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hannibalzero · 2 months ago

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Im posting this here to see if I want to work on this fic or not.

Please let me know!

Spotted fawn!

Chathur 🦌🦬

He had to get away. He couldn’t stand to be in that damn camp a second longer. The camp near Blackwater felt like a noose around his neck, tightening with every passing second. The clatter of tin plates, the low murmur of voices, the occasional bark of someone calling for a favor—it all made his skin crawl. They didn’t see him as a man anymore, not really. Just a mule they could hitch to the wagon when things got heavy. A workhorse, there to carry their burdens, haul their troubles, and then fade back into the shadows until someone needed something else.

Arthur Morgan shifted in his saddle, the leather creaking under his weight as the camp shrank in the distance. Maybe it was petty, maybe it was foolish, but he didn’t care. He’d rather stare at the open plains, feel the cold bite of the January wind, than sit there in that pit of silence and expectation another minute. He wasn’t sure if he was angry or just tired.

Hell, he couldn’t even remember the last time anyone talked to him just to talk. Not to ask for a chore, not to bark orders about the next job. Just to talk. Once upon a time, he might’ve called them family. Now? It felt like he was a stranger among them, the outsider who’d overstayed his welcome.

Christ, he was lonely.

The thought hit him harder than he expected, forcing a ragged breath from his lungs. His jaw tightened, but it didn’t stop the truth from sinking in. Arthur Morgan was a lonely man. It sat heavy in his chest, that need for something—anything—more than what he had. He wanted love. He wanted kindness. He wanted someone to look at him like he was worth a damn, someone who didn’t just see the mud on his boots or the blood on his hands.

It wasn’t just the warmth of company he craved, though that was part of it. He wanted to feel wanted. To feel like a man again, not a beast of burden.

And more than anything, he wanted a kiss.

Not the bored, transactional kind in the backroom of a saloon. No, he wanted a kiss that meant something. A kiss from someone that was happy to see him, someone that smiled at him, wanted to hold him close like he was worth a damn. The kind of kiss that left you breathless, that made the world fall away and left you lighter than air. The kind of kiss that stayed with you long after it was over.

His lips twitched at the thought, a faint tingle brushing against his skin, and before he could stop himself, a name surfaced in his mind. Eliza.

That was the last time, wasn’t it? It had to be. The first time he’d really kissed someone, the kind of kiss he still remembered even after all these years. They’d been nineteen, wild and careless and hopelessly in love. Maybe love was pushing it, more like in lust. But Eliza was the only woman who’d ever seen him for who he was under the mask of the enforcer—just Arthur, not a gunman, not an outlaw. That night, they’d shared all their firsts in the space of a few stolen hours, and for once, he’d felt like the world might actually have something to offer him.

But life didn’t work that way, did it? Not for him. Not at all, Arthur tried not to remember her boots swinging in the air and the sound of Colm laughing. Arthur shifted in the saddle, running a gloved hand over his lips as if he could wipe the memory clean. He didn’t want to think about Eliza—not now, not ever. Wanting wasn’t enough. It never was.

The sky above was dull and gray, heavy with clouds that threatened rain or snow, and the air carried a sharpness that gnawed at his exposed skin. It was as if the world itself was mocking him, giving him nothing but cold and emptiness to match what was already inside him. Whiskey snorted beneath him, her ears flicking back as if she could sense his mood. He reached down and gave her neck a rough pat, his gloved hand brushing against her coarse mane.

“At least you don’t expect much from me,” he muttered under his breath.

Whiskey nickered softly in response, the sound almost reassuring. Arthur huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh, if there was any joy left in him.

The horizon stretched endlessly ahead, a flat expanse of open fields and twisted trees, their bare branches clawing at the sky. Maybe if he rode far enough, he’d outrun the weight sitting on his chest. Maybe he’d find some forgotten town, a place where no one knew his name. Or maybe he’d just keep riding until there was nowhere left to go.

Arthur sighed, the sound lost to the wind. For now, it didn’t matter. For now, he just rode.

His loneliness felt sharper than usual, like someone had kicked a beehive inside him, sending old memories swarming up into his head. Was it because he was getting older? Or was it the first signs of spring creeping into the edges of winter? Maybe it was that doe he’d seen yesterday, her spotted fawns trailing behind her. He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know.

Arthur was lost in thought as Whiskey carried him forward. Somewhere.

Honestly, the horse was smarter than he was most days. She seemed to have a way of knowing where to go even when Arthur didn’t. He gave her her head and let her lead, his hands slack on the reins as the landscape passed in a blur.

The image of those spotted fawns kept circling in his mind, refusing to leave him be. At first, it was just a harmless thought: Arthur holding two little deer fawns, their soft muzzles brushing his hands as they licked at him. He almost smiled at the absurdity of it, but then the image began to shift, twisting into something warmer, heavier. The fawns turned into children, small and laughing, their buckskin tunics brushing against his arms as they clung to him. He could almost feel their hands, tiny and trusting, reaching for him. One of them giggled as she kissed his cheek.

Christ. Was he…?

Arthur’s throat tightened, and he straightened in the saddle, his pulse quickening. He shook his head sharply, as if the motion could knock the thought loose. It didn’t. The familiar heaviness settled low in his gut, a restless, prickling tension that felt too warm, too alive in the biting January cold. His gaze dropped to his wrist as his gloved fingers tugged back the edge of his coat sleeve, revealing the simple beaded bracelet looped snugly around his skin. Black and white beads, strung in a precise pattern, their smooth surfaces worn down from years of use.

Arthur stilled, his thumb brushing over the beads as he began to count. Black to white. Black to white. The rhythm was steadying, grounding him in the here and now. He’d done this a thousand times before, in moments of doubt or unease, when the world felt like it was slipping out from under him. The beads were his anchor, his measure of time and self. Hosea had taught him the system when he was barely old enough to ride a horse.

“You’ve got to know your own seasons, son,” Hosea had said, handing him the bracelet like it was some sacred tool. “Your nature don’t make you less of a man, but it’s your job to understand it. To track it. That’s what makes you stronger than the rest.”

Arthur hadn’t understood what Hosea meant back then, not fully, but he’d learned. He’d learned that some men could ignore their bodies, could push through life without thinking much about what they were. But he wasn’t like most men. He couldn’t afford to be. The bracelet helped him keep track—helped him know when the changes in his body were coming, when the heat would burn through him like wildfire.

And as his thumb slid over the beads now, counting each one carefully, he grunted softly. He was out of season. The beads told him what he already knew—or what he should have known. His next heat wasn’t due until late spring. Months away. This shouldn’t have been happening.

And yet, the low thrum in his chest told him otherwise.

Arthur groaned, shifting in the saddle in a futile attempt to get comfortable. But there was no escaping the feeling, that coiled tension building under his skin. It wasn’t sharp or unbearable, not yet, but it was there—persistent and nagging, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. His jaw clenched as he shook his head again, more firmly this time. No. This wasn’t it. It couldn’t be.

He leaned forward, digging through his saddlebags with stiff, gloved fingers. The leather straps creaked under his touch as he searched, his movements growing more frustrated by the second. The tonic. Where the hell was that damn tonic? Dutch made sure Arthur always had plenty of it—cases of the damn stuff, enough to keep him in line for months at a time. Arthur hated the stuff. It tasted like tar, thick and bitter and clinging to his throat long after he swallowed it. But it worked. It kept the worst of it at bay. Kept him useful.

His hand came up empty.

“God damn it,” he muttered, his voice low and rough as he leaned back in the saddle. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, dragging his palm down his face. Of course he was out. He’d meant to stock up when they’d passed through Strawberry ast, but he’d put it off. Or maybe he’d been avoiding it, like he could pretend he didn’t need the stuff anymore if he just ignored it long enough.

It wasn’t heat. It wasn’t. He told himself that again, but the thought wouldn’t settle. It gnawed at him, stubborn and insistent. Maybe it was just the damn spring air creeping into the edges of winter, the faint promise of renewal seeping into his bones. Or maybe it was the doe he’d seen yesterday, her fawns trailing after her, full of life and possibility.

Arthur pulled his coat tighter around him, the rough fabric doing little to keep out the cold. The wind had picked up, slicing through the open plains like a blade, but he still didn’t care enough to notice. His mind was too crowded, too heavy with thoughts he couldn’t shake.

Life. The word echoed in his head, stubborn and relentless. It wasn’t a word he usually gave much thought to, but now it clung to him, refusing to let go.

He wanted a life.

It felt ridiculous, almost laughable. Men like him didn’t get to want things like that. A life wasn’t something you could just pick up at the general store or stumble across in the middle of nowhere. And even if it was, what kind of life would be waiting for a man like him? A man with blood on his hands and sins carved deep into his soul.

Arthur shook his head and glanced down at Whiskey. She plodded forward steadily, her ears twitching at the occasional sound of the world around them. A bird somewhere in the distance, the rustle of brittle grass under her hooves. She wasn’t in any rush, and Arthur wasn’t either.

He sighed, his breath misting in the cold air as his thumb brushed over the beads again. Black to white. Black to white. The bracelet felt heavier today, like it carried more than just its purpose. It was a reminder of what he was, of what he couldn’t run from no matter how far he rode. It was a chain, plain and simple. Hosea had told him it didn’t have to be, but sometimes Arthur wondered if Hosea had been wrong about that.

The ache in his chest flared again, sharp and sudden, and Arthur grimaced, leaning forward in the saddle. He rubbed a hand over his ribs as if that might soothe it, but it only made the feeling worse. It wasn’t the cold, and it wasn’t the wind, and it wasn’t the damn bracelet.

It was loneliness.

Arthur hated to admit it, even to himself. Hell, especially to himself. He’d spent years convincing himself he didn’t need anyone or anything, that he could get by just fine on his own. He was the big bad outlaw, the Van der linde gangs enforcer, the one that gets things done. But now, out here in the middle of nowhere with nothing but Whiskey for company, the truth was harder to ignore.

He wanted more than this.

The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of his lungs. He gritted his teeth, shaking his head again like he could shove the feeling aside. But it didn’t go anywhere. It sat there in his chest, heavy and unrelenting.

He thought of that doe and her fawns again, the way they moved together, the way they belonged to each other in a way Arthur couldn’t begin to understand. He thought of what it must feel like to have something like that, something to call your own. Someone who’d look at him and see more than an outlaw, more than a gunman or a workhorse. Someone who’d see him.

His jaw tightened. Stupid thoughts. Pointless, useless thoughts.

Arthur shifted in the saddle, trying to push the ache down, to bury it deep enough that it couldn’t claw its way back up. The reins hung loose in his hands, and Whiskey kept moving, her steps slow and steady as the horizon stretched endlessly ahead of them.

Maybe it didn’t matter, he thought again. Maybe he didn’t deserve more than this.

But that small, stubborn part of him—the part he could never quite snuff out, no matter how hard he tried—didn’t believe that. That part of him clung to the idea of something better, something worth fighting for, even if it felt like a fool’s dream.

The thought of a life wasn’t much. It wasn’t something he could hold or reach for, not yet. But it was something to wish for. And in the quiet moments, when the noise of the world faded and it was just him and the wind and the empty horizon, wishing felt like the only thing keeping him going.

Arthur tipped his head back, letting his gaze drift to the dull, gray sky. The clouds hung heavy overhead, thick with the threat of snow, but for a moment, he thought he saw a break in them. A sliver of pale light bleeding through, so faint it might’ve just been his imagination.

Still, he let himself believe it.

Whiskey snorted softly, her ears flicking back as if to challenge the silence that lingered in Arthur’s mind. He smiled faintly, the gesture barely tugging at the corners of his mouth, and reached down to give her neck a gentle pat.

“All right, girl,” he muttered, his voice low and rough. “Let’s keep moving.”

The road stretched on ahead of them, cold and barren and endless. The horizon seemed to shift and blur with the rolling gray of the sky, but Arthur didn’t mind. He kept riding, letting Whiskey choose the trail, her steady gait lulling him into the rhythm of the open plains. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the ache still lingered—quiet now, but insistent, like a splinter buried too deep to dig out.

It had been hours, maybe more. Time had a way of slipping from him out here. He let it. He hadn’t been riding with any real destination in mind—just moving, letting the motion of the saddle and the sound of Whiskey’s hooves against the earth keep him company.

Eventually, he pulled back on the reins, bringing Whiskey to a halt. She huffed softly, her breath curling in the crisp air as she shifted beneath him. Arthur reached into his saddlebag, pulling out his worn, tattered map. It unfolded with a familiar crinkle, the creases worn smooth by years of use.

He glanced around, taking in his surroundings. The tall trees stretched high overhead, their bare branches twisting toward the sky like bony fingers. The distant call of elk echoed through the valley, low and mournful, carrying on the wind. Arthur’s brow furrowed for a moment, and then he chuckled softly, patting Whiskey’s neck.

“Big Valley,” he said, the recognition settling in. “West Elizabeth, huh? You know me too well, Whiskey girl.”

Whiskey nickered softly, her ears swiveling back toward him at the sound of her name. Arthur’s grin widened slightly, his fingers brushing over her coarse mane.

“Good girl,” he said, his voice lighter now, a flicker of warmth breaking through the usual gravel. “I see a few carrots and a peppermint in your future. Yeah, you earned it.”

He folded the map carefully, tucking it back into the saddlebag as his gaze swept across the valley. It was quiet here, save for the occasional call of wildlife and the rustle of branches in the breeze. Peaceful. But there was something else tugging at him now, something that made his chest tighten and his skin prickle with a restless energy he couldn’t quite explain.

Shelter. He needed shelter.

No—he needed a home.

The thought struck him hard, almost knocking the wind from his lungs. It wasn’t just the practical need to find a place to stop for the night, to escape the creeping cold that was working its way through his coat. It was deeper than that, sharper. A demand rising from somewhere inside him, clawing at his frayed nerves. The urge to nest, to carve out a place for himself, was overwhelming.

Arthur sniffed the air, his head tilting as his sharp eyes scanned the trees and the terrain beyond them. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for, but his instincts seemed to know. His body moved without thought, his muscles coiled and ready, his senses sharp and alert.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, his voice a quiet rumble as he pulled the reins gently to the left. Whiskey obeyed without hesitation, her steps sure and steady as they moved deeper into the valley.

The air smelled of pine and damp earth, mingling with the faint, distant musk of elk. Arthur’s gaze swept over the landscape, taking in every detail—the slope of the ground, the break in the trees up ahead, the way the shadows fell across the snow-dusted grass. He was looking for something specific, even if he didn’t know what it was yet.

It wasn’t just instinct—it was need.

Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a place to call his own. Camp didn’t count; it never had. Camp was a pit of obligation, a place to be needed but never truly seen. What he wanted now was different. It wasn’t just about finding shelter from the cold or a spot to rest for the night. It was about carving out something real, something solid.

His chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t painful. It was…expectant.

Whiskey snorted softly, her ears flicking forward, and Arthur felt it too. A faint tug, somewhere in the distance, like a thread pulling him toward something just out of reach.

“Here,” he said quietly, the word barely more than a breath.

Arthur urged Whiskey forward, deeper into the valley, letting the pull guide him. He didn’t know what he was chasing, only that it was waiting for him, somewhere ahead.

The valley opened up before him, the dense trees giving way to a clearing that stretched wide and quiet under the pale gray sky. Arthur blinked, almost dazed, as his eyes settled on the sight before him.

A ranch.

Hanging Dog Ranch, to be exact.

Arthur’s chest tightened as he took it in. The place was eerily still, the kind of stillness that carried the weight of death. His sharp gaze swept over the scene, the faint metallic tang of blood hanging in the cold air. It wasn’t just a ranch. Not anymore.

Bodies littered the yard, slumped over fences, sprawled in the dirt, or leaning against the walls of the house. O’Driscolls. Their lifeless forms were twisted in unnatural angles, faces frozen in grimaces of pain. But it wasn’t the bodies themselves that caught Arthur’s attention.

It was the arrows.

Every last one of them had an arrow sticking out of their body—some buried deep in their chests, others snapped off at odd angles. Arthur’s stomach tightened as he slid off Whiskey’s back, his boots crunching against the blood-soaked ground.

Arrows like that didn’t just come from anyone.

He crouched near one of the corpses, his eyes narrowing as he studied the arrow’s fletching. The craftsmanship was clean and sharp, precise in a way that felt deliberate. He recognized the style immediately, and it made something cold twist in his chest.

The Wapiti Tribe.

Arthur straightened slowly, his gaze sweeping across the ranch once more. The Wapiti must’ve done this. He’d heard whispers about the tribe’s growing frustration, the way O’Driscolls had been encroaching on their land, stirring up trouble where there didn’t need to be any. Looks like the bastards had finally pushed too far, and the Wapiti had answered in kind.

Arthur let out a low breath, dragging a hand over his jaw.

“Serves you right,” he muttered under his breath, his voice rough and quiet. There was no pity in his tone, no sympathy for the men who lay dead around him. The O’Driscolls always brought trouble with them, and whatever had happened here, they’d had it coming.

Still, the sight stuck with him. Not because of the blood, or the death, but because of what it meant. The Wapiti were holding their ground, striking back against those who tried to take from them. A part of Arthur respected that. Another part of him wondered what kind of trouble it might stir up next.

His lips twitched faintly, and he shook his head. Whatever it meant, it wasn’t his concern right now.

Because standing here, staring at this broken ranch with its blood-soaked dirt and bullet-scarred walls, all Arthur could think about was one thing.

Home.

The word rang clear in his mind, cutting through everything else.

He stepped further into the yard, his hand brushing over Whiskey’s reins before he let her go. “Stay close, girl,” he murmured, his voice low and calm. She huffed softly, her ears twitching as she followed his movements with her sharp, knowing eyes.

Arthur moved slowly, his boots heavy against the dirt. He could still smell the blood, thick and cloying, but his focus was elsewhere now. Past the bodies, past the violence, he saw the ranch for what it could be.

The barn was big, its doors slightly ajar, the shadow of a Gatling gun visible just inside. The house was large too, its roof mostly intact despite the bullet holes scattered across its exterior. The place even had a latrine out back, though it was clear the setup needed work—a water boiler, maybe some pipes.

Arthur could feel it now, thrumming just beneath his skin. Energy. Purpose. His heart raced in his chest, his breath coming faster as the possibilities began to unfold in his mind. He felt like he had chewed through four packs of cocaine gum, he never felt more raring to go in his damn life.

The ranch wasn’t perfect. Hell, it wasn’t even livable right now, not with the blood and the bodies and the damage. But it was something. It was far enough from civilization to give him the quiet he needed, but close enough to be practical if trouble came knocking.

It was…his.

Arthur ran a hand over his face, his gloved fingers brushing against the stubble on his jaw. He’d been running for so long, always moving, always chasing something he couldn’t name. But standing here now, in the middle of this battered, broken ranch, he felt the pull of something real. Something solid.

He could make this work.

Arthur turned back toward Whiskey, who was standing near the edge of the yard, her head raised and ears alert. She watched him intently, her breath curling in the cold air.

“Well, girl,” he said, his voice quieter now, but steady. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a project.”

She nickered softly, as if in agreement, and Arthur felt a faint, tired smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

There was so much to do. Cleaning up the bodies, patching up the barn, fixing the holes in the walls. The ranch was in shambles, a carcass of what it might’ve been, and Arthur could feel the weight of it pressing on him already. It’d take days, maybe weeks of hard work to drag it back from the brink. The kind of work most men would balk at.

But for the first time in a long time, Arthur didn’t mind.

He stepped toward the barn first, his boots crunching against the frosted ground. The familiar weight of his revolver at his hip gave him a kind of comfort as his fingers brushed over the worn grip. The place needed clearing out—both the bloodied remnants of the past and whatever else might’ve taken root in the quiet aftermath. But Arthur didn’t hesitate.

For once, he wasn’t just running.

He was building something.

The barn loomed large and dark against the gray sky, its doors slightly ajar. Arthur reached out to push one open, the heavy wood groaning in protest as it swung wide. The cold air followed him inside, but the space itself was still and stale, carrying the faint scent of hay and rot.

His sharp gaze swept the interior, his instincts on edge even though the Wapiti’s work had likely left no stone unturned. He muttered under his breath, the words lost in the stillness, and stepped further inside. The shadows shifted as the light from the open door stretched across the dirt floor, revealing everything the barn held—and everything it didn’t.

Damn, the Wapiti didn’t miss. The blood on the ground and the broken tools scattered near the walls told a story of violence, swift and efficient. Arthur spotted a simple wagon in one corner, its iron frame still intact and the wooden boards sturdy enough. It had the hooks for a pair of horses, and Arthur figured that was how the O’Driscolls had hauled in the Gatling gun now sitting just outside.

The Gatling gun glinted faintly in the daylight spilling through the barn doors, its polished steel an almost comical contrast to the grime and chaos around it. Arthur’s lips twitched into something that might’ve been a smirk. He wouldn’t mind trying that thing out one of these days—there were enough men in his life who deserved to be on the business end of it.

But not now.

Dirty work came first.

Arthur leaned the shovel and lantern against the wall, the metal clinking softly as he took a long look at the space around him. A ditch. He’d need to dig one—deep and wide enough to handle the bodies out front. That wasn’t the kind of work anyone enjoyed, but Arthur didn’t flinch at the thought of it. He was no stranger to graves, after all.

His gaze flicked to the wagon again, and an idea tugged at the corner of his mind. Maybe he could hook Whiskey to the plow after clearing the barn, start tilling the ground for a garden while he worked on restoring the place. Some vegetables, maybe a few hardy crops. And the bodies… well, even the dead could serve a purpose out here. They’d make fine fertilizer if nothing else.

The thought twisted something in his gut, but he didn’t dwell on it. Morbid or not, it was practical. He let out a rough huff of breath, shaking his head. “Goddamn O’Driscolls,” he muttered. “Good for somethin’, at least.”

Arthur picked up the shovel again, its weight familiar in his hands, and stepped outside. The cold bit at his face, but he didn’t bother pulling his scarf higher. The work would warm him soon enough.

The yard was still, the bodies lying where they’d fallen, their blood soaking into the thawing ground. Arthur stood there for a moment, the shovel in one hand and the lantern swinging lightly in the other. He let his gaze wander over the broken fence, the bullet-riddled walls of the house, the way the barn cast long shadows over the mess of it all.

And yet, he didn’t feel overwhelmed.

This place wasn’t a ruin. Not to him. It was the beginning.

He walked toward the far end of the yard, where the ground sloped slightly downward, a natural low point that would serve well enough for what he had in mind. The shovel dug into the thawing earth with a satisfying crunch, the sound breaking the heavy silence of the valley. Arthur set a steady rhythm, working the soil loose with practiced efficiency.

His breath came in clouds, small puffs of white against the gray afternoon, and before long, a faint sweat began to bead beneath his coat. He paused to shrug it off, tossing it over the nearest fence post before wiping his forehead with the back of his glove. The cold air prickled against his skin, but it felt good in its own way—bracing.

He hummed softly under his breath as he worked, an old song he couldn’t quite remember the words to. It filled the quiet, its low, gravelly tune mingling with the scrape of the shovel and the occasional creak of Whiskey’s tack as she shifted nearby. The sound wasn’t for anyone but himself, but it steadied him, kept his thoughts from wandering too far into the dark corners of his mind.

The ditch grew steadily, a dark scar against the pale ground. Arthur worked until the ache in his arms became a familiar thrum, until the frost gave way to the dark, rich soil beneath. It wasn’t perfect yet, but it didn’t need to be. Not today.

Leaning on the shovel for a moment, Arthur caught his breath, his chest rising and falling in time with the slow plumes of air around him. His eyes drifted back toward the ranch house, its walls still scarred but standing, stubborn and unyielding.

This place had survived, in its own way. And maybe, just maybe, it could help him do the same.

“ get to it,” Arthur muttered, straightening with a quiet grunt. His body ached, muscles tight from days of relentless work, but he barely noticed it now. He rolled his shoulders, grabbed the lantern, and headed back toward the barn to gather what tools he’d need next.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t cleaning up someone else’s mess.

This mess was his.

His land. His home. Where his babies would be born and raised.

And he’d make it something worth keeping.

He fell into a steady rhythm, the kind of back-breaking work that might’ve sent most men running. But for Arthur, it felt… right. Familiar, even. Hard labor had always been a kind of comfort to him, a way to quiet the noise in his head. But this was different. This wasn’t just work—it was purpose.

He crouched beside another O’Driscoll corpse, his fingers steady as he gripped the arrow lodged deep in the man’s chest. The shaft slid free with a wet sound, the blood-stained fletching catching the light of his lantern. Arthur turned it in his hand, inspecting the craftsmanship with a critical eye. The arrow was sturdy, its tip sharp and precise—Wapiti work, no doubt.

“Good condition,” he muttered to himself, tossing it into the growing pile in the bucket at his side. No sense wasting good arrows, not out here.

The body landed in the ditch with a dull thud as Arthur heaved it over the edge. His breath misted in the cold air, but his body was warm, his skin flushed with the unnatural heat that had been gnawing at him for days now. He paused, his chest rising and falling as he straightened, the lantern casting flickering shadows across the yard.

He should’ve felt disgusted—tossing corpses like sacks of grain, the stench of death hanging thick in the air. But all Arthur could think about was the future. This ditch, this ugly scar in the dirt, would be the start of something new. The bodies would rot, sure, but they’d feed the soil. And the soil would feed his garden.

A soft rumble stirred in his chest—something that felt dangerously close to satisfaction.

Arthur knelt beside the next body, his movements automatic now. Pluck the arrow. Toss it in the bucket. Drag the corpse. Repeat. It was almost meditative, the rhythm of it steadying the restless energy that had been driving him to the edge.

The smell of pine and damp earth mingled with the sharp metallic tang of blood, filling his lungs as he worked. The wind picked up, cutting through his sweat-dampened shirt, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. His body refused to let him, the heat thrumming in his veins like a second heartbeat, urging him forward.

By the time he’d reached the last body, the bucket of arrows was nearly full. He crouched down, his fingers brushing the splintered wood of a broken shaft, and a strange thought flitted through his mind. Wapiti arrows… Strong, sharp. Made to last. Built with care.

Built for survival.

Arthur sighed, tossing the broken arrow aside before gripping the corpse by its boots and dragging it toward the ditch. His muscles burned, his shoulders screaming in protest, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on.

When the body finally hit the edge of the ditch, Arthur let it roll in with a grunt, wiping the back of his hand across his brow. The faint orange glow of the lantern caught on the blood-streaked ground, and for a moment, the yard looked like a battlefield.

Maybe it still was.

Arthur stared down into the ditch, his chest heaving as his breath fogged in the cold air. The silence pressed in around him, heavy and unrelenting, broken only by the distant rustle of bare branches in the wind.

But it didn’t feel empty. Not anymore.

Arthur rested the shovel against his shoulder, his gaze drifting toward the barn. His barn. His land. The ache in his chest flared again, sharp and insistent, but this time it wasn’t unbearable.

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #charthur #charles smith #omegaverse #mpreg #fanfics #wips #my writings #ao3

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