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Climbing a mountain isn’t easy.
Running never has been, either. Call it what Dutch would, the truth was a poorly-kept secret: they’d been running for a damn long time, now.
Climbing a mountain while running, now that was hard enough as it was. But every single step led to another breath; a breath that rattled Arthur’s core, made his lungs shake and spasm and wheeze. There were a thousand things on his mind.
They ranged from simple truths such as, “I am dying.” to, “Can we make it?” that quickly turned into, “Can John make it?” and an aggravated “How tall can this damn mountain be?”
But there were other thoughts. The ones he’d been having since he got home from that nightmarish island, Guarma. Those ranged, too; some were thoughts that had been planted inside of him like a seed barely taking root, and some were of his own design.
“You can’t change the past.”
“Decide the type of man you want to be for the time you have left.”
“You’re not a good man, but you’re not all bad, either.”
“Did I do enough?”
“Is there redemption?”
“Is there anything after this?”
“Can I still be saved?”
“Can I do it all over again?”
“Arthur. Arthur.”
He hadn’t realized he’d doubled over, hands on his bent knees, lungs audibly struggling to do even the simple job of taking in oxygen. His eyes had been squeezed shut. Somewhere, far off, there were gunshots. Idly, Arthur wondered who it was this time.
God, if you’re real, let Tilly and the girls make it out alright.
“Stay with me, buddy. Arthur, come on.”
The raspy voice was struggling to pull Arthur out of the clouds and back into his body—a body that had one foot in the sky already. His head slowly lifted, eyes peeling back open and drifting towards John’s scarred face. His eyes were stern, but there were layers to them that only Arthur knew how to read. John was a strong man, a good man, too—stubborn, though. Thick-skulled, occasionally.
He put up a front, for Abigail, for his boy; nothing would ever get between them, that he was this unshakeable, immovable force. And a lot of the time, he was. But beneath all of that, there had always been a small piano chord of fear in his eyes. Fear of failure, of letting them down, of not being able to do enough. Fear, above all else, that they’d get taken out from under his nose.
It was a look reserved for family. A man and a wife, a father and a child. Never had that look been shown his way before.
But now, it was less a piano chord, and more of a symphony playing out right before him. His eyes were wide, they screamed a subtle, unyielding terror. John knew. And Hell, Arthur did too. They both knew they weren’t both making it off this mountain alive.
It was either one of them went, or none of them did. And Arthur refused to have the last one be true, not after all this. His sacrifices can’t have been for nothing. Going against Dutch, choosing where his real loyalties lay, that can’t have been for nothing.
“John…” He began, but he could barely get the first letter out before the younger boy grabbed him by the shoulder so hard, he thought he may bruise if he lived long enough for it to form.
“Save it. Come on, I’m not hearing that shit. We’re going.”
“John.”
“I don’t fucking care, Arthur, you can tell me when we get off this mountain and hit the breeze. Come on.” His hand slips from Arthur’s shoulder to his bicep, giving it a strong pull.
The outlaw’s chest rattled and he wheezed again; tired, bloodshot eyes stared at John. He wondered idly what look he must have on his face. Was it the terror reflected in John’s eyes, or sheer acceptance? He’d had a lot of time to come to terms with his death—longer than he gave the courtesy to anyone else. John had every right to be mad about that, but he wasn’t.
Maybe he wasn’t as subtle as he thought. Maybe they all saw it coming, maybe they all knew before he did.
But maybe Arthur’s known since the moment Thomas Downes spat up blood against his lips. Maybe, in that moment alone, he knew his karmic retribution was coming. Now, he waved a white flag of surrender.
But John was staring at him like he might just throw him off the mountain himself if he gave up here and now. So, despite himself, his feet—when did they get so heavy?—began to move again. Not nearly as fast, he couldn’t even keep up with John, but he was moving. Every step felt like agony on his whole self; his chest most of all. Was this a lung condition or a fucking heart condition? It felt like both; it felt like everything and nothing, all at once.
Sometimes, for brief fleeting moments, the pain went away entirely. He couldn’t feel his body, totally lost touch with it. And it was those moments that scared him most. Was that what eternity was, just hovering outside of yourself, in a body that wasn’t yours anymore? With feet that don’t walk? What about reincarnation? Or rebirth? Or even some Christian Heaven?
Not that he’d ever be going there. The thought was real pretty, but that was all it was.
So again, they climbed. One boot in front of the other. One clumsy foot dragging after its twin, while he keeps his eyes up, up, up, on the back of John’s head. John, paving the way, and Arthur hesitantly lagging behind. How the roles have reversed.
He’ll do just fine, something in him reassured. He’ll be okay.
And so his feet started to slow down again, the constant degradation of his body taking a toll that’s just much too great when he’s already so far gone. The gunshots were softer, now; further out, maybe in another lifetime entirely.
God, another lifetime. What he’d give to do it all over again, to make the right choices. Mary, can you hear me? I was going to come. I swear, I was going to come.
His skin still aches from sun exposure, even now. He’d come back from that island with his entire body covered by a burning wound, and then his heart was brutalized the same way only days later. Now, everything ached, one in the same.
“John.”
Something was different about the way he said his name that time. And he can tell John understood, because he turned, real slowly.
“Arthur.” That tone was mimicked, but there was an edge of desperation. Pleading. “Arthur, we have to go.”
“I…” His head turned, looking behind them. The ground was so far away, all the pinkertons would look like ants from this high. Above them all, one step ahead, even now. But his luck can’t last forever. They all knew that; live by the gun, die by the gun. You can only have so many lucky breaks. “You know I can’t keep on like this.”
“Save. It.” John bit out, grabbing for his arm again. “We just have to—”
Arthur yanked his arm away, his eyes finding a mask of hard resolve to settle on. “You had better listen, boy, I am telling you we can’t keep on.”
“I don’t care what you’re sayin’!” John hissed, “you’re talkin’ crazy. We are going to get out of this—”
“You are going to get out of this.” Arthur’s voice was even, and his resolve had already crumbled and made way for a soft warmth reserved only for those closest to him. “John, you. You, and your lady, and your boy—”
“Arthur Morgan, please—”
“I am sorry,” he whispered. And just like that, it was so quiet that the whistling wind felt deafening. John stared at Arthur’s own immovable object of a body, and the latter watched as John’s shoulders began to slump. As a quiet grieving acceptance washed over him in waves. “I’m sorry, John. It shouldn’t have to be this way.”
“No,” John murmured, “it shouldn’t. It isn’t fair.”
“Sure. Well, life… life ain’t fair.” He brought a hand up, lifting his hat to run a hand through his messy hair. He set it back atop his head, looked behind them once again, and then looked around at the space before them—of which there wasn’t a lot. There was no sound of heavy footfalls, no marching of agents or soldiers or outlaws alike. For this moment, in this here and now, at least, it was just the two of them on a cliffside under a sky of stars.
The quiet settled back between them. John shifted his weight from one foot to the other, while Arthur remained entirely still. Or at least he thought he was still; in reality, he was swaying with the wind like a thin, willowy branch, whistling just as bad. John didn’t comment on it, to which Arthur was grateful.
“... I think I am… just gonna go ‘head and sit on down for a second, yeah?”
“We can still make it.”
“I won’t tell you again, John.” His voice came out much quieter that time. “I need you to go.”
“I can’t just leave you here, you’ve lost your mind.” John’s voice was equally soft, eyes going wider. “You expect me to turn my back and walk away now?”
“Yes.” Arthur whispered. “Please. It would mean a lot to me.”
“Don’t give me that dying man’s wish shit, come on. You’re better than that.”
“John, you have a family waitin’ for you—”
“What the hell are we, then?” John spat, splaying his arms wide and staring at Arthur’s form as he slowly slipped down, sitting with his back to the rocky cliff.
“You’re my brother,” Arthur said firmly, his eyes still on John’s expression. “And in the end, you were all I got. That is why I am tellin’ you to turn tail and get the fuck outta here for the ones you got left. Don’t make Abigail raise that boy alone, he needs a daddy that can steer him away from all of this. You have to be that man, John, you have to.”
“I won’t leave you ‘til I know you’re gone,” came a final whispered ultimatum.
Arthur considered this. He knew he wasn’t far off, the feelings in his legs were beginning to ebb away again. And this time, they stayed gone. “... And then?”
“Then I’ll go. I’ll—tell someone, if I see anyone we trust, where you are. They’ll come back and bury you later. But I promise, I’ll go. I’m just not leaving you here to die alone.” The thought seemed to make John look physically unwell. “You deserve better than that.”
And Arthur did not want to die alone. That much he knew, even if he was the one pushing for it as hard as he was.
“... Okay, Marston. You win.”
John made his way over slowly towards Arthur’s side, and then his back slid against the rocks just as he had. He sits down beside him, looking over at his pale brother’s face. When had he gotten like that? He looked just as bad as he sounded.
Their time was almost up.
“... Y’know, I never expected to go out like this.”
John blinked once. “I don’t think anyone plans on getting tuberculosis.”
“Ain’t what I mean. Well—in a sense.” Arthur’s head tipped back, angling his chin towards the sky of stars. It had shifted from a deep, midnight blue to a slowly lighter almost indigo color. “I just always thought I was gonna go out with a—a bang. Like Sean, or…”
Then he quieted himself. He didn’t want to think about their dead family, and he didn’t want to remind John now of all he’d lost, of all the more he was about to lose.
“Yeah,” is all the younger outlaw said quietly. “I guess I get what you mean.”
“Didn’t think I’d just… go out like a star. Y’know. Dying, fading away slowly until all the light was gone. I thought it’d be different…” He stared up at the sky for a beat longer before echoing, “I just thought it’d be different.”
“You got the luxury of knowing it was comin’, at least.”
“Everyone keeps sayin’ that,” Arthur mumbled.
“Well, it’s true. Sean, Lenny, they didn’t get to know. Maybe they would’a done things differently if they did. … Did you do anything differently once you knew?” And John looked over at his face, scanning for truth in his answer.
“Maybe I did. But I don’t know if I did it ‘cause I knew I was a dyin’ man, or if I did it ‘cause I’d been unhappy with the way we was runnin’ things for a long while before I knew I would bite it.” Arthur let out a sigh, and he gasped before he spoke again like he’d let out all the air in the world through his lungs and there was none left to take in. “Dutch went and lost his damn mind. He ain’t the man I knew—we knew.”
“What do you think Hosea would’ve done?” It was meant to almost be a joke, but it fell flat.
“Probably shoot him himself,” Arthur said with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “No, I don’t know. But he wouldn’t have been happy.”
“I don’t think it would’ve gone this way if Hosea was still here.”
“There may be some truth in that.”
And they were quiet again. John had more he could say, but Arthur was straining to speak, and he didn’t know just how much longer he had left. He didn’t want Arthur to keep fighting just to answer his questions. He didn’t deserve to die alone, but he also deserved to die peacefully. John wouldn’t interrupt that.
“They’re prob’ly on us, too, you know…?” Arthur asked, and then his body was wracked with a cough; a nasty, wretched thing that shook his body and painted his fist red. “Dutch, and Micah, too. They’re gonna come huntin’ for us. For their loose ends.”
“I don’t want those bastards to find you before somebody like Charles can,” John bit out. “I won’t let them find me, neither. The next time they see me, it’ll be at the business end of a barrel.”
“Good man.” And another coughing fit. John couldn’t watch.
So he looked up, instead. The sky was lightening a little more, and from their view here, it looked like the sky had an end in sight. The horizon was a perfect line, like there was an edge of the world you could just walk right off of. The clouds kissed the distance between the ground and space, and everything was beautiful.
Except for them and their situation.
“... Y’know, if I had to pick a place to die…” Arthur rasped out, “this would be pretty high on the list.”
“No kiddn’.” John murmured back. “It’s beautiful.”
“Hell of a mornin’ sun.”
Arthur’s voice was barely above a whisper, and it was more rasp than speech. John looked over at him, and saw his green eyes staring forward. When he turned his head to look back, the sun was rising, and the blue sky broke into a thousand shades of orange and yellow and light.
“... God, that’s really somethin’,” he whispered. “Ain’t it, Arthur?”
There was no reply. So John made good on his promise. He said a murmured prayer beside Arthur’s body, got to his feet, and pressed on.
Somewhere, from the forest, an elk turned his head to watch him go.