Chapter Text
Chapter I: Who Knows Where The Time Goes?
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The gang had fallen apart and disbanded years prior, John, Abigail and Jack pursuing a family life, Sadie going on as a bounty hunter, Pearson sticking it out in Rhodes, Mary-Beth writing books upon books, Tilly gaining joyfully the family life she’d always longed for. Each to their own, Charles supposed. He knew, quite abysmally, that he’d never once known what he truly wanted. In brief bursts, he’d experience momentary want, but never need. He tried his very best to avoid upsetting topics, refusing to think farther than the surface level of his unhappiness.
As he hacked in half a log on the land called Beecher’s Hope, he reminisced the good, the bad and the ugly. He recalled when he’d chopped the wood in the very same manner as he did now – save a couple less aches and pains in his back – at Horseshoe Overlook. He remembered looking up briefly to wipe a bead of sweat from reaching his eyebrow and seeing, perched upon the rock Kieran called his bed, Arthur Morgan scribbling in his journal like a young boy detailing the events of his school day amidst his own diary. Arthur would look up from his journal curiously, gaze over at Charles and then proceed to scribble after his head had dipped down with vigour.
A part of Charles envied John for having Arthur’s journal in his possession, another part of him knew John had known Arthur for far longer than he had and shared an intense brotherly bond he’d never seen between biological siblings. But, Charles supposed, he’d never met too many people. The thought of brothers reminded Charles of two brothers Arthur had told him of with silly names, both of them fighting for the hand of a woman.
Charles Smith had no knowledge of whether Arthur Morgan was living or deceased, and when he questioned John on the topic he received no definitive answer. Charles wished he’d been there, at the end of all things. He wished he’d been honest with Arthur, spoken to him with truth instead of hidden feelings and veiled truths. He wished he’d done and said a lot of things.
Once the logged were cut, he lifted them with both arms, skin thick enough to avoid splinters, and carried them towards the fire. Jack sat idly beside Rufus, an arm over his kneecap as he watched the flames crackle and spit out small black ashes.
“Mr Smith,” he said nervously.
In response, Charles tilted his head. Afterwards, he moved towards the barn, sat down beside the door and took a breath in and then out. From across Beecher’s Hope, Charles saw John mount the very same horse Hosea had ridden and progress away from his homestead. John had told Charles he’d kept the name Silver Dollar for Hosea’s steed, which Charles found very poignant. Upon the porch of the Marston’s home, Abigail stood with a cup in one hand, her stance alone causing Charles to remember their time in the gang. With Uncle already snoring by a separate campfire, Charles realised quite suddenly how preoccupied everyone was.
John Marston did not take Arthur’s journal with him everywhere. He figured a short ride into Blackwater wouldn’t bring about any fresh discoveries, seeing as he’d rode over to the town many a time. As Charles peered out at John on horseback, he could see so clearly that he was on the road to Blackwater.
Charles stood up silently, the same as he did most things, and wandered towards the house’s back door. He knew it was wrong to go through John’s drawers, but he needed to know. He ached to know Arthur just a little bit more than he had, perhaps manage to see something John couldn’t. So he went through the drawers, wary of Abigail if she suddenly decided to meander back inside.
With a triumphant exhale, Charles lifted the journal he remembered all too well and pushed it inside his vest, gripping it with the crevice of his arm. Before he left, he wrote quickly on a spare piece of paper an apology letter to John. He closed each drawer carefully, retreating from the house in a devious shade of joy. With a loud whistle, Charles called for Falmouth who scampered over from the barn and stood at his side. Secretively, Charles put Arthur’s journal in his horse’s saddle bag and mounted him. As to avoid suspicion, Charles did not flee the scene. Instead, he rode off slowly in the opposite direction to John.
Towards Owanjila Dam, he told himself. It seemed Falmouth had grown accustomed to riding through Tall Trees, despite previous Skinner Brother ambushes. Charles feared them no more than he feared the pesky Murfree Brood and expected the Skinners would be gone by the time John had truly settled into the ranching lifestyle. He wondered how Arthur would fair with the Skinners, as he had sensed the speck of nervousness and fear Arthur had possessed during their invasion of Beaver Hollow.
He tugged Falmouth’s reins once part way through Owanjila Dam, his hooves trotting loudly on the wooden panels beneath the both of them. Charles threw his reins over the fencing, looping them around the wood before sitting down, legs hanging off the side. He reached up to Falmouth’s saddle bag and took from it the stolen journal. He inhaled, closing his eyes. For just a few seconds, he focused on the sounds around him. The sounds of startled beavers scuttling into the water, the crows overhead cawing, the clopping of a passer-by’s horse as it crossed the bridge.
Once sat comfortably, Charles opened the first page of Arthur’s journal.