#irinap25i

[dustandthought]

Did Charles commit suicide?

What if he didn’t go north... What if he left for good? (A soul-crushing headcanon about Charles Smith)

What if Charles took his own life? Yes, yes, just like that — what if he left, not north, but FOR GOOD. I keep thinking about this more and more. Because so much about him screams — “I can’t do this anymore.”

Everyone says: he went to Canada. Oh sure, sure. But maybe it’s time to stop repeating that comforting bedtime story. Canada was mentioned once, barely, like a breath. But in another dialogue — he says he wants to go to INDOCHINA. Can you imagine? Indochina! Where is that, and where’s Canada, and where is he? He’s lost. He’s torn. He doesn’t know where to go. Because he feels at home NOWHERE. And all of this — it’s not a plan. It’s emptiness. It’s pain wrapped in scraps of fantasy.

And when he tells John: “What does your family need an old gunslinger for?” — that’s NOT A JOKE. That’s a scream. A plea. A wound masked as a smile. Because he’s the outsider among friends. He’s the extra. He’s just... there. But he’s not part of it. And he knows that. Feels it in his bones. In his heart.

He doesn’t even sleep in the house. Doesn’t sleep on the property. Wanders into the woods. Into the dark. Into solitude. Some would say — it’s just habit, right? He’s used to the wild. Used to isolation. Bullshit. It’s not habit. It’s escape. Because being close — hurts. Watching Abigail, watching John, watching their child — it’s like a blade across the soul. Their dream came true. And him? Who is he? He’s — no one. Once, he was an outcast among outcasts. Now he’s just... the only one left. Alone among the joyful.

And the doubts he voices to John — “Will this life be enough for you?” — that’s not about John. That’s about himself. He’s asking himself. He doesn’t believe happiness is possible for him. That he deserves it. That he’s even capable of feeling something other than this tight, choking loneliness.

And that talk about going north, starting a family, finding a woman... I DON’T BELIEVE IT. NOT A SINGLE WORD. It sounds like a script. A rehearsed line. A mask. A way to say something so they’ll stop asking. He has no plan. No place. No direction. He says it himself. “I don’t know where.”

Not Canada. Not Wapiti. He could’ve gone back there a hundred times. In eight years. But he didn’t. Because he never saw it as home. It was something lost, something nostalgic — not a place he was needed.

And just finding a woman? Really? This is Charles. A man who lets NO ONE in. He’s built like a fortress. In his mind. In his soul. In his silence. And if he lets someone in — it’s forever. And if he doesn’t — no one gets close. This isn’t about “settling down.” This is about finding a soul that moves him. And those are rare. Maybe one. Maybe none.

He says: “These last eight years, I’ve come to accept the things I can’t change.” Is that supposed to be hope? It’s not acceptance. It’s surrender. That’s not light at the end of the tunnel — it’s the tunnel closing in. It’s numbness. It’s emptiness.

And John, dear John… tells him: “You’re the strongest man I know.” I HATE THAT PHRASE. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT HIM. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT ME. It’s NOT strength. It’s survival. It’s when life beats you so hard, all you learn is not to fall. It’s not a choice. It’s endurance. He’s not strong. He’s exhausted. He’s shattered. He’s lonely, he’s silent, and he’s so, so tired.

Even if he met “the one” — would she love him? The real him? The broken one? The quiet one? The distant one? Or would she fall for the mask — for the “I’ve made peace with the past” lie? And if she never sees the real Charles — how could he ever be happy with her? He doesn’t do halfway. Not him.

Abigail and John are different. She knew his pain. All of it. His monsters. His sorrow. She accepted it. Who would accept Charles? Who even knows who he became?

And in that last ride... he says: “I’m heading north.” Turns down Sadie’s offer to work together. Says it’s time to move on. But what if he wasn’t moving forward. What if he was moving toward the end.

(Another powerful and unwavering argument for me: we all remember how Charles and John ride out to save Uncle in the epilogue — and how Charles, with a chilling steadiness, says that if the uncle’s wounds are too severe, the only mercy left would be to help him cross over. He speaks of killing — not driven by hatred, not poisoned by cruelty — but as a final act of love, a broken, desperate kindness to release a soul from agony. And I ask: was it only uncle’s suffering Charles wished to end? Or was he, too, reaching for a way to quiet his own howling grief? I believe he was. I believe he desperately was.)

What if that was his way of saying goodbye. Softly. Quietly. Not “farewell.” Just — gone. So they could keep living, believing he’s somewhere out there. Alive. Just... far. But in truth — he had already made peace. He had written his ending.

Not to the north. Not to Wapiti. Not to a woman. But to the place where nothing hurts anymore.

And if that’s what happened... if he really left...

...maybe, finally, he found peace.

[dustandthought]

Charles and Sadie.

“You remind me of the man I used to be.”

Charles and Sadie. Why he was kind to her, but kept his distance. There’s a theory in psychology that says we’re drawn to those who reflect parts of ourselves—consciously or not. Sometimes it’s clear, sometimes it’s distorted, but we recognize something familiar. It’s an attempt to understand our own inner world through another’s pain. And if you’ve ever looked at someone and thought, “You’re like me, only earlier”—you’ll understand this.

Charles was never romantically interested in Sadie. But in her, he saw echoes of himself. Unshaped. Untamed. Pain turned into rage. 🍂 Impulsiveness. Revenge. Loyalty. Devotion to one love. These traits define them both.

The difference is, Charles faced his trauma much earlier. He didn’t become calm and centered by default. He had to earn that balance—through blood, through fire, through loss. 🍁 I am certain he killed more than a few people who simply happened to be in the wrong place during the storm of his grief.

He slaughtered poachers not only for the buffalo, but in memory of his people. Of his mother. That was never just justice—it was fury. 🌾

And here’s the thing: the only person who ever loved Charles was his mother. A woman. And he had no father figure. This, psychologically, builds a very particular attachment style. He wouldn’t seek dominance in a relationship. Subconsciously, he would always look for a trace of that lost maternal care. A woman he could protect physically, but who would protect his soul with warmth and steady love. 🌿 He lost that too early, and never found it again.

Sadie wasn’t that woman. She wasn’t a mother figure. She was a reflection. A younger brother, if anything. The Charles that once was—wild, reckless, eyes burning with vengeance. 🍃 And while he respected her deeply, admired her strength, she wasn’t someone he wanted to let in. She reminded him of himself, not of what he needed.

But Sadie... I think she liked him. Not in a romantic, dreamy way—but he intrigued her. She mentions him to John, lightly, but there’s something there. And her offer—inviting Charles to work with her after the epilogue—it wasn’t just casual. 🌸

Sadie, you knew that wasn’t his path. You knew before you asked. So why did you ask? Was it a test? A quiet hope that, maybe, if you got close, something could grow?

She saw his wounds and recognized her own. That’s what drew her in. 🍂 He would understand her in a way others couldn’t. He would understand why she doesn’t bake cherry pies and wear flowers in her hair. Because he knows. But any bond between them would never be about passion or love. It would be about understanding. About having a place where you don’t have to explain the ache.

Friendship, maybe. Something more, unlikely.

And Charles made the right choice when he walked away. 🌾 He’s not the kind of man to try and see “what happens.” He knows.

Now about Sadie. Honestly, I don’t see anyone beside her—not for a long time. Jack died while still perfect in her eyes. He never had time to disappoint her. He will always be a symbol of something pure and untouchable. 🍁 And psychologically, when love is frozen in that idealized state—no real man can ever measure up.

No one will ever be “Jack enough.” They’ll all fall short.

So yes, I believe her path lies in solitude. 🍃 Not forever, perhaps. But at least for the years it will take her to let go. To mourn him truly. To stop living for vengeance.

Because sometimes, two wounded people don’t heal each other. They just look at each other and see scars they know too well. 🌿

[dustandthought]

Why He’s Itching (and It’s Not the Mosquitos)

Charles Smith and Sex: Observations & Conclusions(yeah, I’m writing this and yeah, you’re reading it) 🫠 AAAAA!!!!

1. Orientation.I’m not here to start a war. I know there are people with different headcanons and I respect that. But in my personal interpretation? It’s women. You’re welcome to your own opinion, just don’t throw dynamite in the comments. ☺️

2. Testosterone levels: through the goddamn roof.Remember when he straight up YEETED a chair in the saloon? That wasn’t just rage. That was raw, boiling testosterone. And guess what triggered it? Arthur cockblocking his date with a prostitute. That man needs a release — it’s either sex or violence. Choose your fighter. 🤩

3. The ball-scratching epidemic.He’s constantly adjusting himself in camp. CONSTANTLY. Yeah, lots of men do it, but Charles? It's obsessive. My theory? Morning wood. Uncontrollable. He’s just trying to discreetly fix the problem. Also—what’s the first thing he does when he wakes up? Goes to pee. Why? Erection. Science, babe.😏

4. He likes whores.Not because he’s emotionally broken. Because he needs them. Look at the way he watches Karen by the fire. Practically drooling. I’m willing to bet they hooked up once or twice. No strings. No names. Just a good ol' stress dump. Karen’s into Sean, sure — but she’d still bang Charles. (Just not Micah. Never Micah.) 🤪🤔

5. High. Drive. Like, scary high.Morning? Ready. Night? Still ready. That exact window of time where he scratches himself in camp? Yeah. That’s when the urge hits. Man’s got needs, and no outlet. Dangerous combo. 😚😍

6. He’d watch you bathe.And you’d never know. Man’s a stealth expert — he could track a deer through fog. You think you’re alone at the river? You’re not. Also, he sniffs things. Not in a gross way — he just loves scents. Ever notice how he sniffs his cigarettes and rolls his eyes back like he's ascending? Yeah. Now imagine him picking up your shirt when you're gone, just to get a whiff. Creepy? A little. Hot? Also a little. 💋💕💛

7. Not very experienced.Don’t get it twisted — he’s had sex. But it’s been samey, soulless, and mostly with working girls. Lots of quantity, low on quality. He wants something real. He just doesn’t know how to get there yet. But he’s open to learning — very open. You just gotta take the lead. 🫠🫠🫠

8. Fast finisher.Like, real fast. You touch him the right way and it’s over. Man’s got no self-control. But hey — enthusiasm counts for something, right? 🤠❣️

In conclusion: He’s primal, he’s horny, he’s emotionally constipated. A perfect storm of repressed lust and pent-up tenderness. God help the person who actually decides to love him. 💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥

[dustandthought]

Charles is in your house

Let's imagine!

You found yourself in the Wild West. Charles is in trouble—on the verge of life and death. The only way to save him is to take him into your home. Your modern home, regardless of the country. He agrees, having nowhere else to go: his strength is drained, the bitter cold rages outside, and the lawmen are already on his trail. Only in your home can he hide and recover.

You rush inside. Exhausted and starving, Charles nearly collapses. His eyes show fatigue, distrust, and a faint glimmer of hope—weak, almost extinguished, yet still flickering. There is no ready-made food at home, but while you prepare something quick, you offer him a shower. He grimaces—not out of reluctance, but rather surprise. It’s unfamiliar to him; he expected a basin, maybe a bathtub, but instead, there’s a modern showerhead and mysterious bottles labeled "shampoo." He runs his fingers over the smooth surface, as if testing its reality. You explain how everything works and ask him to undress so you can wash his clothes.

He refuses, not wanting to trouble you, but you laugh and show him the washing machine, explaining that hardly anyone washes clothes by hand anymore. He scoffs, shakes his head, but doesn’t argue. Embarrassed, he agrees.

While the machine does its job, you boil water for instant noodles and head to the room to prepare his sleeping place. The air still carries traces of his road-worn scent, now mixed with the freshness of cleanliness. On the nightstand, beneath a magazine, you casually leave a photo of yourself—partially unclothed. It has been there for a month… but now, it feels particularly well-placed.

Charles emerges from the shower, wrapped in a towel. Droplets still slide down his hair, and his body appears unusually relaxed. You hand him clean clothes—left behind by a relative who visited a year ago and never returned for them. The fabric is oddly soft to him, lacking the rough texture of his usual wool. He hesitates but accepts them gratefully.

At dinner, he cautiously takes a bite of the noodles, as if expecting a trick. But by the second spoonful, he devours them with an appetite, as if it’s the most delicious thing he has ever eaten. He notices your gaze, looks up… and sees your smile. In that moment, he is more grateful to you than ever, because he has nothing to compare your food to—only what he made himself or what Pearson used to prepare. He doesn’t say the words aloud, but his eyes convey everything.

When it’s time to sleep, Charles hesitates again—he’d rather sleep in the barn, so as not to inconvenience you. But the barn is already full, and you insist he stays inside. He doesn’t argue, though it’s clear he’s uneasy about it. You explain that you’ll be in the next room and tell him to call you if he needs anything.

Night falls. He can’t sleep. The mattress is too soft, the thoughts are too heavy. Fear, despair, uncertainty. His eyelids grow heavy, yet his mind remains awake. His gaze drifts to the magazine on the nightstand. He picks it up, lazily flipping through the pages… and suddenly, he sees your photo. He blinks sharply, as if making sure he isn’t imagining it. Damn it… It’s been so long since he’s been with a woman.

Thirst forces him to get up. He quietly makes his way to the kitchen, trying not to make a sound. Under the moonlight, he sees you. You are silently sipping tea. The warm steam rises from the cup, and the light reflects in your eyes.

"I… umm…" he mumbles awkwardly.

You stand up, smirking, and say you understand how hard it is to fall asleep in a new place. There’s no teasing in your voice, only quiet confidence. You step closer and, before he can say anything, whisper, "You’re so beautiful…"

He remains silent, stunned. And then, you take a bold step—a quick, fleeting kiss. You pull back, waiting for his reaction. It doesn’t take long—at first, his eyes are filled with surprise, but then, his hand reaches for your waist. He hesitates, but then he gives in… And the next kiss marks the beginning of an unforgettable night.