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Into your mid-forties you tended your flowers each day of spring:
Charles smiled smartly from where he sat, aegean bottle of wine in hand. Some fancy brand Arthur had picked up in town, for no celebration in particular. Simply a toast to their freedom and honest living ways. The mountain’s wilderness provided game aplenty, a new Eden to thrive. Each prey was honored and used to all their worth. Bones carved into cutlery or fashioned as decorationsPelts sewn into clothes, rugs, blankets to keep warm. Meat and muscle could be smoked, salted and spiced to hearty meals. All in the cabin they’d bought with cash stored and saved. A sweet little log habitation that was fit for a couple keeping to themselves. Tucked far away into the cliffs, evergreen trees and deer for miles. Both men were never suited to live in any place more populated- that would have been a recipe for all kinds of trouble. So a simple life, simpler than most, was what they sought.
Arthur took to nurturing his artistic talents, his pencil strokes expanding beyond a cramped notebook. Charles posed often under the candlelight, the hidden muse and blushing statue. Blue-green eyes studied him with appreciation, desperate to capture a fraction of their model’s beauty. Charles had never felt so pretty- something he would have never used to describe himself- but it just felt right . Rugged, handsome (a stretch in his mind), but pretty felt all too flowery and soft and delicate to suit him. Yet Arthur brought out new feelings in him and a new perspective of himself that was freeing. Empowering in contrast to the gentleness.
As he nurtured his art, Arthur took on more domestics. He started a garden, sowing seeds to bloom in the spring, lasting through to the next frost. Wild carrots and potatoes to be peeled in palms that had softened, the same skin that used to have the tooth of cold-pressed paper now held a delicacy, smoothened out for a charcoal smudge. Like the many specimens he’d drawn, Arthur had a tender love for flowers. He now cared for several flower boxes which the pair took turns watering, clipping, pruning. The world was cruel to deny a child between two men who love each other as wholly and completely as a man and a woman could. Flower boxes would have to make due.
sweet mayflowers like late snow underfoot,
Arthur let his hair grow out. The barber was too far away and he wasn’t equipped to hack it up himself. Charles, who had never cut his hair before, was samely not equipped. Lord forbid he ask for help; that was something he was getting better at in his age. But the way dark fingers ran through his mane made his chest swell and he was lost to it for eternity. Most days he tied it back with a soft leather string, like a sprig from a carrot’s head sprouting from his neck and he felt utterly stupid and the ugly mongrel he was. It was easier to keep the hair out of his face as he hunched over dirt and seed even if he ached to think he was less unsightly with it down, tucked gently behind his ears.
Curled up under covers, cheek pressed to chest, Arthur confided his thoughts. He knew Charles hated the way he thought of himself. Hating the hatred. And he wanted to right it- have a chance to see himself the way his darling did. Shared moments shaving the other’s jaw. Hair braided with vine and petals and lapis beads. It would never go away, no matter how strong the sun a shadow could never disappear. But Arthur faced that sun with a smile on his face, sweet creases something he could take in stride. Deep eyes full with his soul, looking back at him in the mirror. Arthur picked flowers in bushels and life moved on. Sprigs were forgotten.
red poppies, snowdrops, fiddlehead ferns,
Charles brought back a moose one day, Taima working her hardest to lug the cargo behind on ropes. What a sight he was! Bow at his back and a glisten of sweat trickling past his scars. Some goddess of love had to be on Arthur’s shoulder and he would become a praying man, light candles and read sweet poetry and raise doves if he got to see this arrive home every day. Maybe he had been forgiven all his sins, given rest as a soldier yearns. Was he a lucky one?
Skinned, tanned, salted they would be safer in the winter to come.
And winter came early that year. The cabin kept them warm and short days turned night longer, and came sooner than the summer ones. Touch and sensation accompany many a sensual evening rolling in the sheets. Pressed lips in sundown worship. Arthur made so many discoveries curled up against his darling. Night’s spent talking about the universe and their little lives in it. Memories pried from the depths of omission. Arthur talked about Lyle and Beatrice for the first time in decades, regrets he’d stuck around so long. And in turn, Charles recounted last words and goodbyes of parents he missed dearly, regrets he hadn’t stayed and made it better.
Wind howled and hissed, battering the homestead with all its strength but logs laid in love held strong. A day finally came to break up the storms. The air was crisp and burnt Charles’ nostrils. But it felt good because he was alive and could feel it . Charles ventured down the mountain, to check traps and follow trails. A bark and whine, pain and fury, gnashing teeth. Heterochromatic blue and brown eyes stared back at Charles. A Siberian Husky, back leg caught in a hunter’s iron snare. Charles had always hated those traps made of sharp teeth and rust. Kneeling in the drifts he pried the jaws apart, the dog limping into his warm embrace, wet nose pressed to his cheek. Good girl , he said.
Arthur didn’t look surprised when four more legs came through the door. Strays attracted strays. His heart couldn’t refuse another mouth to feed. The world was cruel to deny a child between two men who love each other as viscerally and passionately as a man and a woman could. Kiona was more than they could have ever hoped for. The pup healed her limp and ran fast as the wind, keeping pace with the horses on runs. Growled away foxes and badgers. Warmed laps and licked hands and gave every ounce of gratitude she knew how to express. The soft thump thump of a tail, wagging against the bed frame was a regular morning occurrence.
lilacs purpling, trilliums, apparition of daffodils,
Robins warbled winter away. Paws dug garden holes and chased arrows. Picnic lunches were shared between smiles and grasping hands. Disturbed by a choke and cough- Arthur curled in bed, fever raging. Tonics drunk and sweat wiped away. Arthur had been resting for weeks, trifolium by his bedside. Kiona stayed by his side as long as she could till Charles called her for a hunt. Dulcet tones did their best to say it would be alright , and you’ll get better soon love . Drown out the quiet terror with gentle caress and kisses pressed to every inch of Arthur’s skin.
Charles took care of the gardens and worked hard to maintain the life they’d made. Carried on his shoulders like Atlas the world. Cicadas laughed, mocked the pain and anguish. Crickets sing for the reaper to come.
bridal veil spireas, lady’s slippers, ragger corruption of forsythia,
A grave had been carved in secret, because Charles couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in his lover’s eyes at what he’d done. Taken away precious time they had together to mourn before he was even gone. But could Charles be blamed for his secrecy? Oakwood stained with tears, as he wept over his cursed work. All that was left was a date. He had taken the shovel and dusted it off.
Arthur asked to hear a song. Charles would honor any wish, go to the ends of the earth to satisfy what he perceived to be his failure. The curse of a mortal man that couldn’t ignore nature’s path. How he wished to break into hell and pull Arthur Morgan back out and cradle him in his arms for eternity. Hide him away in some secret place not even whatever god there was could take him away. And they could be together forever in their twin isolation. Charles would kill and rob and extort- to whatever he had to to make the world hate him enough that it’d want nothing to do with him. Make him so tainted it dare not approach his darkness. If that’s what it took. He plucked snowdrops and imagined that they died on his fingertips. But they mocked him as well and were beautiful.
Water was changed and tucked in its vase was consolation. Fresh petals at Arthur’s bedside. Charles wiped the blood from his lips and held him still as a cough after cough racked his weary body. I love you , he said. It’s killing you and I still love you .
lilies of the valley, wild foxglove…
Taima carried the weight all the way past Bacchus station and into the Eastern Grizzlies. Found a place with a good view just east of Donner Falls. In another life they’d been here, bows in hand, heart and soul. Charles cried all of summer’s rain. Wet the soil and fed the trees. It rained until no tears were left.
You would have turned sixty today.
The cabin was quiet, like it always was. Because there were no words worth speaking into the vacuous hole of guilt. The miasma of longing for a life that would never be. Move on , you’d be told. But how could he? He tended the garden he should have left to wither.