Chapter Text
“I gave you all I had.”
It was his last testament to a mentor - a father - long since departed from this world.
Arthur clutches the heel of Dutch’s boot, desperately trying to hold onto the last tangible evidence that the man he remembered was still with him. Before the Devil on his shoulder known as Micah plagued them with false promises of glory.
Even that is stripped from him as the shell of a leader pulls away and retreats into the darkness, leaving a battered and broken Arthur behind in the dirt.
Alone.
Arthur hurts. Hurts in ways he’s never felt before. He is no stranger to physical pain: having being beat, shot, even tortured. But this was a newfound suffering that leaves the heart he rediscovered shattered. Everything he’s ever known is dead and turning to ash as the last remnants of the Van der Linde’s burn away with Beaver Hollow.
There’s nothing left to salvage. But at least he managed to save those who still had a chance at life, away from the depravity. John, Abigail, Jack, Tilly, Sadie.
Her.
It was unbearable to part ways with such a heavy air of finality surrounding the two of them. As he lifted her onto the back of Sadie’s horse with Abigail, her anguish was palpable. To hear her plead with him so desperately, begging to let her go along with him? It was worse than any bullet to the chest.
Regardless, he wouldn’t hear any of it, caressing her hands with bruised fingers as her tears continued to fall. She then tried to reason with him, bless her heart, knowing his stubbornness all too well. Whispering such sweet things, pretty dreams of leaving it all behind and starting over together far away.
Revenge was a fool's game, he was keenly aware, but it was well beyond that at this point. Now it was about making things right, and it was something only Arthur could do. Ever the dutiful guardian - even to a fault.
He finds the inner strength to let her go and swears he’ll see her again soon, to live out those pretty dreams.
Arthur never liked lying to her.
As he drags himself over to the cliff side, inch by agonizing inch, he supposes there’s some truth to his words. Perhaps all those prayers Swanson said on Arthur’s behalf put him in God’s good graces after decades of depravity. If He’s as forgiving as the Reverend foretold, maybe he’ll allow Arthur to watch over her from wherever he winds up. He never thought himself a devout man, but in light of recent events he decides there’s no time like the present.
Redemption had been a tumultuous climb for Arthur. But as he lays at the top of the mountains overlooking Roanoke Ridge, the effort was worth the outcome. He feels lighter, no longer burdened by crosses Dutch forced upon his shoulders. A veil has been lifted, and the colors of the dawn seem so much more vibrant than before. Shades of orange and pink blend together seamlessly and cast an ethereal glow over him and the country he loves.
He almost forgets about the excruciating aches that plague his body as the cool kiss of morning mist hits his cheeks. As the gang’s - ex-gang’s - primary enforcer he never could afford submitting to fatigue. But he feels tired, oh so tired, and he allows himself the luxury. Just this once. There is nothing left for him to do anymore.
Oh, he muses, the sun’s coming up.
She had been riding with Abigail on one horse with Sadie taking point on the other, rifle at the ready, for what felt like hours. Arthur’s last order of business was entrusting Sadie with escorting the two of them to safety - as far the hell away from this mess as possible.
Everything felt numb, the only sensation registering in her mind was Abigail’s trembling hands against her waist as they all rode onward in silence. Tears still fresh on her face as she brought herself further and further away from what was now a past life. And what could have potentially held a future.
Arthur.
Yet another pang in her chest as guilt wracks the very foundation of her soul. She had been compliant in sending the man she loves into the wolves den. Into the company of men who would spill his blood with smiles on their faces.
You could’ve stopped him.
You could’ve gone with him.
If he dies it’s your fault.
Without a word, she pulls tightly on her horse’s reins and bring it to an abrupt stop. Abigail gasps lightly in surprise, peering over her shoulder to see what was the matter. Sadie notices the interruption.
“Sugar, we have to keep moving,” Sadie urged gently, trotting her own horse up next to hers. She was right, they did have to keep moving.
But not her.
She looked at Sadie, gaze firm. “I have to go back.”
Sadie opens her mouth to interject. Arthur was a proud man, but on the verge of tears he had implored Sadie to keep her safe - alive. She empathized with her plight, truly she did. But this was her last promise to a man she practically owed her own life to.
She stops Sadie before she can protest her obstinance.
“I need to do this, Sadie. You know that.” Her eyes soften and she bites her lip, “You would for Jake.”
Sadie’s eyes widen at her mention of her departed husband, knuckles whitening around the stock of her rifle. Her impassioned devotion to Jake began to put cracks in her usually hardened resolve and now it was her turn to shed a tear. She’s quick to wipe it away and takes a moment to compose herself.
Abigail looks between the two of you, disbelief apparent on her face. “You can’t be serious, Dutch has finally lost it! You heard what happened to,” she tries to hold back a sob, “to J-John...” Abigail grips her wrist tightly, “If you go back, there's no doubt he’ll kill you too!”
She smiles at Abigail wistfully. All of them had been carrying this heavy burden of grief in one way or another. The heartbreak was insurmountable. An entire way of life, a home - a family - was nothing more than dust in the wind now. Dutch’s swansong of one more score - of a better world for the Van der Linde’s - had enchanted the lot of them. It effectively distracted everyone from the treacherously thin ice he was willingly leading them on.
But now the honied melody had turned rotten.
“Arthur needs me,” was all she could say. Abigail looks to Sadie for a voice of reason in all of this but she is already dismounting her horse, offering its reins up to her.
“My horse is faster," She says, looking at her expectantly.
Suddenly words elude her as she struggle to express her gratitude.
Now it’s Sadie’s turn to interrupt her. “It’s okay. Now get a move on.” She promptly helps her down, holding onto her hand for a beat longer before pulling her into a tight embrace. Her arms are so warm, and it adds to her pain knowing she has to pull herself from them soon.
“Be safe. And,” Sadie squeezes her shoulders, “bring him home.” The gravity of her request is filled with hope. She finds herself crying again and she nods in affirmation. Sadie had done her best to follow through on her oaths, and now it’s her turn to do the same.
She looks back up to Abigail who is clearly devastated with her decision but she tries to make peace with it - for her sake.
Another smile tinged with sadness tugs at her lips and she offers her your hand.
“You’re just as bullheaded as that man of yours!” Despite the hard tone, Abigail's words are laced with admiration and affection.
She laughs genuinely for the first time in what feels like weeks.“I guess we were just meant to be.”
Abigail brushes her fingers softly across her own. “That you are,” she all but whispers, somehow finding the strength to let her go.
She mounts up once more. As she settles into her saddle, she regards her friends for what could possibly be the last time. She turns her horse and prepares to head back into uncertainty, but Abigail calls her name a final time.
“You,” she pauses to mull over her farewell before deciding on, “you both gotta see lil’ Jack grow up. He’s gonna be somethin’ great one day!” Her words are bittersweet but they hold so much promise.
She swipes the last of her tears away. There was no room for weakness anymore.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Her heart beats wildly against her ribs but she disregard it as she urges her horse onward through the forest surrounding Beaver Hollow. Determination boils her blood, refusing to sit idly by and let Arthur walk willingly into his own grave. She curses herself for not fighting harder with him earlier. But this was Arthur Morgan, and persuading him to take her willingly into what would be a bloodbath was always going to be a losing battle.
Arthur wasn’t the only one who could be stubborn.
She cuts through every available shortcut on the trails she knows, stray branches scratch at her face but she can’t bring herself to notice or care. The sun is just beginning to peek over the tree-line as she finds herself back at what was once the Van der Linde’s final campsite.
All that remains now is a charred husk as the blaze that consumed it dwindles down to a few meager cinders. Ashes cascade down like snowfall with the morning breeze around all the ruin. What once teemed with so much life had been desecrated beyond recognition. Despite the emptiness, she leaves her horse behind a tree near the precipice of Beaver Hollow, away from any lingering eyes that could still be amidst.
At her hip, the pearl-inlaid revolver gifted to her by Arthur suddenly feels heavier. She's no stranger to a gun, but aiming it at another human in contrast to an animal is still a foreign concept. Arthur had tried to keep her hands clean of blood, but he couldn’t always protect her from the dangers of the world they both resided in. He could at least provide her with the necessary tools.
Embedded in the dirt are multiple footprints - both human and equine - and she decides that’s as good a trail to follow as any. Tentatively she approaches the camp, hand hovering just over her holster as she prepares herself for the worst. She hadn’t been witness to the carnage that transpired here, but the aftermath doesn’t paint a pretty picture.
A single body lays in a crumpled heap at the center of camp. The recognition of its dress wrenches the dread she feels deeper into the pit of her stomach. Before she can begin to parse what’s in front of her, her feet are carrying her to Ms Grimshaw. She drops to her knees beside her, eyes glazed over and hands still clutching at the fatal gunshot wound that claimed her life. A thin layer of soot covers her face and she takes care to brush it away with shaking hands as she closes the eyes that once held so much fire.
The camp’s matriarch may not have always been the gentlest of women, but she cared for all the girls with a passion she never saw even in her own mother. It was a tough form of love Ms Grimshaw dished out, but it had emboldened her into a fierce woman much like herself during her years with the gang. For all the grief the girls gave her, all the time spent complaining about her strictness, she is forever indebted to her for teaching her how to be a woman in this harsh, unforgiving world.
She told herself she wouldn’t shed another tear, but as she gathers Ms Grimshaw up into her arms she can’t hold back the onslaught of anguish. Fresh tears fall onto her cheeks as she brings her closer, resting her forehead against her own. She only cries harder when she feels just how cold she is.
As much as it hurts, she has to press forward. She brushes the hair off Ms. Grimshaw's face and places a single kiss on her forehead before laying her gently back down. She crosses her hands over her chest - she looks more at peace, as if she was only sleeping. With a hand to her cheek, she promises her she'll return for her properly and continues on.
She turns her attention back to the trail of footprints, following them into the cave’s mouth behind the camp. It had always exuded an ominous aura that left the hairs on the back of her neck raised, but now was not the time for petty superstitions. She has her revolver at the ready as she walks into the cave as silently as possible. Whatever shadows could be lurking within would not get the jump on her.
It’s just like a hunting trip, she tell herself in an attempt to assuage her fear. It’s a piss poor comparison, she wished it was a simple as keeping herself hidden from ravenous beasts on four legs. But this was a different kind of animal, one with a human face and no qualms about taking a life.
Every echo that reverberates through the extensive tunnel system has her heart lurching into her throat. But she remains tenacious, continuing onward with two sets of muddy footprints as her guide through the caves.
The trail runs cold at the start of a rusty ladder and she breathes a sigh of relief that she'll be moving onward and upwards out of the darkness. That solace gets caught in her throat at the sound of rushed steps heading in your direction. Panic singes her nerves and she quickly finds shelter behind a large boulder near the ladder’s base.
She clasps a hand over her mouth to contain her shuddering breaths, praying she doesn't give her location away from the faceless cave-dwellers. The acoustics of the tunnels distort most of what they’re saying, but she can make out two distinct voices hurriedly passing by her.
“Dutch I think we should-”
“I believe you’ve done enough ‘thinking’ for the time being, Micah.”
Distress evolves into white-hot ire at the realization of who exactly she was alone with. The betrayal she experienced was nothing in comparison to Arthur’s twenty years of loyalty being discarded, she could easily admit that. But it still left a hole within her that was just as deep.
She had stumbled into the Van der Linde’s just a trepid young woman trying to escape the shackles of an abusive home. As a man who dreamed of fame and fortune, it would’ve all too easy for him to turn her into the numerous bounty hunters her father sent after her. Weave together some extravagant tale of the big bad outlaws holding the wealthy socialite’s runaway daughter for ransom to turn a higher profit.
But Dutch had cast that all aside without a second thought and taken her in as another one of his ragtag children. Who her family was before did not define her. He had given her the chance to change the path life had predetermined for her.
That man was gone. Perhaps he was never really there to begin with - a mere facade. The inability to adapt to a rapidly changing world had broken his spirit and instead left something warped - unrecognizable. Leaving him susceptible to the temptations of a snake’s hiss that lurked just beyond in the underbrush.
The casualties - his casualties. Everyone’s faith he continually prattled on about that smothered with his own two hands.
Arthur.
The fingers clutching her gun feel restless all of a sudden.
She peers from behind her cover as they unknowingly pass her by, an imposing chest being carried between the two of them.
Our money.
The culmination of the gang’s hard work after the mess the two of them created in Blackwater. Plans, schemes, and money that people had bled for - died for. What gives them the right to run off into the night while the remainder of them would suffer from the aftermath of their reign of destruction? She practically draws blood from how hard she bites her lip, holding back her rage.
The barrel of her revolver is quickly pointed at Dutch’s back with quivering hands.
It’s a shot as clear as day. She can end everything here and now, make up for countless years of false hope. Avenge those who fell in hopes of earning their keep and Dutch’s eternal admiration.
It was all horseshit, she thinks bitterly with gritted teeth.
She goes to pull back the gun’s hammer when all too familiar voice comes to mind.
Revenge is a fool’s game.
It causes her to hesitate, the shaking of her hands intensifying. Her eyes dart between Dutch and Micah’s silhouettes and the morning light bleeding in at the cave’s summit.
Bring him home…
The finger resting just over the trigger retreats and she lowers the gun to pursue someone much more significant.
She leaves them with a final sentiment.
“Your time will come,” she whispers and hopes that the wind carries that declaration up as far as it can travel. She'll let the “when” and “where” be decided by a higher authority, whoever that might be.
With haste, she grabs a rung and begin to climb up the ladder as fast as her arms can carry her.
Onwards and upwards.
As she continues to push herself to every limit possible, her body screams from exhaustion. She feels as if her legs could give out at any moment but she can’t bring herself to care as the steep hills transition into the cliffs of Roanoke Ridge.
She's tracked a series of hoof prints as far as she can before they end with the body of Arthur’s precious Appaloosa, Moonstone. Yet another innocent soul taken by this path of indiscriminate bloodshed.
There’s still no sign of Arthur, and she's too frantic to decide if that's a good sign or not. Her breathing is labored, lungs burning and heavy in her chest. But she can’t give up now, not with so much at stake.
Bring him home.
Again Sadie’s words resonate in her mind. Regardless of the outcome she will find him. She has to - he deserves that.
Face me to the west so I can see the setting sun…
A sunbreak slips through the morning clouds over the horizon, saturating them in varying hues of blue and yellow. It’s captivating, drawing her to the cliff’s edge despite the exhaustion in her muscles. A gentle wind that rolls over the treetops of varying oaks and cedars envelops her. She follows its direction in a daze and it leads her around the corner of a mountainside trail.
She briefly entertains the idea that your weariness has finally dissolved into delusion. For there amongst the wild poppies, she finds a figure in the shape of Arthur laying under a stone alcove facing the still rising sun. It might be the work of a cruel God, but be it reality or mirage she's just overjoyed he’s here.
She doesn't even realize she's crying again.
And she's running. Again. Her body is wailing but she doesn't feel it, and even if she could she doesn't care.
She just doesn't fucking care.
“Arthur…” Her voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper but as she gets closer,
“Arthur!” She cries out this time, desperate to get his attention. To get any sort of reaction.
Please. Please. PLEASE!
She collapses beside him and sob in relief when she sees his eyelids open weakly. He looks a wreck, covered in bruises and blood - a mixture of his own and god knows who else’s. Ugly splotches of red and purple are scattered across his face and his left eye is practically swollen shut. She realizes he was going to lay here until he succumbed to the severity of his injuries and her heart breaks all over again. Her hands find purchase on both his cheeks as she moves him carefully to look at her.
Somehow he finds the energy to smile.
“An angel,” he manages to wheeze, bringing a hand up to card through her tousled hair. She lets out a choked laugh and she places her own hand atop his. Keeping his touch on her to reaffirm he wasn’t just a clever hallucination.
“I...it’s me, my love. I’m here,” she buries her face in his chest. His heartbeat is faint but it’s there. By God it's there. It’s the most beautiful sound she's ever heard. Her tears keep coming with no end in sight and they mix in with the blood on his jacket.
He tries to shush her, his split lip kissing her temple tenderly. “Why are crying darlin’?” It’s asked so sweetly it practically hurts her teeth and she lets out a huff of laughter. Her amusement quickly shifts to frustration - she can’t help it.
“You stupid fool!" The words are harsh but they have no edge to them. Now it’s his turn to laugh, albeit feebly. He places another languid kiss to the crown of her head this time. “You silly man,” she pounds her fists softly on his chest.
“You were just going to-“ the words get stuck painfully in her throat. “Going to d-die here?” The thought of losing him weighed heavy on her and now she's finally free. The both of them are.
Arthur doesn’t know what to say except, “I’m sorry.” It’s enough. He’s enough. He always is.
She's weeping openly now against him, and he finds himself starting to succumb to his own emotions. With everything said and done, his grief hits him in one tremendous wave. The both of them are sobbing as the sun rises in the east. As it has done, and will continue to do for the two of them.
And so they cry.
For the past.
For the lost.
And now for the future.