both of his eyes are rimmed red by exhaustion. a sickly red incapable of being remedied by rest alone, especially while he's still out running fool's errands for the gang. arthur's more pile of rag and bone these days, but he holds eliza's gaze with as much undivided attention as he can muster in the moment, drinking in the sincerity expressed like mother's milk. from what he can see, despite any evidence of anxiety and grief that's stricken her own fair countenance, it doesn't dull her beauty, not one bit.
somewhere in his gut, arthur knew it was coming, the bold suggestion that they abandon ship ( for the second and final time ) or risk certain death while it all collapses in on them, burying what's left alive. arthur inhales, his chest aching not only of illness, but of heartache. if he knows anyone in the gang, it's eliza, or so he thinks. there's plenty to suggest he knows absolutely nothing about anyone save for micah bell who is openly and unabashedly despicable.
dutch is someone he'd placed on a pedestal ages ago. for decades now, he'd put both his trust and faith in the wrong man, or maybe it's that this man doesn't exist, or maybe he'd never existed to begin with. an elaborate ruse of which sounds ludicrous. all of the ideals he'd championed for dutch. the bullets he'd let fly under the guise of freedom. the dawning realization is like a slow-growing tumor, discovered too little, too late.
but if he were to die on his own terms, and for the right reasons.
' eliza .. ' arthur warns, grimacing under the weight of the unknown.
all of it is just too much to reckon with. too much to unpack and no space within which to do so without disturbing the status quo, but she's already done the unpacking for him, and holding his hand, no less. he covers hers hands with his. ' what i want is for you, john, abigail .. little jack .. to get out while ya' still can, ' he says in a rasped tone, ' but to answer your question .. yes, of course i do. ' trust her, he means. inexplicably, almost desperately.
