Red Dead Redemption 2 Pc Too Dark
Jeana Rodia
1. Oh, here we go2. Deal with the Devil3. Take you up and bring you down4. Let you down5. Decisions6. We go towards the west7. The West8. Into the Hills9. The Telegram10. We return11. May I stand unshaken12. As morning comes
Arthur knows he's dying, can feel the unstoppable pull of it, feels the spirit appear behind him to take him along. And yet, he finds he does not want to die. There is so much that went wrong, so much he regrets and he wishes, with all his being, he could change it. Could at least ensure those that managed to get away really make it out alive.
This work is largely inspired by my thoroughly shattered heart, John building that farm in the epilogue and @radiojamming's absolutely gorgeous fic "Waves Wash Over" (it's the best, read it, DJ is so talented and they write this so, so amazingly well - they also didn't mind me writing something similar) This fic is also being written while I listen to "Dance with Darkness" by Skrizzly Adams, in case anyone wonders about the wonky chapter names.
Things you can expect in this fic:
- Spelling errors
- Shoulder pats. Like, a lot of them.
- A lot of introspective thoughts
- Arthur being a good person
- Me putting a whole shit ton of interactions between characters in there, on that note, Kieran deserved better.
He feels like dreaming and falling while lying still on the ground. For a moment, Arthur thinks he can still feel the ice cold of the mountain stone leeching into his skin, the burn of his lungs, ready to cough up more blood, mingled with the throb of his injuries and how his body refuses to take one more breath.
Arthur thinks death should be peace and quiet, maybe seeing loved faces again, those he couldn't save, those who died before him, those he misses dearly. Sister Calderon helped him lose his apprehension and he thinks that he should feel ready for it. He's known death was coming for a while now after all.
Instead of peace though, something different than the illness burns in his lungs and squeezes his heart to the point of aching. Regret. Not only for the life he led, but for all the things he couldn't change, for not knowing if this sacrifice is going to be enough. Did he die too early and John couldn't run fast enough? Micah got away, Dutch is alive and well and he doesn't trust either of them. Not with those left he cares about. Not with anything, really.
So with death already pulling him down, painless and as unstoppably steady as the turning of the world, his consciousness barely on the verge of this pain filled life, his sight catches the tinniest glimpse of the sun about to throw beautiful, golden rays across the mountain top. Arthur does not want to die. He wants to live, not for himself, but for the others.
Something brushes his cheek, so achingly familiar in a way only his own heartbeat and the sensation of his horse's gentle nose on his palm are. It feels like he knows what or who stands behind him and that it's here to guide him somewhere else, far away from here. The touch feels soft and warm, like the gentle morning sun he knows is about to spill across the mountain. He longs to see it, longs to see it as much as he wants to see everyone else, a chocking, burning longing that seems to spread through him, filling everything he is until it feels like it's going to be the only reason his heart might start beating again.
Another chance, he finds himself thinking, begging, really, and he doesn't know who he asks. He never believed in a conventional god, not truly. Maybe he's begging himself, maybe whatever deity is out there after all, maybe time itself or maybe the gentle caress at his cheek, which feels like it has come to collect him. Let me save them, then come for me. Just let me save them.
The touch at his cheek seems to pause and Arthur can't look at the stag he knows stands there, frozen as he is in this moment of time, his eyes on the dark mountainside, trying to hold on just that extra second to see the sun one more time.
One chance, the spirit seems to whisper, satin soft and as light as the air. Arthur can hear sadness and hope in that soundless voice, he can hear tomorrow and yesterday, gentle winds and warm days, sprawling grass lands and lush forests. Make the most of it.
The touch slowly pulls away and Arthur suddenly feels like he's pulled along with it, his body tilting backwards and briefly, he catches a glimpse of the stag, meets a gaze that's both old as time and new, bright in a way all innocent things are. A gaze that's both thoughtful and quietly hopeful, like it's taken a wager on Arthur or maybe, like it knows something he doesn't and waits for what will happen next.
Then it feels like he tilts further back, a mix of a falling where the mountain should have been, his eyes closing of their own volition and the whole world changing its axis into something new. Somewhere behind him, he knows the sun is rising, golden and strong, over a bloodied mountaintop.
Arthur awakens with a rasping gasp, so deep and strong it hurts, scrapes through his throat and aches in his lungs. For a moment, his limbs feel heavy and too uncoordinated and he fights to sit upright and maybe, it feels like he fights his body, his consciousness, out of something else as well.
That dark mountainside is branded into his mind, his hand coming up to clutch at his chest, as he sucks unhindered breaths into his lungs, feels the way they expand without pain, feels the way his heartbeat is steady, feels the strength in his own body, which had left him in larger and larger spades over the last days and weeks of his life.
Staring ahead, unseeing for a moment, he vividly remembers everything else, a last echo of the stag's gaze, a whisper of its soundless voice caught in the back of his mind. One chance. He has one chance.
His gaze snaps up and he stares at Hosea, who has stopped beside his wagon, looking slightly concerned with that calming, half hidden gentleness he always had for him, no matter what Arthur ended up doing, no matter what their life led to, no matter who he became. Hosea has always been there for him, no matter for what. Always the one to keep them safe when Dutch didn't. Arthur sees it now, maybe clearly for the first time in his life. Hosea, unwaveringly loyal and so kind and caring, always watching out for all of them, no matter their deeds.
With a sudden, desperate realization, Arthur thinks that he'd do anything to keep him alive. To see him happy and content, out of this life of running and stealing and murdering in order to survive. To see Hosea settled and with a happy, joyful gleam always present in his eyes instead of a worried gaze that sweeps over the camp regularly like he has to ensure they're all still here and at least relatively fine.
"Are you alright, my boy? You look like you're seeing a ghost," Hosea asks, half jokes, keeping his voice quiet and a part of Arthur notices that it's early in the morning, only a few other people awake at this time, most of them still asleep. After a second, Hosea offers his own coffee, eyes kind and understanding in a way that has Arthur's chest tighten.
He accepts the coffee and realizes his hands are shaking. Briefly, he wants nothing more than to get up and hug Hosea, to feel that he's real. That he's really alive again, that Arthur is experiencing reality as well, that he truly has him back, that he really has this second chance. A strange dream like fog seems to settle in the back of his mind, offering up memories of his death, of coughing up blood, of watching people fall and never getting up again, of Dutch's gaze in the end - he shies away from it.
A second chance, he thinks and feels like laughing, though not out of humor and he grips the tin mug a bit tighter than necessary, trying to breathe through the emotions churning up his inside. Would you look at that.
"I'm alright." He ends up rasping out after taking a deep breath. Hosea gives him a look that lets Arthur know he knows it's a load of horseshit, but Hosea has the kindness not to mention it. He always had that understanding for them, when to ask again and when to drop it.
Instead of prying, Hosea shifts his weight to stand comfortably, like he knows Arthur doesn't want him to go and Arthur, for a brief moment, feels his throat tighten with something that could be the beginning of tears he had never allowed himself to spill. He takes a quick sip of the coffee, ignoring how it scalds his tongue and drags his gaze away from Hosea - alive and well, no gunshot, and dear god, he'll never forget the sight of him falling to the ground, face twisted up in pain - to look at the camp.
A sudden thought jolts him, hard enough that he jumps to his feet, startling Hosea, who still manages to grab his arm and stop Arthur from stumbling either back to his cot or falling face first to the ground. Half the coffee sloshes out of the mug and Arthur feels it burn his fingers as he's kept from going down. His heart is suddenly racing and something like panic slices through his limbs.
"Oh, yes, Dutch wanted you to speak to him." Hosea says, and after a look, gently pats his arm before slowly letting go. Arthur doesn't miss how he stands a step closer now though, as if he's worried Arthur might trip over his own feet or something. Granted, right now, he does not feel steady, but at hearing Hosea's words his racing heart slows back down, his knees briefly weakening.
He hasn't messed that up yet, hasn't messed himself up yet. Arthur sags a bit in relief and now Hosea looks really, truly concerned, gently taking the mug from him and reaching out with the other hand to inspect Arthur's burned fingers. Arthur just takes a deep breath and focuses on Hosea's gentle hum, allows his hand to be turned this and that way, before Hosea deems it not that bad.
"Are you sure you're alright?" He asks, voice pitched low and Arthur is about to answer when he sees Kieran from the corner of his eye. The kid is walking free, already up and taking care of the horses.
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