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DEATH…
Andrew Milton
The pistol clicked, as Milton thumbed back the hammer, and he saw Morgan stiffen. Smirking, Milton remained leaning in the doorway, keeping his gun trained on the outlaw.
Mister Arthur Morgan… who once again had come blazing in, all violence and valor, killing so many to save just a few - Milton’s many for his few, a couple of women no less. Morgan’s dangerous competency, and radical loyalty was something Milton had grown to appreciate, if not actually respect. Unlike Van der Linde, who spun gossamer words and pretty deceptions, Morgan actually lived his beliefs, carrying them though the dark, gritty realities of the world, and never letting go. Dutch talked the talk, but it was his man Morgan, who walked the walk.
“Calm down, Mr. Morgan,” Milton drawled, and watched as Morgan slowly stood up, lifting his hands from where he’d be trying to free Roberts, his whole body shaking from a deep rasping cough. Milton had heard the rumors that Morgan was in the last throws of a disease, but he hadn’t quite believed it until now.
“That’s quite a cough,” Milton said, almost regretful. There was a real shame in losing a worthy opponent to something as random, and unfeeling as an illness. How much better it would have been to see Morgan’s end come by the hand of justice, through the unflinching will of law and order, and the society he’d continuously defied.
“Sure,” Morgan said, slowly turning, keeping his hands up. He looked exhausted, worn out, but it only served to make his arrogance even more biting, a battered spirit, beyond all care or pain, but still fighting, “Tuberculosis,” he informed Milton, and actually grinned, his eyes morbid, hateful, as he met Milton’s gaze. “I’ll be dead soon, and you with me, Mr. Milton.”
“You’ll be dead, sure,” Milton said, having to raise his voice a little to speak over another coughing fit from the outlaw. He shook his head at the pathetic threat, given in defiance, but already choked by weakness and defeat, “But I’m going to be just fine. We offered you a deal, Mr. Morgan,” he continued, as Morgan coughed and gasped before him, “You should have taken it.”
Nearly bent over, Morgan spat blood, and sucked in a shallow breath, lifting his eyes, sweaty hair falling over his brow, “I’m a fool, Mr. Milton,” he agreed, but his stubborn glare remained, as true as ever to his principles.
Milton hated that look, undying loyalty, even in the midst of dying. He knew the foundations of Morgan’s faith were rotten. Dutch’s code was nonsense. Those Morgan protected to his last breath didn’t deserve his loyalty. If he could do one thing before making an end of this man, Milton wanted to see that light shaken, see the faith crumble, watch the fibers that made Morgan what he was fray away to nothing.
“Not all of you boys have quite so many scruples,” Milton said, keeping his voice calm and honest, “Old Micah Bell…” Milton named the member of the gang he knew had been rising in ranks, influencing Dutch’s decisions, displacing the trust Dutch used to place in others. He’d researched Bell as much as he could, knew him to be a coward and a vagabond, a survivor willing to do what he had to, willing to kill old allies to cover his tracks. And, as he said the name, Milton knew he’d picked the right one. Morgan’s mouth tightened in anger, his eyes losing that light, determination giving way to doubts and anger.
“Micah?” Morgan rasped, standing up, his eyes narrowing, voice hardening, revealing that at least some of his weakness had been an act, “You mean Molly?”
“Molly O’Shea?” Milton asked, recalling the name of Dutch’s lover. He shook his head, “Sweated her a couple of times, never talked a word, had to let her go.” With every word Milton could see the anguish and anger growing on Morgan’s face, and it was the best he could do not to smirk, knowing that he was finally getting to him, breaking through, and hitting nerves. “Micah Bell,” Milton repeated, stepping away from the doorway, holding Morgan’s gaze, the story coming easily into his mind as he spoke, “We picked him up when you boys came back from the Caribbean, and he’s been a good boy ever since.”
Morgan shook, and tried to hide his emotion under another coughing fit, leaning on his knees, and ducking his head to cover his cough, “Okay,” he gasped, “Okay…” Then he suddenly lunged up with a roar of anger, grabbing for the gun in Milton’s hands.
Startled by the sudden violence, Milton stumbled back, but managed to keep hold. They both yelled, and stumbled around, wresting together, the pistol pointed straight up, getting flung from side to side in the struggle. Morgan was larger, but Milton could see that he was also emaciated by his disease, and even as Morgan growled and shouted, he was still half breathless, his face pale as snow. Planting his back foot, Milton was able to steady himself, and force Morgan off balance. He steadied the gun, bringing his strength to bare, and Morgan couldn’t stop him. Slowly, Milton forced the gun down toward Morgan’s head.
Milton laughed, enjoying the sight of this man, this defiant, wild man, struggling in vain against him, “You’re losing your strength, Mr. Morgan.”
“You’re still a yapping dog, Mr. Milton,” Morgan snarled, his eyes burned in anger, but his arms shook, giving way, until the barrel of the pistol was forced right into his face. He was powerless and Milton had him.
BANG!
The sound a gun cracked through the room, but Milton hadn’t pulled the trigger. Someone else had stepped up beside them. He’d been so busy relishing his power over Morgan, he’d not noticed the girl. Hadn’t even realized Roberts had gotten free. He fell, and he died quickly, painlessly.
It was the last mercy his soul would ever receive.
DEATH…
Arthur Morgan
Another body fell, as Arthur blasted away with his pistols, and the movement, and gunfire below ceased, all the Pinkterons either dead, or fled away. Arthur panted, hardly able to believe it, when there was sudden burst from the underbrush behind him, and someone ran forward, tackling him off his feet, and slamming him to the ground. In the dim light of predawn, Arthur saw Micah’s yellow mustache and watery eyes, as the man grabbed him by his vest and pinned him down.
“You rat,” growled Arthur, his eyes glaring, “You rat!”
“I’m a survivor, Blacklung!” Micah yelled, punching Arthur hard in the face, sending blood flying, as he beat him again, and then again, “A survivor.”
Arthur tried to block, and finally managed to shield his face, and then grab Micah’s fists.
“That’s all there is,” Micah continued, even as Arthur struggled to get hold of him by the neck, and choke him, “Living and dying.”
They both rolled over the ground, wrestling to the very edge of the cliff. Arthur shoved, using what strength he had to throw Micah off him, and over the edge, but his momentum carried him on and, with a final scrabble on the stones, he tumbled after.
They landed hard, one after the other, twenty feet below, thudding upon the grassy ledge of the mountain road. It knocked the breath from Arthur, and he had little of that to spare. Gasping, and clutching his stomach, Arthur groaned, curling up, bending his knees, and finally rolling over. He could hear Micah also struggling, sitting up, and Arthur tried to be the first to stand, tried to gather his wits, and strength for the fight he knew was coming.
Micah was faster, and got a hand around Arthur’s throat, getting in a couple gut punches, before Arthur managed to block anything. “Oh Blacklung,” Micah exhilarated, as he threw his fists at Arthur, “You don’t’ know how much I’ve longed to do this.”
Arthur blocked again, and managed to shove Micah back. He had an idea. He was no fool, and had seen the simmering spite and hatred under Micah’s whining and flatteries, his poor attempts to win favor with gifts and compliments. Micah was a coward through and through, a parasite seeking the protection of bigger and better men. Arthur had recognized and rejected him from the beginning, and he knew it galled Micah. He just wished he’d done more to make Dutch see the truth. That he’d acted, rather than passively tolerating Micah for Dutch’s sake.
Arthur found his stance, and punched Micah hard, hitting him on the nose, feeling the cartilage break. He followed up with another satisfying upper hook to the jaw, and Micah staggered back, clearly surprised by Arthur’s strength, even now, when he was at the end of it. Arthur was a little surprised himself, but, if he could finally shut Micah Bell up, he supposed he might be willing to climb out of the grave itself.
Micah ducked and cringed, as Arthur continued to swing, but the vigor of Arthur’s attacks flagged quickly, and Micah managed to pull back, and then lift his boot and kick Arthur away. “You god damned traitor!” he yelled, glaring through the gray light, falling into a more defensive stance.
Arthur got his breath, and move forward, and the two circled, looking for and opening. Micah saw one first, and moved in, striking, jabbing, moving quick on his feet, like a mongoose. And Arthur swung back, flailing, doing his best to find his old power and fighting prowess, and knowing he never would. “You’re scrum Micah!”
“This is where it ends for you,” Micah laughed, the mad thrill of his crazy bloodlust filling his voice. He got in several jabs under Arthur’s ribs, throwing him back. “After we’re done, I’m gonna kill Marston too,” he sneered.
Arthur growled, and rammed his shoulder into the man, beating his fists against his sides. “I should have killed you long ago!”
Grabbing Micah’s neck, he tried to throw him back over the edge of the cliff, but Micah hopped away, his dexterity easily outmatching Arthur’s failing strength. And, as Arthur staggered, Micah ran in, taking him by the collar, and shoving him backward against the rough rising wall of the mountain, “Die!”
Arthur twisted, rammed his elbow hard into Micah’s mouth, and they broke apart, both stumbling to the ground and spitting blood.
“Still got a little fight in you, have you boy?” sneered Micah, wiping blood from his lips, and glaring, before baring down, and getting Arthur by the neck, lifting him, and pinning him against the stones again, choking him.
Arthur beat at his arms, his body, trying to force Micah back, but he was crumbling, sputtering for air, and getting weaker. He could see the sadistic gleam of Micah’s eyes, the satisfied smile, and Arthur ground his teeth, continuing to fight, to beat with all his might. He wasn’t going to go down easy. He’d fight Micah to the very bitter end, with everything he had, and more. This man had ruined the family Arthur loved, ruined Dutch, turning Arthur’s best friend against him, turning Dutch against everyone who had ever truly cared for him, poisoning his mind, and bleeding him of his principles. Arthur hated Micah for that, and the righteous hared blazed in Arthur’s soul, allowing him to push himself further than he ever thought he could.
Striking out with his fist, Arthur landed a sharp jab to the liver, that made Micah grunt and stagger back, his hands releasing their strangle hold.
Clutching his side, Micah glared, licking his lips. Even now, he seemed so pathetic, so uncertain. A frighted pitiful dog, grasping at anything prove to himself, and the world that he wasn’t weak, wasn’t worthless. And Micah was failing. Arthur could see the fear and loathing in him eyes.
Spitting blood, Arthur snorted, pulling back his breath, and getting to his feet. He managed to grin through the blood on his lips, smirking at Micah’s pathetic posing. Sure, the man might kill him, but it wouldn’t matter, because this fight wasn’t what Micah thought it was. Arthur wasn’t trying to live; he just wasn’t going to give Micah the pleasure of seeing him give up. He certainly wasn’t going to miss his last opportunity in this world to kick in Micah’s rat face, and beat him bloody for what he’d done.
“Can’t you see,” scoffed Arthur, “I’ve won?” and he swung his fist down on the smaller man, slamming it against the side of his head, beating him down.
Micah wasn’t smiling now, as he grunted, and ducked, looking confused and angry, “You’ve lost!” he snarled.
“I’ve already beaten you,” Arthur laughed, landing another blow.
Micah circled, falling back toward the stone wall, and Arthur slipped on the loose stones. Micah took the opportunity to hit him hard, knocking him to the ground. “Come on!” screamed Micah, his voice desperate, mad.
Arthur got up, but Micah pushed him, while he was still on his back heels, tackling him, and nearly shoving him over the edge, standing over him, and grabbing his vest again, beating down with his right fist.
Arthur grunted, gasping in pain, and choking on blood, as Micah, hit him in the face. But he still managed to bring a fist up, and punched Micah hard, right in the balls. Micah whimpered and fell over, dropping to the grass beside Arthur, clutching at his manhood.
Arthur rolled over, dragging himself up onto his knees, and crawled away from the edge. The light was a little brighter now, the faintest line of rosy-pink on the eastern horizon, and Arthur saw a pistol in the dim recesses at the base of the cliff. It probably had been discarded in the running gunfight up the mountain by one of the Pinkertons, and Arthur moved toward it, hearing Micah getting up to his feet behind him.
“That’s all there is…” Micah panted, his voice bitter and grudging, “… winning… and losing.”
Arthur grabbed the pistol, but in the same instant he felt Micah’s hand slam on his back, grabbing him by the back of the collar. Pulling him up, Micah slammed his head forward into the rocks. Arthur shoved back on the cliff, and twisted, backhanding Micah hard across the jaw, and they both fell, crashing to the ground, the pistol flying from Arthur’s hand, and bouncing over the rocks up the path of the ledge.
Silence fell for a couple moments, and then Arthur gasped and blinked, his vision spinning. Weakly he turned over, and focused on the gun, beginning to creep toward it, unable to even pull himself all the way to his knees.
“Oh, Blacklung,” Micah groaned, sagging against the side of the cliff behind him, “You ain’t gonna reach that gun. You ain’t.”
Arthur ignored him, painfully pulling himself over the ground, dragging in burning breath that was never enough, blinking through a darkness that was beginning to overtake him… drowning in open air.
“You lost, my sick friend,” sneered Micah, getting up to his feet, and beginning to walk after Arthur, “You lost.”
Arthur kept struggling, “In the end… Micah,” he gasped, “Despite my best efforts to the contrary… It turns out I’ve won.” He crept forward, dragging himself closer and closer to his goal. The gun was in reach, and he stretched his hand toward it, “… Goddamn you.”
His fingers closed on the pistol, but then a black boot stepped down, crushing them. Arthur screamed. Slowly raising his head, he found himself staring up into the dark eyes of Dutch, who was looking down at him with a stern expression. “It is over now… Arthur,” his voice was ragged, but heavy, carrying the weight of an executioner, “It’s over.”
“Oh, Dutch,” Arthur moaned, rolling on his side, and lifting his battered face. Arthur could feel the heartbreak again, the raw ache of the loss he’d felt when Dutch had refused to go back for Abigail, when he’d abandoned John, and when he’d abandoned everything they’d both once believed in. He loved this man, or, at least, he loved the man Dutch had once been, and the bitter cruelty of Dutch’s voice now hit harder than any punch Micah ever could have thrown at him, pierced him deeper than any knife or bullet. Shaking, Arthur dropped his gaze, trying one last time to reach out for the Dutch he’d known, to convince him of the truth, “He’s a rat. I know it… you know it.”
Dutch blanched, shaking his head, but his dark gaze wavered, growing pained, as he looked down at Arthur, his lip trembling ever so slightly.
“He’s sick,” snarled Micah, taking out his pistol, and holding his shoulder, “He’s dying… He’s talking crazy.”
In the distance of the predawn, some new shouts rose from far below, more lawmen calling out to one another, - There! – - Up there on the ridge! –
Dutch looked at Micah, his eyes sad, filling with regret, and realizations that were far too late in coming. He then looked down the mountain at their pursuers, still far below, and then back down to Author, stretched out and broken before him.
Arthur met his gaze, and pulled in shuttering, broken breaths, “I gave you all I had,” he whispered, “I did.”
Dutch swayed, his face growing distraught, “I… I…” he stammered, speechless, at a complete loss for words. He stepped back, unable to pull his gaze off Arthur. Horror of what was happening sinking in, as he looked at the wreck he’d made, the ruin of a man who’d been a son to him, who’d been loyal, ready to lay it all down, even though Dutch had failed him, doubted him. “I…”
Arthur could see the regret. He saw the truth sinking in at last, and he let out a long gasp, breaking his gaze away, and turning over on his back. It’d have to be enough. He didn’t expect an apology from Dutch, no admittance of fault. Arthur knew there would be no final words of comfort, not from Dutch Van der Linde, not even now, but Dutch knew the truth, and that was good enough.
“Come on!” moaned Micah impatiently, “Dutch, let’s go, buddy.” He holstered his guns, and reached toward Dutch, beckoning, trying to slip back into his encouraging tones of flattery, but desperation betrayed him, with an underlying panic catching at the words, “We made it, gah! We won!” he motioned toward the road, inviting Dutch to join him, to stay close, and protect them.
Dutch stared at him, finally seeing through him after all this time, then dropped his gaze, turning his face away.
“Come on!” shouted Micah.
“John made it,” Arthur rasped, staring up almost blindly at the dark stones hanging overhead, and smiling slightly, “He’s the only one. The rest of us… no.”
Walking forward Dutch looked down, his eyes sad, his voice silent, as he listened.
“But… I tried,” Arthur continued, talking between ragged breaths, “In the end… I did.”
“Come on,” Micah repeated, speaking low, hushed by the intensity on the Dutch’s face, “Let’s go. We can make it.”
One last time, Dutch looked between Arthur and Micah, before wordlessly stepping back, retreating from them both, and then turning his back, and walking away.
“Come on Dutch!” Micah shouted after him, whining desperate, “Come on!” But he didn’t dare to pursue him. Only stood there panting, before letting out an angry snarl of frustration and defeat, and turning away to run off alone, like a kicked dog, fleeing frantically into the mountains.
Arthur lay there, both sets of footsteps disappearing into the dawn, and a lonely silence descending upon him. A silence violated only by his own starving attempts to breath. It was slow, and painful, an agony drawn out. Arthur wasn’t frightened though, not anymore. He turned his head, and could see the glow of the sun nearing the eastern horizon. His last sunrise, and it looked to be a beauty. A smile touched his bloody lips.
Opening and closing his mouth, trembling all over, Arthur turned, and struggled, struggled to the edge of the cliff, his boots scraping the stones, before finally collapsing down when he had a clear view of the rising sun, and the vast American vista below.
Morning was touching the land, fingers of light setting the highest peaks aglow. Stray clouds floated above, purple and pink, and lined with gold. Morning birds were beginning to sing, and an eagle sailed on high mountain zephyrs. In a blazing globe of glory, the sun rose, lifting into the skies with a majesty of purpose.
It’s light flooded Arthur’s face, and he closed his eyes. There was so much more than just living and dying, so much more to be discovered, and cherished in this world. He’d almost missed it. He’d lived most of his life, blind and ignorant, unable to see the love and the beauty. But in the end, he’d believed, believed that Love existed, tried to do loving acts, and he’d watched them change his life, save him. He’d won in the end. He knew he had.
Through his closed lids the golden light of the sun still shone. Arthur’s breath raddled, and his head spun, floating away, but the light never faded. It stayed. If anything, its blazing, golden glory only grew brighter.
And the stag lifted its head, meeting his gaze, and drawing him in, before leading him away from this world.
… IS JUST THE BEGINNING
Andrew Milton
He fell through darkness, but the darkness wasn’t empty. It was filled with voices, with feelings and memories. The darkness was filled by Milton’s life, flashing by.
“Society… flaws and all….” - “Within the confines of the law.” - “Now I will show strength… and you may mistake it for brutality” - “Die savagely!” – “You snake.” – “… Agent Milton… Pinkerton Detective Agency…”
Red fire breached the darkness, blazing far below, and, as Milton fell toward it, it grew hotter and larger, until it burned all around him. His clothes caught fire, his hair, his flesh, but it didn’t burn up. It just burned.
“This thing… it’s done!”
He was screaming. He was burning. He was still falling.
Then Milton smashed into hard black stone, he bounced and tumbled, the fire sizzling and going out, as he crashed over sharp obsidian, and shattered through fragile stalagmites. He should have broken every bone in his body, and it felt like he did. But when, at last, he slid to a stop, somewhere deep-deep down, beyond all known worlds, he wasn’t broken, wasn’t even bleeding. He’d felt it all, but his body wasn’t real enough to be broken. It existed because he existed, and that was that. Milton sat up, and discovered he still had his hat in his hand. He put it on and tried to look around.
Around him fires burned in isolated pockets of flickering red, but they didn’t illuminate his surroundings. Darkness pressed in so completely, a thousand fires couldn’t have broken it. The smooth stone beneath him was as hot as the desert sands at midday, and loose rocks, clattered has he moved, their sharp edges cutting through clothing and skin. The smell of toxic brimstone, and sticking sulfur so clogged the hot air, it was nearly suffocating. Around his it was silent, but in the far distance came faint echos of screams, and strange popping, hissing sounds, like steam breaking through pressure.
Suddenly, a laugh broke out nearby, deep, malicious, and cruel. Milton staggered up to his feet, and turned about. The laugh seemed to come from everywhere, and nowhere at the same time, and he could make nothing out through the darkness.
“Welcome to Hell, Agent,” said the voice, the laughter turning to spite, and there was soft hiss of a match being struck, a subtle sound that was right behind him. Turning, Milton saw a large, rotund man, his aged face and silver beard lit in the red light of the match.
“Cornwall,” Milton said, more surprised than anything else to find the millionaire here. “They said you were dead, murdered by Dutch Van der Linde himself.”
Leviticus Cornwall used the match to light an expensive Cuban cigar. “I was, thanks to your incompetence. And now, here we both are.” Cornwall puffed his cigar, and then grinned, “You failed me, Milton. You failed your whole life… and all that ambition, all that blood, everything you sacrificed for your cause, and you job… it earned you nothing in the end.”
“No,” Milton said, stepping back, “I’m not like you. I believed in something greater, in society in … our nation!”
“Poppycock!” scoffed Cornwall. He advanced, and blew smoke in Milton’s face, “We were just the same. We both believed in power, Milton, in control and domination. I used money, you used law, and the weight of a twisted society, but it makes no difference now.”
Milton snorted, waving the smoke away. “And this is Hell then? The ultimate end of wickedness, the final answer of Justice? I may have taken blood onto my hands, I may have sacrificed conventual morality, but it was for a cause. And… at the very least, I’d have expected a better Devil to greet me than you, Mr. Cornwall.”
Cornwall looked at him, and then his eyes burned, and he moved with a strength, and a speed that a fat old man like him never should have possessed. He kicked Milton hard in the chest, sending him him flying backward, and smashing through a column. “And just who, do you think your cause’ served, Mr. Milton?” he yelled, “Who do you think society was designed to protect, and serve? You? The lowly, disgusting “teaming masses”? No!”
Milton groaned, as he tumbled into a heap. As he rolled over, he saw Cornwall’s boots coming toward him, and a second later, one of them stomped down on his neck, pinning him to the burning floor.
“Men like me, Milton. We owned you, owned the nation, and the laws!”
Milton knew it was true. He’d always known it… he’d been ‘a rich-man’s dog,’ but it didn’t matter. He glared at Cornwall, “The law is the law, Mr. Cornwall. I don’t care who wrote it. I don’t care who it served. I don’t care that it’s unfair. It kept order, enforced some measure of justice, and it allowed society to survived, even thrive, when given half a decent chance. So, no matter what you say, I’m not like you. I served something greater than myself, greater than you!”
Cornwall kicked him, beat him, grabbed him by the throat, and lifted him up with a strength that was beyond human. “Very well, Milton,” he hissed, “You lived by law, but now you yourself have been judged by a Law greater than any others, and you’ve been found wanting.”
Cornwall’s eyes locked with Milton’s, and knowledge flooded through Milton’s soul, an understanding so far beyond mortal comprehension it crushed him, yet somehow, he’d known it all along. It was like an iceberg that had been buried deep inside him had suddenly melted all at once, and filled him up completely with freezing dread, and intolerable understanding.
It was the Knowledge of Good and Evil.
It was the weight of his sins.
It was the loss of heaven, and the infinity of brokenness.
Milton screamed, his soul wrenching, breaking, remaking him into something terrible, bitter, lonely. It wasn’t something new, it was just his true self, finally acknowledged by himself.
He was sobbing, and Cornwall still had him by the throat. The once-millionaire drew him close, until their faces were inches apart. Cornwall smiled, and his teeth were sharpened fangs. “It’s always those of you who thought you were righteous, who make the sweetest conquests,” he sneered.
“No…” whispered Milton, his voice ragged, barely to be heard, “No… there are better souls than mine to be had.”
Cornwall slammed Milton up against a low overhang of black stone, smashing him painfully against the rocks, and skewering him on a sharp stalactite. It punctured his back, and drove through him, emerging out the front of the left side of his chest, dripping with dark red blood.
“Don’t challenge me, Dog!” screamed Cornwall, “Don’t speak. You shall have Justice. Everyone must pay. I’m paying the price for my sins, and you shall pay the price of yours, Agent!”
“And what…” gasped Milton, hardly able to breath, with the spear of stone piercing through one of his presumed lungs. Cornwall ripped his down, and the idea of the injury faded. Milton sucked in a gasp of hot air and toxic smoke, “What of those who killed us… Dutch Van der Linde, and his people? Are they going to pay? Shall those who sent us to face Judgment face it themselves?”
Cornwall glowered, “Their time will come. Van der Linde himself yet lives, and those of his people who have been gathered by Death, languish in Purgatory. But Hell shall eventually claim them. The War rages, Agent Milton, even as we speak, the War for Purgatory, the War of Heaven and Hell, the War of Souls. Our enemies shall be hunted down, and brought to Justice. But, in the meantime, I have you, and you shall have to do.”
Leviticus Cornwall opened his mouth, and it opened wider and wider, his face warping, twisting, his teeth sharp and long. He tore into Milton’s shoulder, just below the neck, ripping into flesh, eating Milton alive, blood streaming down his chin, laughing between bites, taking more and more of Milton into himself.
Milton screamed and kicked, but he was angry… so angry he began to feel a burning within, a strength like a great fire, and his wounds vanished, mending themselves, even as Cornwall continued to rip into him. “It’s not good enough!” screamed Milton, “Eventually isn’t good enough, and you know it!”
Cornwall kept chewing, but he slowed down, and the warped and twisted form shifted back into something more human, as he eyed Milton over a blood-soaked beard.
“How can you… how can we just stand by, if there’s even the slightest chance those people will escape Justice?!” Milton continued, “The sins they’ve committed, the crimes, and offences they’ve done against Righteousness… it cannot… it will not stand!”
“And what do you propose to do about it?” Cornwall asked, swallowing, and looking at Milton curiously, still gripping him by the neck.
“Let me go,” Milton hissed, “I will hunt each and every one of them, and make sure Justice is done, that they reap what they have sewn.”
“You failed me in your first life, Milton,” sneered Cornwall, “Why should I expect anything better in this one?”
Milton’s eyes blazed with Hell’s red fury, and his hands seized Cornwall’s pulling them off his neck, breaking the fingers with an inhuman strength of his own. As the bones cracked, he kicked the fat devil in the stomach sending him stumbling backwards. Free from the devil’s grip, Milton landed upon his feet. His hat was there on the hot, obsidian ground and, as he picked it up. The brim burst in a flare of flame, a red fire that flashed and then disappeared again, as he put his bowler on his head, and stood up straight. “You can believe me,” he said, “Because I swear, by the fire of my soul, there is nothing I want more than to see them burn… to see all of them burn. I will hunt them to the end of time if I need to.”
Leviticus Cornwall grinned, showing his malicious bloody fangs. “We thought you might say that.” He took a badge from his pocket, and tossed it to Milton, “Go then, Rider, by Satan’s will, and authority. Go and bring us their rogue souls.”
Milton caught the badge. It was heavy, and made of black iron, with a horned devil emblazoned on the front. There was power in this badge, authority so much more real and true than anything he’d ever had in his first life. This was the power of sins to be answered for, the power of Justice, the power of Hell.
He smiled and pinned it to his coat. Never had anything felt more right, and yet so terrible. An arch appeared behind him in a wreath of fire, and he turned toward it, his eyes blazing with merciless wrath.
… IS JUST THE BEGINNING
Arthur Morgan
The stag led him through a glowing forest of golden light and serene silence. The air was cool, but sweet, coming in deep, refreshing breaths that flowed easy and calm. There was no pain, not his lungs, nor his throat, nor anywhere else. He felt strong, whole, and free, but he hardly noticed. Existence was thought, and his thoughts weren’t of himself. He was focused on following the stag, and on taking in the world around him. It was vast and seemed to be so old. Every tree, every stone, every rustling fern had a depth of time and reality that was beyond comprehension. Hosea had once told him the Universe was billions of years old, and Arthur had scoffed, not even able to imagine such a breath of existence. But now he felt it soaking into him with the golden light. He saw it in the colors, and rich details of the rough bark, the green leaves, and the sparkling quartz of the stones - existence through time so deep, it’d gone beyond time, and into infinity. And now he was a part of it too, and there was peace. Deep, wholesome peace.
The stag’s brown eyes turned toward him again, and its breath created a warm mist before its velvety nose. Its soft fur ruffled in a breeze and, at last, Arthur caught up to the creature. It didn’t bound away, didn’t flee before him, as it’d always had before. It waited, and met his gaze, as Arthur knelt beside it. Carefully, reverently, Arthur put a hand on the side of its neck. It was warm, and alive, and it leaned into him, with a fondness, and a comforting weight. Arthur closed his eyes, and he heard the stag’s voice in his head, only it sounded like his own voice, talking to his horse at the end of a long day, “Let’s go home. It’s been a good ride.”
Arthur nodded and, when he opened his eyes, they were at the top of a mountain. Overhead the sky was still cast in the bright rosy hues of the sunrise, with pink clouds, and golden light. He could see the whole of the Heartlands, with its emerald hills, vast plains, glittering rivers, and rocky bluffs stretched out below, and in the far distance the snowy peaks of the West Grizzlies cast in purple and blue shades.
“Well… I can’t rightly say that I expected you, of all people, sir, but I’m glad to see you, nonetheless,” came a voice, friendly, and a little amused.
Arthur turned and saw a small, slim man, with a mustache and brown hair. “Thomas Downs?” Arthur asked in shock, “You little Do-Gooder, what are you doing here…?” Arthur looked around, and adjusted, “Or, rather, what am I doing here?”
Thomas smiled, “You’ve been given Grace, Mr. Morgan,” he said, “I’m as surprised as you are, but that’s what makes it so wonderful,” Thomas stepped over, and offered out a hand, “You’ve overcome a lot, struggled with a life that wasn’t always fair, and wasn’t always lived right, but you found your way in the end. Redemption is a beautiful thing, my friend.”
Arthur snorted, but accepted the offered hand, “Of all the people to meet,” he said, and then laughed, “You killed me, you know. I don’t know if I should thank you, or punch your lights out again.” Despite his words, Arthur felt a sudden wave of happiness and familiarity, as if he was reuniting with a long lost, but dearly beloved brother.
Thomas chuckled, and pulled him into a hug, and Arthur accepted it, hugging the man back, “I’m sorry,” Arthur said, with a weight of emotion, “I’m sorry for everything, for what I did to you, and to your family.”
“It’s forgiven,” Thomas said, “And I’m sorry too.”
“You’re sorry, … for what? Breathing, while I beat you to death?”
“I never wanted to be an instrument of death, not even by accident. But, that’s all it the past,” Thomas said, stepping back, “However confused and twisted our lives once were, we’re home now.” He turned, leading Arthur up the slope. Before them appeared an archway, shining with light, and Thomas waved at it, “Heaven’s gate is open to you, Arthur,” he said, “You take your rest, if you wish.”
Arthur hesitated. He knew there was peace beyond that archway, a serenity of existence ready to welcome him, but there remained a troubled thought in is mind, a trouble he wasn’t ready to leave behind.
“What about my friends?” he asked, looking down at Thomas, “The rest of my people, those who have gone before me, Hosea, and the others. Will they be there, waiting for me?”
Thomas didn’t meet his eyes, instead, he turned and looked behind them, at the view of the lands below the mountain, “You’re the first of your people to come to this gate, Arthur,” he said quietly, “I’m afraid your friends’ souls still hang in the balance. They struggle in the War of Purgatory, and the ultimate fate of their souls is yet to be determined.”
Arthur turned as well, looking over the vista. The wind seemed a little colder suddenly, the view a little less bright. “When I got here…” he said softly, “You said I had been given Grace?”
Thomas nodded, “You believed Love existed, and Love answered.”
“What can I do with this Grace? Can I share it?”
“It’s yours now, Arthur,” Thomas said, “You can do what you wish with it.”
Stepping away from the gate, Arthur moved toward the edge of the cliff, looking down the mountain. He thought of Suzan, shot only hours before he himself had died. He thought of Sean, annoying little twit, but with a firecracker spirit, so ready to take on the world. He thought of poor Kieran, too gentle for a cruel world. He thought of Lenny, earnest and brave. He thought of Hosea, who’d always been there for him. There were so many he loved… family he’d lost, and failed to protect once already.
“I’m not leaving them behind,” Arthur growled, and his eyes sparked, blazing with glory’s light, as determination filled his soul.
Thomas Downs smiled, “We thought you might say that.” He stepped over, and offered Arthur a pair of pearl-handled pistols, “Take these then, and go, Warrior, with God’s blessing. Go and bring them home.”
Arthur took the pistols. They were engraved with spiraling, silver feathers in beautiful detail. One pistol had an eagle carved into the pearl grip, the other had a stag. They felt good in his hands, weighty, but not too heavy.
“Just know this,” Thomas warned, “Grace can always be offered, but not everyone is willing to receive it, and Grace ill-taken can be turned against you. It’s your salvation, and your greatest strength, but it can become your greatest weakness too. Have faith in Love and be generous, but also be wise, Brother. To give your Grace, is to give yourself, and nothing makes you more vulnerable than that.”
Arthur nodded, and spun the pistols into his holsters, “I don’t care what the risks are, Thomas. I was lucky. I got the chance to see Death coming, and had time to examine my life, to open my eyes. Before that, I was probably one of the worst. I certainly weren’t no better than any of them. If I gotta fight my way through Hell itself, so be it. If a gotta give up everything I got, so be it. I’m bringing them home.”
Thomas put a hand on his shoulder, “Take the leap of faith then,” he said, “The battle rages below.”
Arthur could see it now, storms of war in the distance, winds carrying the sounds of shouts, and the crying of lost and wondering souls. He closed his eyes, and, within the roar, he could hear distant, and familiar voices… Annabel, Bessie, Jenny Kirk, Mac and Davy Callander, Sean Mcguire, Kieran Duffy, Lenny Summers, Molly O’Shea, Eagle Flies, Susan Grimshaw, … Hosea… They were all down there somewhere.
Opening his eyes, Arthur screamed a determined battle cry, and ran forward. Without hesitation he dove straight off the cliff. His faith and his will blazed, and light burst around him, spreading from his back, and stretching out into a pair of radiant wings. They caught the gusts of the mountain winds, and Arthur Morgan flew down from the mountains, and into Purgatory’s storms.
The War of Souls was just beginning.