After all They’ve Done To Us - Part 2
Disclaimer: I used the word ‘Indian’ to describe a native person, but only to be period-appropriate. I do not mean to offend anyone.
When I’m gone, they’ll just find another monster. They have to.
Dutch’s words echo through John’s troubled mind as he stares at the little homestead at the foot of the hill on which he’s standing. There’s smoke rising from the chimney, a sure sign of life. Someone is in there, cooking, or cleaning, or fixing something - living.
Somehow, even from beyond the grave, Dutch had found a way to be right. Again.
Though it was a ghost, rather than a monster, that Ross and Archer had found.
Arthur Morgan. He’s alive. Found himself a quiet little place in New Hanover, apparently, near Brandywine Drop. You kill him or bring him in, and we let you go. He’s the last one.
No, John thinks as he clicks his tongue, leading his horse to the little-traveled trail winding its way through the tree and down the hill, toward the house. I will be the last. The last of the Van Der Linde gang.
He tries his best to ignore how uncomfortable the thought makes him.
John knows he could simply sneak in during the night, or even charge in right now - as good a shot as Arthur is, John knows he could kill him before he had time to even react. He knows it would be much easier, and that he’d have a much better chance of coming out of this alive - but he can’t bring himself to even entertain the thought. This is Arthur, and Arthur deserves an explanation - before John is forced to kill or capture him.
John emerges from the trees to find himself a few yards away from the house, his heart pounding mercilessly against his ribs. He feels his horse shift restlessly under him as he leads it closer to the house at a slow walk, as if sensing his unease, and he pats its neck lightly.
The house is small, but sturdy; there is a small barn at the back, as well as a paddock, and what seems to be a few apple trees in a field further away. John feels sadness and regret squeeze at his throat as he brings his horse to a stop a few feet away from the house, climbing off his saddle slowly; Arthur had given him everything that he had - and now, John had come to take everything he had built for himself, after a life of toil and violence, from him.
If he knocked, and Arthur opened the door, what should he say? What could he say? There’s no way around it; he’d come here to kill him, and he was ready to. He had to be. For his family.
Be loyal to what matters.
Arthur himself had told him that, years ago, when all had seemed lost. Perhaps - perhaps he would understand. Give up without a fight. Let himself be taken in.
John’s feet are as heavy as lead as he takes his first steps toward the house. His thoughts are a jumbled mess of anger and sorrow, of longing for a peace he thought he had found, but had been ripped away from him.
Good Lord, how did I get here?
Before he knows it, he’s standing at the door, his hand curled into a fist and raised, ready to knock. Every single part of John’s being - every bone, every thought, every instinct - is screaming for him to turn around and leave - but he knows he can’t.
The three loud knocks he lays against the door seem almost deafening in the quiet of the little homestead. The seconds crawl by, excruciatingly slowly, and John realises he still doesn’t know what to say.
“Turn around, Mister. Slowly.”
The voice comes from behind him, firm and undeniably feminine. John obeys, carefully, mindful not to make any sudden movements, until he is standing with his back to the door. The woman standing before him is as tall as him, staring at him with night-black eyes full of suspicion and unspoken threats. Her long, dark hair is loose around her face, and her skin is a few shades darker than his - Indian, John realises.
She has a pistol in her hands, aimed at him, and something tells him that she knows how to use it. He’s not eager to put that to the test - he slowly raises his hands away from his own weapons, showing her his empty palms.
“What do you want?” Her tone is harsh, demanding. The muzzle of the pistol is trained on him, steady and undoubtedly deadly. Had he been anyone else, he might have been afraid.
“Don’t mean you no harm, ma’am,” he says. A lie. “Just lookin’ for a friend. Arthur Morgan.”
He almost feels like he might choke on the name - it’s not one he had expected to say ever again. Something flickers in her eyes, something familiar that makes his heart sink. It’s gone in half a moment, but he’d seen that split-second flash of panic in Abigail’s eyes too many times, over their years of running and hiding, not to know what it meant.
“Arthur?” She arches an eyebrow at him. “Died last year. Drink.”
She’s lying - he knows she is. And yet, he can’t help but almost hope - foolishly, naively - that she is telling the truth, that he is truly dead and buried, for good this time.
He’s not. He’s alive, and I have to kill him.
“Ma’am - ” he starts with a sigh.
John feels himself freeze, and he sees the woman look nervously between him and someone behind him, to the side of the house. She’s still holding her pistol, and her finger is on the trigger. He almost thinks she should pull it.
He turns his head, slowly, and suddenly he’s twelve again, being dragged into camp by Dutch, seeing the moody, sullen teenager Arthur had been then for the first time. Memories flash by in his mind, years of rivalry and hostility - but friendship, as well.
Arthur is almost unchanged from when he’d last seen him, on that mountain, all those years ago - there is grey in his hair and beard, and he looks tired - but also, somehow, more at peace than John had ever seen him. He’s holding a basket of apple in one hand, and the other -
She’s almost the same age as his daughter would have been, had she lived - and she’s holding on so tightly to Arthur’s hand, looking at John with so much fear and distrust, that he almost turns away right then and there - Arthur had found everything that he’d looked for all his life, and John wants nothing more than to leave him be. But he can’t, he can’t, and he doesn’t know what to do.
“An old friend,” Arthur answers calmly. He looks to the woman, nodding reassuringly. “It’s alright.”
“Arthur…” she starts warningly, not lowering her pistol.
“I’ll take care of it,” he replies, and she huffs out a breath before quickly holstering her weapon, staring at John as he slowly lowers his hands.
“Now, you go with your Mama, Sweet Pea,” he lets go of his daughter’s hand, gently nudging her toward the woman. “It’s okay. He’s a friend.”
The woman holds out her hand, and the girl quickly runs by John to grab it, the both of them turning away after the woman shoots John a dark look - if only she’d known how right she was not to trust him.
Arthur comes to stand next to him, placing the basket of apples on the ground next to the door before facing him. He’s silent a moment, slowly looking John over.
“Got old,” he says with half a smile, and despite everything, John can’t help but answer in kind.
“You’re one to talk,” he replies, and Arthur gives a small chuckle, though he’s quick to sober up. The air suddenly seems heavy and thick, and John feels as if he can barely breathe.
“I’m guessin’ this ain’t a social call,” Arthur says, his eyes flicking to John’s revolver. “You wanna talk?”
John nods and opens his mouth to speak, but Arthur holds up his hand, nodding towards the treeline - John turns his head and sees the woman and the girl, sitting in the grass; the little one is playing, carefree and unconcerned, having apparently completely forgotten about the stranger in her home, but the woman is staring at them, making no effort to hide her anger and distrust. John looks back to Arthur when he hears him open the door, stepping into the house and gesturing for him to follow.
It’s👏 what 👏 he 👏 deserves
ellievsbear
pixelskylines
vaporwave
tangentwithtanner
2087
