

He didn’t stop eating, but he went slowly. The taste was barely adequate, and it had grown a bit stale from sitting out in the hours before dawn. The stranger was surely no cook, but Arthur hadn’t survived for thirty-six years waiting on world class chefs to make meals for him. It seemed unbecoming to grumble about his meager rations.  

It took quite some time to eat every slice of meat. He set the empty bowl aside. The pale man would like to know the game he hunted wouldn’t go to waste.  

He looked about the cabin from where he sat on the bedside. He only possessed a fleeting familiarity of the house’s layout from the times he visited Hamish. He wanted to move around the chamber, but he’d have to struggle with his poor wellbeing. A few hours of sleep only gave him just enough strength to stand up.  

He put his feet on the ground, leaning on the bedpost to help him stand. His legs hardly felt sturdier than jell.  

The rising sun allowed more light into the cabin. The shelter was humble, sized modestly for a man living in solitude. Hamish did well to keep the place in good order. 

He moved slowly, from the bed to the edge of the wall that separated the sleeping quarters from the main chamber, where he took a second to rest. He noticed a red spot on the floor of the hearth where the deer carcass was laid overnight. He made a note to have that cleaned up, though he wondered where the stranger had stored the rest of the venison. 

He continued past the fireplace, where he found a broken mirror atop a stool. Considering the relative tidiness of everything around it, it seemed out of place. Arthur tilted the mirror up to view his own reflection. He despaired at the sight. He couldn’t possibly be in worse shape if he was actually dead. He saw how his eyes were red and sunken. His skin was still pale and flushed around his face wherever he wasn’t bruised. He thought it was fortunate the mirror was already broken.  

He turned away, and found himself facing a patterned wooden cabinet that was taller than he was. He opened the doors to reveal the inside separated into shelves. His eyes landed on a scarce assortment of alcohols and medicines. Arthur was in more than an adequate mood to drink himself unconscious. He clicked his tongue in thirst, but chose to regress. Raiding a dead man’s cabin for alcohol somehow felt beneath even him. He instead grabbed a vial of medicine. There was only an ounce of the substance left. He drank what remained, though he was not hopeful for its effects.  

He closed the cabinet and continued into the main chamber, where he passed the closed window hanging over the sink. The air in the cabin had cooled since the fire withered out. He pulled the tatters in his shirt around him as he roamed aimlessly. The fleeting summer days hardly still lingered in the mountain wilderness.  

Arthur noticed something gently swaying to the left of his vision. Two coats were hanging under a shelf attached to the wall. They were both made of wool, each a slightly different shade of grey. They reflected the veteran’s humble nature. Arthur took the one with a tint of brown on the left. He pulled it over himself, finding it a comfortable fit.  

He heard a loud thud against the wooden floor. He saw what appeared to be a book with a pen next to it near his feet, both having fallen out of a coat pocket. He crouched down to touch the leather-covered book. He held still at the contact - how tragically familiar the feeling was, like a gust of air blowing the ashes of an old world.  

He opened the book to pages of inked scriptures, written by Hamish himself. He’d unmistakably come across a journal belonging to the veteran. Arthur put no restraint on his curiosity. He began reading the first entry.

I’ve never done anything like this before. I guess I should start by introducing myself. My name is Hamish.   I’m a soldier  I was a soldier fighting for the Union Army. I’m set to be discharged on account of my injuries. It was a bombshell, blew our whole unit to hell. Only I survived. Most of me, anyway. The explosion blew off my leg. I’m still in a lot of pain.  

The doctors said I should keep a journal. They say it’ll help me sort through my thoughts. I don’t know how this is supposed to make me feel better, but I guess they know more than I do. I’ve been in the infirmary for a month now, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to leave. I don’t have any family back home to look after me.  

I have to sit this out now. I can’t fight anymore. I can’t see this through to the end. I remember their faces before the blast hit. I struggle to even get into bed at night, and I lie awake knowing there’s nothing I can do.  There’s no making this right.  They’re gone, and I can’t even go on fighting for them, or anyone. Damn Confederates. Goddamn it.  

…  

I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. I knew what I signed up for. I just didn’t know it was this hard to be the one to survive. Those other soldiers had families. I’ve always been alone. That’s why I volunteered. I thought I had nothing to lose. I was wrong. I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know what to do now.  

The page was marked by stains where tears had fallen. Arthur lost himself in the veteran’s anguish. The words written were messy and desperate. His emotions were raw. His thoughts spoke too closely to Arthur’s own grief. 

“Oh Hamish,” the veteran’s sorrow became his own. He had not truly understood how much hardship the war caused him. He only met Hamish in the last stage of his life. He hoped he was able to find some peace before his time came. 

He closed the journal, not wanting to read anymore. He stood up and placed the journal on the shelf above the coat hangers.  

Arthur was frozen by this phantom desolation. He noticed the cabin’s silence for the first time. Despite donning a coat to cover himself, his blood still ran cold. The air of the cabin was haunting and oppressive.  

He turned to the door leading outside. A rolled-up fur mat was leaned against the wall beside it. He walked towards the door, and faced it dreadfully. He lifted his hand, yet still, he didn’t touch the door. Every thought moving through his head was like a glacier carving a path through a mountain. He could hardly be sure where he was or if he was even still alive.  

He breathed in.  

He opened the door.  

He stepped out into the alpine air. His boots tapped the wooden boards of the porch with the rhythm of a weary heartbeat. The morning light burned his eyes.  

The secluded landscape of O’Creagh’s Run stretched out before him. Wisps of white mist drifted across the lake, amidst the trees, and beneath distant cliffs. The wind whispered with the chorus of birds and insects.  

The dawn’s blue sky and the peaceful wilderness were surreal to behold again. He stood in quiet isolation, far away from the gunshots of lawmen and bounty hunters. No one from the gang accompanied him, and no tasks needed to be tended to.  

He stepped off the porch onto the soil for the first time, covering the short distance from the house to the small pier on the lakeside.  He moved carefully onto the creaking boardwalk, his tattered boots thudding on the planks until he reached the end. His reflection emerged in the still waters of the lake.  

The jacket he wore around his haggard frame was all but a scrap of the veteran’s memory. He began to reminisce about the afternoon he shared with Hamish on the water. They spent hours waiting for a rare pike that dwelled in the lake to bite their fishing hooks. It was a peaceful day - one out of many that were chaotic and dreadful. He was thankful to the veteran for sharing his world with him for just a moment.  

He stared dejectedly at his reflection. He mused about the welcoming calmness of the water. It begged for an embrace, and its depths desired to be reveled in.  

Cool air went into his lungs. Arthur found the clarity of the misty air striking. It soothed him, restoring to him a pleasure of which his illness had deprived him. He breathed in again as he closed his eyes. Away from the solitude of the cabin, he listened to the valley of sounds. The lake’s surface broke to emerging fish. The hawk roared from the sky. The trees swayed in the distance. 

He heard footsteps in the grass, drawing closer.  

The ghost had returned. He approached the cabin with steady strides. He carried a roll of very large fur pelts upon his shoulder. He placed it down and pushed it against the exterior of the house, next to the side door leading to the hearth.  

Arthur kept his place on the pier as he observed the other man. The stranger rolled his shoulder after finishing his labor. Arthur wondered how many of the morning hours he spent working, since the outlaw fell asleep watching him sitting at the hearth.  

As the ashen man came down from his modest display of vigor, he locked eyes with the outlaw. Even as he stood in the cabin’s shadow at a distance, Arthur saw that flicker of embers in his glare. 

The pale man came forth from the shade, emerging out of the ethereal mist, until he stopped where the soil gave way to the pier. Arthur saw the ghost in the daylight for the first time. The morning sun lit his skin like the mighty stones of Amberino’s mountains under a clear sky. The outlaw took to staring at his red marks, a war-like touch given to such a beast. He was like fire and brimstone given human form.  

The stranger came silently, stoic and obscuring his intentions. Arthur was suddenly aware he stood alone on the pier, between the great man and the cold water. What could stop him if he intended to end his life... grant him the end that Arthur tragically desired? If the outlaw intended to see to his own damnation, the waters of the lake could be his only mercy.  

Arthur waited with every inch of his skin on edge. He held his breath.  

“You are standing.”  

The stranger addressed him, breaking the tension he seemed to be aware was mounting. Arthur let go of the air in his lungs. He did not speak. 

“Have you eaten?”  

The ghost spoke softly like he did the night before. Arthur’s shoulder’s fell before he realized they were ever squared.  

“Yes. It wasn’t a great meal, but... I’ve had a lot worse...”  

A calm breeze brushed Arthur’s neck. He still found the peace too disconcerting - he was unable to dispose the sense that he was living on borrowed time.  

“How are you feeling?”  

The stranger’s inquiry into his wellbeing helped put him at ease, though he was struck by the casualness of his questions. 

Arthur scratched his neck, and sighed. “I feel like shit. I look even worse...” he bit his tongue. He surmised the stranger was not amused by his grouching. He had no right to feel sorry for himself, “...but, what else is new?”  

“Hmph.”  

The ashen man acknowledged him vaguely. The outlaw was making a habit out of inferring the other man’s thoughts, reading a hardened exterior and hanging onto so few words. Arthur found himself questioning how deeply the stranger understood his plight. 

“So, what are the pelts for?”  

The ghost’s eyes followed his. They both looked to the rolled-up pelts he discarded near the cabin.  

“I happen to know a trapper who runs a stand not too far from here. He won’t pay much for those, but if you need the money...”  

Upon his own suggestion, Arthur wondered if he was in the presence of a bounty hunter. He made himself one of the frontier’s most wanted men. He survived and escaped the law all these years by his instincts. Yet somehow, he knew there weren’t any sheriffs eager to let this ashen beast into their normal, peaceful town and ask him to hunt down criminals. He dispensed with the thought as quickly as it emerged. 

“You have the bed. I will sleep on the pelts.”  

“I’m pretty sure I saw a sleeping mat in the cabin,” Arthur recalled, “rolled up in the corner by the front door.”  

“That is too small for me.”  

His admission surprised the outlaw. The ghost curiously had taken up the task of caring for his wellbeing, but Arthur hardly considered how the pale man sought to accommodate himself. His mind could have ran amok imagining the stranger’s habits.  

“So, you’re planning on sticking around for a while.”  

The first snow was not far off from this place. Arthur failed to grasp why the marked man would endure this isolation with him. Why would he settle in the wilderness to see to the health of a broken vagabond?  

“It’ll get pretty lonely out here. We’ll get sick of each other before long.” The softness of his own voice seemed foreign.  

Arthur started to make flicking motions with his hands, betraying his timidity.  

“So, what do they call you?”  

The stranger hesitated, eyes downcast. “My name does not matter.”  

The ashen man valued his secrecy. They were alike in that way. Arthur closed his hand. 

“Neither does mine, then. Easier that way.”  

His nonchalant manner concealed his turmoil. Arthur claimed to be many people throughout his years. He created as many aliases as a criminal could make use of to evade the law. There no longer seemed to be anyone behind the facades. Perhaps there never was.  

“Maybe I’ll just call you Ghost.”  

He said it with some humor, but he got a colder reception than he anticipated.  

“Do not call me that.” The pale man condemned. The bluntness of his disapproval rattled the outlaw somewhat.  

Arthur turned away. Avoiding the stranger’s ire was in his best interest. He stepped closer to the edge of the pier.  

“You should not be so close to the water.” The stranger warned abruptly.  

“Why not?”  

“You might drown.”  

Arthur faced the stranger with indignation. “I’m not a child.”  

“Your state of mind is at risk.”  

“Now what does that mean?”  

Tension flared up in the moment. Arthur’s voice quivered with irritation.  

“You should return to the hearth.”  

“I prefer it out here.”  

The giant took an aggressive stance, but as quickly as his anger flared, it receded. Arthur’s heart was suddenly racing, then it slowed as the pale man held himself back.  

The stranger growled exhaustedly, looking away somewhat. They both allowed the tension to fade with their silence.  

“The fire will nourish you... of your illness.”  

Arthur picked up on the restraint in his voice, and his concern. The outlaw felt guilty for it.  

Arthur feared he would see ghosts if he looked into the mist for too long. His eyes went down to the water. The depths of the lake seemed so welcoming. 

“It’s too quiet in the cabin. Too easy to... hear...” 

“To hear the voices,” the ashen man finished. 

Arthur was stricken. At first, the stranger’s eyes still avoided him, but his gaze found him reluctantly. He did not show pity - Arthur was unsure he was capable of that - but he understood.  

“Yeah,” Arthur softly kicked the wood under him, “crazy, right?”  

The pale man came forward. His thundering strides rattled the timber under their feet, setting off ripples in the water. He stood next to the outlaw at the edge of the pier.  

“You do not relish being here alone.”  

His words were heavy with somberness, even as he spoke softly. Arthur followed the fire in his eyes into the distance across the lake, wondering what he could see in the wisps.  

“I’m not entirely alone,” the outlaw whispered with an intent to comfort - himself or the stranger, he wasn’t sure.  

The cold breeze from the lake chilled Arthur’s skin. He pulled Hamish’s jacket around him tighter. He nearly resigned himself to returning to the cabin at the ashen man’s behest. Then an idea came to him.  

“Why don’t we set up a fire over there,” he pointed to the rocky shore a small distance away, “have a sit down?”  

The stranger considered for a moment. He nodded.

Arthur gathered several logs into a pile on the pebble-covered lakeside. He brought out a tank of oil that sat by the cabin’s hearth, and sprinkled it around the firewood.  

Stacks of lumber stood alongside the small stable on the side of the cabin. Arthur thought of Buell, Hamish’s cherished Dutch Warmblood stallion. The veteran entrusted his steed to the outlaw before he passed away. Hamish believed Buell would be in good hands, but at the time Arthur thought only of the imminence of his own death. The veteran’s horse would be better given to a stable owner, rather than thrown from his peaceful life with Hamish, into the midst of the fracturing Van der Linde gang. He asked the stable men for their promise to keep him in good health. He hoped that promise was worth something. 

A log large enough for both men to sit on lied in the grass beside the homestead. As Arthur sat at the ring of firewood, he observed the ashen man, who agreed to retrieve the log and bring it to the nearby lakeshore.  

The wood seemed so large as to require the strength of at least three men to carry, but the giant alone hurled it upon his shoulder. Arthur kept his place, astonished by his show of strength as he came forth. It hardly seemed a burden on his body.  

“I guess you don’t need help with that.” Arthur observed, trying to mask his awe. The large man laid the log down behind the outlaw, relieving his muscles of his workload. He unwound with a roll of his neck and shoulders, a marginal sign of his age within his powerful visage, before taking a seat. The working man valued the time to rest. 

After staring at the well-built man for a few moments too long, Arthur resumed his own task of drilling a stick into the firewood. Quite a bit of time passed as he succeeded at nothing but scratching up his own hands. He longed for the old pocket lighter he carried in the satchel he gave to John. He could have gone for a smoke.  

The breeze grazed the scratches on Arthur’s hands. The humid air made the wood too damp to start a fire. He had to use a rock to create a spark.  

“You still got that knife on you, no name?”  

Arthur intended to borrow the knife belonging to the ashen man, though he wondered where his own dagger might have been stashed - the stranger still had not disclosed that he had taken it. He doubted his willingness to return it to him, so he refrained from asking. 

But to Arthur’s disbelief, he looked at the stranger’s hand and saw him holding the outlaw’s own blade out to him. Arthur’s brow folded with uncertainty, but he took the knife.  

“I’ll try not to cut myself.”  

Arthur’s cynical self-deprecation came impulsively, and he tried not to linger on it. He fiddled with the knife and stone at a focused pace. The modest work helped to keep his mind from drifting. During the moments he spent etching scratches on the stone, the surrounding wilderness seemed to disappear, but he was always aware of the man with red marks sitting behind him and observing.  

The world came back into focus when a spark flew from the stone and ignited the wood.  

“There we go,” Arthur whispered with relief. He sat back and twisted the knife in his hand. The hilt of the blade between his fingers made him feel anxious. He tried to hand the knife back to the stranger, but the marked man stopped him with a hardened grip. 

“You should have a weapon.”  

Arthur cast his eyes through the rust and stains of the blade. A rush of dread flooded over him. He urged the stranger to get the weapon out of his sight.  

“Not yet.”  

His words gave way to another quietness, death hanging in the air like a wall he always seemed to face yet never quite touch. The marked man took the knife back. 

“So, your name... It’s some big secret?” asked Arthur, attempting to sidestep his distress. “Are you a fugitive?”  

The stranger’s movements were apprehensive. He averted his eyes.  

“I get you. I don’t much like too many people knowing who I am. My whole life, I’ve been runnin’ from the law. Things I’ve done. Things I regret.”  

The fingers on Arthur’s hand fidgeted. He was thankful not to be holding a weapon.  

“They have a way of catchin’ up to you. Even now, I feel like I’m livin’ on borrowed time. I still ain’t sure I ain’t already dead. I’ve only got you to tell me otherwise.”  

The stranger’s lack of response intensified the strength of his silence. Arthur grew more uneasy as time passed.  

“To bring oneself from the brink of death,” the stranger spoke, seeming to sense Arthur’s anxiety, “it is a difficult journey.”  

Arthur was acutely aware that the stranger lived a life of hardship, without having to imagine much. He despaired at his words. The outlaw was drained of so much of the life that used to flow through him.  

He noticed the pale man moving next to him. He once again retrieved the outlaw’s knife, holding it forth and insisting on returning it. Arthur stared at the blade. The gaze of his sorrowful eyes was returned in the steel. His trepidation reemerged. 

“I can’t-“  

“I will not force you to take it... but you must be able to defend yourself.” 

Arthur knew the marked man’s intention. The outlaw doubted his own being. The stranger meant to give him power over his own fate. That would bring some clarity back to Arthur’s mind.  

Arthur reached for the blade. As his fingers wrapped around the hilt, heavy with dread, the stranger grasped him with both hands.  

“Trust yourself with it.”  

Arthur radiated unease. The ashen man’s callused hands held him still. The touch seared him like a winter’s gust blows upon a candle’s ember... both a tethering warmth and piercing cold at once. 

The outlaw, once again, pushed the knife away. He uncurled his fingers from the hilt, and left the blade in the stranger’s hands. He always saw the devastation he was destined for staring back at him, and it never seemed closer than it did in that instant, holding the dagger. Arthur never felt more lost. He lived a troubled life, full of sadness and anger. He pushed himself so far on rage, loyalty, and strife, but the outlaw’s fire had burned out. 

“My time’s over, my friend. It’s been done. I just... can’t fight no more.” 

Arthur’s voice wavered as he spoke. He breathed in to keep from trembling. The stranger saw how frozen he was by fear. 

“But you do not wish to die.” 

The ashen man surmised his true feelings. Arthur had walked beyond the end of his path. He always believed he would go down fighting amidst the fires that burned his world away. Only ashes remained in his wake, but the fire had not devoured him. His fate was crueler than he could have imagined. 

“No, I don’t... but I don’t see how...” Arthur faltered, overcome with the loss of everything, “I don’t know.” 

Arthur could not speak to all that he felt. Grief. Fear. Shame. The bottomless pain of a broken man. The only battle left to fight was against himself. He longed for an end to his life, yet he was afraid of death. 

“Your hand.” 

The stranger, no longer holding the knife, held his hand out towards him. He did not bring himself fully to the outlaw. Rather, he asked silently that Arthur come to him as his equal. 

Arthur was reluctant, but he took his hand. The ashen man held his arm against the outlaw’s, firmly, with some purpose of conveying his strength. It was not a handshake. It was more dignified – an almost warrior-esque gesture. He perhaps used it in his homeland. 

The outlaw needed to feel his grasp. It was even more scarred, hardened, and weary of weapons than his own - the hand of another whom was worn by violence. 

“You can heal.” The giant said truthfully, and with solace. For Arthur, the sentiment seemed so tragic and foolish, but the stranger spoke with weight and without deception. The hope he dared to feel at the edge of his despair nearly brought him to tears. 

“This grief you feel is raw, but you are here now. Allow yourself time... to mourn, and regain your strength.” 

The ashen man released him. Arthur looked over the lake, through the morning mist to the den of pine trees and great cliffs in the distance. Arthur solemnly remembered the ones who had passed on, but the stranger had granted him this peace, away from the chaos of his life before. 

“Alright then,” Arthur said it bitterly, but he felt within himself a spark of the determination that used to flow through him. 

They returned to silence together. The forest continued to awaken. The morning sun brightened as the hours passed. The firewood burned weaker. Arthur began to remember the pleasure of relishing the quiet wilderness. He decided, for now, to put aside all of his doubts about his existence, and simply take in the world around him. He would listen to the stories it had to tell, whether they were real or illusions, if they could ease his mind.  

The most intriguing story was that of the man next to him - the quiet titan of the woods.  

“Why do you want to help me?” Arthur asked. He had so many questions, but this one gnawed at him more fervently than the rest. 

The pale man’s gaze was fallen, clear that somber memories had taken over his thoughts. 

“Someone I know would have wanted it.”  

Arthur’s first thought was to ask who this person was, but given his already reluctant demeanor, he figured the man would have told him only if he was willing. He chose not to pry.  

“Kratos.”  

His utterance startled the outlaw. The name he spoke echoed in his head, sounding foreign but somehow familiar.  

“Is that... this person you know?”  

“No. That is my name. You asked before what it was.”  

Arthur faced the other man suspiciously “I thought that was a secret.”  

“One you should know.”  

The outlaw laughed with a hollow sound. “You’ve gone and got attached to me, haven’t you?”  

Arthur felt as if he’d heard the name before, or something similar to it. Hosea and Dutch were always fond of culture, philosophy and stories from antiquity. They pushed Arthur to be aware of some of the ways of the world at large. They helped to curate his knack for arts and introspective outlook about his own existence.  

“Kratos...” Arthur mused, “like the god of strength in those old Greek myths.”  

“The god of... strength?”   

“It’s a bit of an odd name for a person, but... you’re real big, you got a lot of vigor, and you... well, you kinda got the voice of a god. It suits you.” 

Arthur noticed the pale man seemed taken aback. He appeared almost shocked by his demonstration of knowledge.  

“My people always wanted me to be educated. They tried their best, but I really ain’t the smartest horse.”  

Kratos was averting his eyes, adamantly. His mind was drifting to some far-off place.  

“So, Greece. That’s where you’re from, isn’t it?”  

The air became tense. The crease in the ashen man’s brow deepened. His eyes narrowed. Arthur saw anger in him... or was it pain? Something burned under his skin, like his fury from the night before. 

Arthur thought quickly. “But I imagine there’s a reason you’re here, and not there.”  

He watched the pale man’s expression fall. He breathed deeply, as if trying to calm himself. The eyes of Kratos drifted further away. He seemed suddenly withdrawn. Arthur noticed his hand grazing the bands on his wrist.  

“We ain’t gotta talk about it, then.”  

Another quiet moment followed. He felt isolated aside the closed off giant. The emerging loneliness made him uneasy.  

“My name’s Arthur Morgan,” the outlaw avowed after realizing Kratos had given his name, and he had not. “It’s a Welsh name. I ain’t never been to Wales, but it’s where my family came from. The people over there told a lot stories about an ancient warrior king. My parents named me after him.”  

Arthur drew the pale man’s eyes back to him as he talked.  

“But out here... I doubt either of us feel much like kings... or gods, I reckon.”  

Arthur heard a grunt from the other man, as if he were amused by his pleasantry. Arthur couldn’t help but chuckle himself.  

“We ain’t nothin’ but runaways, I guess.”  

He spoke with all the sadness he had felt since the dead of night, but it was easier to have this man to share it with.  

“I still ain’t sure you should have saved me, but I feel like I should thank you anyway.”

Kratos declined his gratitude, in a stern and civil manner.

“You should not give thanks for a task unfinished. We will see to it that it is done."

Arthur focused on the eyes of the ashen man, and Kratos regarded him in return, his fire meeting the blue of his own.

"Rest well... Arthur."

He spoke the outlaw’s name with a tone of reverence. He welded power and truth together in his great cadence.  

A moment came and passed when Arthur seemed to see and hear the woods with greater clarity, and feel his own touch and the warmth of the fire more potently. After hearing his name beheld by the titan, he felt a bit more grounded. 

They did not know how much time passed from there, whether they were minutes or hours - only that they passed silently, as quiet as the hours were before the dawn. They endured their sorrow as weary warriors do, within the sounds of the water, the trees, and the wind... beside another who understood. 

Chapter Text

Hamish

Hey. It’s Arthur.

There’s a part of me hoping you might still be around to listen to what I have to say. There truly is a lot I need to say.

I failed you, Hamish. There’s no question about that, and you shouldn’t forgive me for it. I’m not here to ask for forgiveness. I’m here to let you know I’ve done things I can never make right.

I’m at your homestead. Buell is safe. I think. I gave him to a stable. I told them it was very important they take good care of him, in the clearest way I could. My life was too dangerous for him to stay with me. I hope you understand.

The cabin’s in good order, but there’s an emptiness that weighs on me, because I know I shouldn’t be here. It shouldn’t be like this. Why the hell are you gone and I’m still here?

If fate does exist, it’s playing a cruel game with me. What kind of fate determines I should live, and a good man like you should die? I’ve seen things happen to innocent people that don’t make any sense. Nothing ever really made sense. It’s better that I don’t believe in fate, for the sake of a little peace of mind.

I was supposed to die. When I met you, I was sick. I never told you that. It was tuberculosis. I did things in my life that finally caught up to me. It's why I had to let Buell go. I thought my time had come, but strange things have happened, and now I’m here.

I don't know if it was a miracle or a mistake.  I was lying on the cold rock. My lungs were filled with blood. I was ready to meet my maker, and maybe if I was lucky... or you unlucky... I’d see you again. Then, I woke up here in your house. I was greeted by the strangest, and scariest man I’ve ever met. And somehow, I was cured of my illness.

I suppose I should tell you about the man who brought me here. Perhaps he’s a friend of yours? It’s hard to really describe him. He’s about as big as a grizzly bear and just as strong as one. His skin is the color of limestone mountains, and he bears these red marks like a warrior from a distant land. I can’t convey just how terrifying he is, how his infernal glare burns my soul, and how I tremble when he speaks with a voice like rolling thunder that ain’t exactly human. It’s like he’s some kind of beast… or something else. I feel he could kill me at any moment, yet he’s the only reason I’m still alive.

I don’t know why he would spare me, and he’s not given me much insight as to how he cured me. I don’t deserve to be here, in your house, but he insists I stay here to regain my strength. He didn't take no for an answer, for my safety.

God knows folk would be better off if I was gone, but Cratose Craytos Kratos - that’s his name - seems to think my life is worth saving. He has some knowledge I have yet to grasp, but I question how wise he is for keeping a bastard like me around. I guess I’d like to know what reason he has to show mercy to a damned outlaw.

I want to keep this journal. I feel like maybe this is some way I can talk to you. I'd long thought talking to the dead was an endeavor not worthwhile. I don’t have the same sense I used to. I’ve always tried moving past what I’ve lost, but back then I still had other things worth protecting. Not anymore. The strange man said I need to learn how to be okay with grieving. I’m not sure how much sense that makes, lingering on this empty feeling. But maybe it’s worth it, if only to talk to you again.

He let the pen settle between the pages of Hamish’s journal.

Evening approached. Arthur leaned forward in the chair, resting on the cabin porch. The sun was setting between the crevices of the cliffs across the lake. He had not moved much throughout the day, he realized. The thought occurred to him with a sense of weightlessness, and some bereavement. Time seemed to move slower now.

He stood up on the porch, after closing the journal and pocketing his pen. He pointed his eyes over the pond, into the setting sun. It was the same view he stared upon from the pier that very morning, only now the fog had all but dissipated. He saw the valley more clearly, under the red glow of dusk.

He admired the sunset. How many had he seen in his life, and how many more would he see before he departed this world? How steady a candle it was that put the sky to sleep as it burned out every evening, allowing the ghostly stars to awaken, enchanting all the beings of earth who would steal a moment to look upon them.

His mind considered what lay beyond. He wondered, not for the first time in his life, if any part of all the departed souls lingered. Could they see him from the heavens? How many more nights would pass over him before they’d call to him? He held that thought in his mind, and it lead him to quietness. They would not speak to him. For now, he was alone.

He returned to the interior of the cabin. The dreadful silence might have mesmerized him as he wandered the space alone, if not for something gnawing at him. He inspected the hearth, not lit by any fire, as the dusk set in.

Something sat atop the furnace that caught his interest - a small flask. He reached for the ornate container. There were words etched in the flask, in letters of a foreign language. A liquid substance was contained inside, though it felt almost empty.

He was losing himself in curiosity when he heard a thud, and felt wood under his feet jolt slightly, as if the house had shaken. The ashen man had gone into Hamish’s workplace behind the house, and had been there for some time. Arthur dwelled on repetitive thoughts throughout the day, but Kratos had a way of commanding his attention. Arthur was often on edge in his company, making it hard to stay locked in his own head. There was something about that man...

His feet moved him to the door beside the hearth, and he stepped outside again. He continued around the perimeter of the cabin to the back area. The veteran’s workplace was surrounded by a fence. A rowboat was leaned against the post on the back end of the premises. It was the same that he and Hamish rode out onto the lake.

Kratos stationed himself at a workbench, under an awning on the backside of the cabin. He held one of Hamish’s tools, a hammer, while a sack filled with rocks sat on the bench

“So that explains all the racket. What are you doing back here?”

The working man paused his task while he turned his eyes to him. His glare was at first intense, but it softened somewhat after a moment. His attention went back to his task.

Arthur stepped closer. “What’s in the bag.”

“Rock salt.”

“Huh,” Arthur was more amused than was probably reasonable. “You gonna cook something with that?”

“This is to preserve food.”

Arthur saw there was a post near the row boat for game to be hung. The deer he hunted the previous night was hanging off the ground.

“I was wondering where you put the deer.”

“There is enough meat for another night. I will dispose of it tomorrow. It will have rotted too much.”

Kratos used the hammer to shatter the rock inside the bag into several pieces. As he fell silent, Arthur watched him work. Time seemed to slow. It was strangely intoxicating to take in every detail of the ashen man’s movements. His muscles flexed and tightened as he gripped the mallet. He furrowed his brow in focus. His bare chest heaved with every rhythmic breath, and the humid mountain air gave his rough skin a modest glimmer.

“Is that a good amount of salt?”

“It is very little.”

He gathered the ground salt from the bag into a glass jar from the inventory. He came from under the awning, almost large enough for his head to touch it, and moved closer to Arthur. As he moved beside him, he pointed his eyes through the trees, seeing the cliffs at the edge of the valley.

“Tomorrow, I will journey north to the mountain peaks, to gather ice and salt. We will use them to store food for the months to come.”

“So if we preserve our food, you won’t have to hunt so often.”

“Yes. It is difficult to hunt in the winter. Too often and we risk depleting the wildlife.”

“I can tell you’re used to living off the land.”

Arthur felt a smile growing. He was enjoying this conversation, he realized.

“When you get rid of the deer, I’d make sure to do it far from the cabin,” Arthur cautioned. “We don’t want the wolves to think this is some kind of feedin’ ground. I’ve had a run-in with the packs around here. They ain’t to be messed with.”

“You know this land well?” Kratos asked. Arthur recalled the brief ventures he embarked on with Hamish in these woods. He felt his heart fall.

“I knew the man who used to live in this cabin.”

“Hamish,” The ashen man said, to the outlaw’s surprise. “You spoke of him last night.”

"Did you know him?"

"No."

"Hmm... I had to ask." Arthur turned away as his hand grazed the fence. “It still feels strange being back here.”

His eyes went frantically through the trees, then to the sky. The first evening stars were waking up.

“There’s something else I gotta ask.” Arthur felt a gravity lowering his voice. He turned his back to the fence, avoiding a glance at the larger man. He kept his head down as he brought forth the object he took from the furnace, the ornate flask, then laid his eyes upon the ashen man to gauge his reaction. He was unmoving, visibly stiff.

“I’ve been wondering this whole time how you cured me of my illness.”

Kratos took the flask from the outlaw as he offered it. The large man’s brow furrowed as they watched each other. He was on edge, as if concerned with how much he knew.

Kratos’s eyes went down. He breathed in and out through his nostrils, his shoulders falling. It was an emotion, linked to a memory.

“It is medicine.”

“Medicine... that cures TB?”

“You were told your illness was terminal?”

“The doctor was pretty specific.” Arthur’s mind went back to his diagnosis in Saint Denis, and how he felt in the moments afterwards. He was still too accustomed to the dread of imminent death. “People don’t get much help out here.”

Arthur watched Kratos turn a thought in his head. He was reminiscing. Arthur had yet to surmise when his thoughts were pleasant and when they were not.

“In my homeland, there was a medicine that was highly sought after. It could cure even the gravest illness. I used it once, to save someone I cared for… very deeply.”

Kratos paused suddenly. Arthur could tell another memory had occurred to him, but unlike before, he sensed a clearer change in his demeanor. He became immensely somber. Arthur listened with intent.

“But knowledge of the medicine was lost. I traveled to a land far north of Greece, and there I met a woman who held great knowledge of herbs, and their ability to heal. Together, with the help of a traveler who gathered knowledge from other lands, we created the medicine anew.”

Arthur realized this was the most Kratos had spoken to him uninterrupted. He learned he set foot in another land before arriving here. Yet he noticed his glossing over the details. Arthur had questions. If there were people he cared for, why was he alone? What had he gone through before coming to this place?

“Something like that could help a lot of people, I reckon,” Arthur said, for lack of anything else to say.

“Perhaps. But the ingredients are immensely difficult to harvest.”

“Ain’t that how it goes?”

Kratos made a curious grunt.

Arthur hesitated as he leaned back on the fence. His eyes went to the sky again. Vanishing were the last dusts of twilight, and the night sky was painting itself in the canvass they left behind, a sight Arthur thought he’d never see again. In this mountain wilderness, it was the closest he could ever feel to heaven. But it would always be out of reach.

“It’s always hard to do good. The world makes it hard. Turns us into fools. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

Kratos turned away. He fell quiet, not because he chose to, but rather he knew not what to say. As his eyes darted, they followed Arthur’s to the emerging stars. A somberness swept over them both.

The ashen man looked again to the deer on the post. As Arthur was beginning to find the quietness isolating, Kratos called to him.

“Come. We should not let the deer spoil further.”

Arthur realized his own hunger, and was strangely comforted by the homely suggestion. “Why don’t I get the hearth started tonight. If that’s okay?”

Kratos accepted.

As they had agreed to, Arthur occupied the bed, while Kratos made his spot to sleep in front of the hearth, having laid out a mat of fur.

The night was fragilely quiet. An observer would not see the man consumed by chaos as he slept.

Arthur relived the memories of his recent past, and the bleak emotions of them. One by one he saw the darkest moments of the most tormented days of his life.

Thundering gunshots, blood, smoke, death, and loss.

A father and mentor murdered by government agents in the city streets

A brother fleeing into a dark forest, his fate unknown.

A wicked man gleefully beating him to death.

A leader standing over him, accusing of betrayal, condemning him to death, abandoning him.

A chief crying as he held his dying son.

A final embrace with a man to which he longed to say so much more.

The fire in his lungs.

The last sunrise

The last, torturous - yet liberating breath…

Arthur jolted awake, desperate for air. His breaths came frantically, in between grieving whimpers.

Someone was at his bedside within seconds. Arthur was at first fearful, his nerves on edge. But a hand was placed on the side of his chest, firm but gentle.

“Breathe.”

The man from the wilds kneeled next to him, a presence Arthur now found a strange comfort in. A calmness swept over him as if on command. As Arthur’s breath slowed, Kratos moved his hand from his chest, choosing to embrace the outlaw’s hand. Arthur abided. The language of his touch, he read it almost clearly now.

Arthur looked to the ceiling where the dancing shadows painted the old timber. The phantom flickers unnerved him in his fragile state. He brought his eyes back to Kratos, who stayed unmoving. There was a feeling in his glare, so intense as to seem tangible. The warmth of it kept him tethered.

Arthur let out a breathy chuckle, a rather aggrieved one. He wanted to say something, but found the effort disorienting.

“I… uh…”

“Do not speak” Kratos stood slowly. He began to back away, but he didn’t go far. He took his place back in front of the hearth, again fully entering its light, inviting the shadows to dance across his skin. “Rest,” he insisted as he sat down.

Kratos decided not to fall back asleep. He would be Arthur’s silent company, the guardian of the pathway back to his slumber. Arthur would ward off sleep for now, until the ghosts decided they were done haunting him.

“I hate to turn this into a routine.”

Kratos didn’t respond to this. Some part of Arthur wanted to hear his voice, if only to feel like he wasn’t fading away.

“I’m just… sorry, I guess.”

Kratos appeared ready to say something, but whatever words he chose escaped him. He stayed silent, but remorsefully so.

His companion’s quietness would have to satisfy him. It sufficed for now. He so strangely commanded his attention and wonder.

Arthur was once again captured by his eyes of fire. The ashen man peered into the hearth, seeming to make a friend of the flame. He held a knife in his hand as he did, spinning the blade between calloused fingers. This too captivated Arthur. He wondered what all sort of work his fingers were experienced in.

The axe leaned on the hearthstone gleamed with the fire at its edge. He pictured Kratos’s hand around the wood of its handle.

For many silent moments, he did not take his eyes from the hearth. He sought his own comfort in the ember.

“Someone once said that people who stare into fire see things in it,” Arthur was compelled to say.

It was true for himself, which is why he seldom stared into fire for too long.

“What do you see?”

After being asked the question, the blade in his fingers stopped spinning, but just as quickly resumed. He parted his lips, with hesitation, and without taking his eyes from the fire, he spoke softly.

“My wife.”

He heard his words, spoken in a breaking whisper. Arthur mulled over the sound, longing and somber it was. He knew of those who
loved from a place of loneliness. He’d seen it in many people… and, he himself was familiar.

“I’m sorry.”

After Arthur spoke, it was the first time Kratos moved his eyes from the hearth in what felt like hours.

“I… did not say…”

“You didn’t have to,” Arthur replied before he could finish, smiling sympathetically.

Rather than his usual stern expression, his eyes widened in puzzlement. Perhaps he was impressed by the outlaw's perceptiveness. It satisfied Arthur to think so.

“What was her name?”

Kratos peered at the fire again, as if needing to see it to help him remember. He fell quiet again, hesitating. Arthur could understand one who was protective of his most intimate memories.

He closed his eyes. He breathed out. After some time, he nodded, as if silently speaking to someone.

“Faye.”

He paused again, taking a breath in, and pondered over a memory with the deliberation it clearly deserved.

“Before she died, she tasked me with… lighting her funeral pyre. I carried her ashes to the highest peak of her homeland, and spread them from the top of the mountain. That was her request.”

Kratos spoke of his past, and Arthur was enthralled in every word. Even his restrained emotion was palpable.

“That’s loyalty. Faye’s a lucky woman.”

Kratos shook his head, a small dismissive motion.

“Not luck. She made a choice.”

Even after what he told Arthur, the man sold himself short. He nearly laughed thinking about it. Love always had a way to make one feel they never truly deserved it.

He remembered something Kratos told him that morning. He apparently helped Arthur because someone from his past would have wanted that of him. A ghost of his conscience of sorts.

“I guess we both owe her,” Arthur sighed with this realization. “I’d thank her, but I still think you might be wasting your time with me.”

He turned his eyes to the ceiling. An emerging guilt made it hard to face the ashen man. Arthur strung him along by some hope he felt for the outlaw, a man with nothing left to live for.

He did not see Kratos, closing his eyes, plunging ever deeper into his memories. His shoulders lifted with grieved breaths. He opened his eyes to the fire again.

“I was like you once.”

His voice - even as soft as Arthur had ever heard him speak - rumbled over the crackling fire.

“What?”

Arthur looked to him, and saw Kratos with an intense stillness. He fell further into the well of his past.

“I destroyed myself. I nearly died…”

He seemed as if he might unravel if he moved at all.

“…I longed for death. I thought it preferable to my grief.“

Silence followed. His sort of metaphysical freefall seemed to halt there, as he drifted to other memories.

“For so long I was alone, when I met Faye. I was afraid, upon realizing I felt for her. But…”

He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was looking past the fire, seeing into a great distance.

“She came to me, having suffered like I did. She was not afraid.”

Arthur observed him intently, seeing the quiver of his jaw, hearing the breaking in his voice.

“She wielded her grief differently from me. She let herself remember those she had lost, instead of locking their memory away. Opening herself to grief did not mean succumbing to it. It meant understanding.”

Arthur heard these words, and something in him broke - Or perhaps, something finally stopped feeling numb. A sadness burned in his eyes.

“I get what you’re saying. I do, but…” Arthur’s voice faltered. As he watched the shadows on the ceiling, the wounds of his heart tore further. “What I’ve lost... it's so much.”

The corners of his eyes released a stream of tears.

“Everything, it's... so much…”

He clenched his teeth to keep from crying loudly. Even without the illness, the pain in his chest was so immense.

Kratos endured the air of grief with a solemn breath, feeling Arthur’s own desolation within himself.

“I know,” Kratos whispered, understanding more than Arthur could ever grasp, “I know.”

He conveyed a weight in his words, enough for Arthur to know they were honest. Arthur listened as he shared his wisdom, holding fast to the voice that consoled him.

“The heart breaks the most painfully of any part of ourselves. A wound on the body may close, but the heart must be open in order to heal. It is the hardest truth to face."

The fire languished after some time, spreading the darkness of the dancing shadows through the cabin. Kratos’ words began lulling Arthur back to slumber. As Arthur stared heavenward, he thought over the meaning of what he spoke, again and again. His words were a comfort to him.

"An open heart…" at the edge of his consciousness, Arthur whispered what echoed in his mind most prominently.

Once the fire was only a fading ember, the two drifted in a mournful silence, but one that was no longer so lonely. They returned to sleep together.