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“Hey, darlin’.”
His voice rang through your head over and over, that same phrase repeated so many times you would never forget the way he said it. It was always those words, their slow drawl and the crooked smile accompanying them that made you ache, like your heart had grown too big for your chest.
Now was no different.
Infinite instances for you to recall his softened fondness, his smile for how honored he was to say those words. Each time, without fail, the calmness in his eyes spreading across his face and his whole body, his relief at seeing you made palpable.
You had never known a love like this until you knew Arthur Morgan. And now, as you recalled him, you lie in your bed with that same ache riddling your chest, with a bitterness so stretched it was turning the day blue.
“Hey, darlin’.”
The first time he said it, the words made you purse your lips to hide your excitement. He had kissed you the night before, your first kiss shared, and as he returned from his rambling and sought out your company, he greeted you so simply. But oh, did it mean the world to you at the time. You were young and giving and so glad to be wanted that those words caught your breath and held it. You spent the rest of the day bottling that feeling within you, unbelieving that a man such as him could feel an affection so gentle and innocent.
Not all of his greetings were as happy. Some were riddled with fatigue, some absentminded and full of a familiarity that dulled their meaning. Some were full of sorrow. You couldn’t bring yourself to think of those, rolling toward the window like the movement would block out their memory. You thought of the familiar ones instead, of so many times seeing him anew that his fondness was implied in that quick grin rather than expressed fully and received fully.
One such time was after months together, the first time you berated yourself for not appreciating that greeting enough. He had been gone for four days, not an uncommon amount of time but long enough for you to mull over his return. Your worrying over him had made you tired, and as night fell and you were unsure whether or not he would be coming in, you retired for the night and made for bed. Lying there on your shared cot, you fell into a dreamless sleep and were benumbed to his return when he eventually did appear late in the night, alerting you of his presence in the same way he always did. There was an extra ounce of fondness in his voice then, but being as tired as you were, you originally failed to recognize it and only responded in sleeping utterance. How long it took for his words to sink in you weren’t sure, but he was already stripped of his familiar hat and outerwear as he climbed into bed with you, making you jerk awake.
“Easy. Just me,” he said, and you stared at him as he settled beneath the blanket with you. His earlier greeting had fallen on deaf ears, and you felt a sudden rush of guilt so harsh over it that all you could do was continue to stare, to memorize his softened features. “You okay?” he asked, reaching out and cradling your face, running his thumb across your cheek. That movement, the way he rested his head on the pillow so softly beside you—it left you with the same ache you always felt for him, both that and your guilt twining together and holding your gaze.
When words finally reached you, you settled back down into the bed, closing your eyes as you clung closer to his warmth. “I am now.” He kissed you on the forehead and you kissed him on the mouth, not knowing how else to rid yourself of that guilt. It worked, as he made a small hum of approval, the sound deep and comforting enough to have you forgetting all else but him.
There were many other times your ignorance dulled his loving words, but none made you as ashamed as that. You soon realized that it didn’t mean you loved him any less, rather that he was becoming as familiar to you as breathing, that it was a sense of security making your nerves settle, not some lack of something. And from then on, no matter how you responded to him upon first seeing him, you were content in that and in the love you shared.
You looked out of the window, seeing the flat gray sky beyond, and recalled the times he said those two words to you when he was too tired to do much else beyond stumble into bed. Once, he had even left his muddy boots on as he flopped onto the cot beside you and fell asleep within minutes. You remembered chuckling into the cold night air, all thought of berating him for it lost at the sight of his exhaustion. He had always done so much for the camp, and back then, the sight of mud spread all over the thin blanket the next morning only made you laugh in fondness for him.
Some days, he said those two words with more weariness than tiredness. Especially as the gang began to fall apart and his sickness worsened, his gaze tended to fall distracted, the jut of his shoulders more worn than you could stand. He was elsewhere with his thoughts then, but the love he still had for you and wanted to prove to you shone through it all. In fact, there were days toward the end when that loving greeting was followed by fits of coughing so violent you thought it would break him. But it never did, and he made a point of doting on you all the same, maybe just to prove to himself that he still could. You were grateful, always grateful then, for every moment.
“Hey, darlin’.”
You felt tears well in your eyes despite your attempts to keep them at bay. And without warning, those last few greetings of his punched through you, the ones filled with a bittersweet sorrow that drowned you in their memory.
He was careful with you then, not wanting to risk passing his sickness on to you. It left you so lonely, the ghost of his touch a cutting taunt when he was right there and yet miles away.
After fighting with Micah one night loud enough for the entire camp to hear, he made his way over to you, utterly exhausted. He had had a long day away doing Dutch’s biding, and the result was the tired, unwell man before you, his usual inner light subdued. He brought his hand to your face and said those two words, his eyes full of sadness despite the smile beneath them. That was the first time you remembered being afraid that you would have to live this life without him, that he was too noble to save himself. And with that you cried, tears spilling down your face as he wiped them away and attempted to console you. You missed his touch too much to be sensible, and you pulled him into a tight embrace, shoulders shaking with grief as you pleaded, “Make love to me, Arthur.”
He stilled so suddenly it hurt you, knowing what he would say before he said it. He set his head on top of yours, pulling you ever closer. “You know I can’t do that, sweetheart. I ain’t gonna risk-”
“Getting me sick, I know,” you finished for him, pulling away to look him in the eye. “But I don’t care. Please.”
He considered you for far too long, warring with his own sensibility. Finally, your endless tears must have settled something within him, as he wordlessly led you to his cot and drew the stiff canvas down around you both.
That night, he made love to you for the last time. He was careful, so careful that you were wedged somewhere between pleasure and sadness and love, the entire ordeal so bittersweet that you cried after he fell asleep. You cried for hours, awake for so long that the sun rose and still, you had not slept. It was too much of an ending, a wordless goodbye that you knew he only gave to you because he was close to giving in to his mortality.
Sobbing into your bedsheets, you recalled the last time he ever greeted you so lovingly.
On the final day of the gang’s existence, he had insisted you stay behind and out of danger as he went to rescue Abigail. He and Sadie were successful, and the three of them returned and discussed a rough plan as they stopped their horses just shy of where you sat waiting for him. Your heart swelled at the sight of him, still alive, still coming back for you even through all the hardship. He dismounted with a swiftness that made you worry for his worn lungs before he made for you, all else left far behind. You couldn’t remember the other two women then, the horses, the woods surrounding you. You couldn’t remember anything apart from his gentle approach, the way his face lit at the sight of you.
“Hey, darlin’,” he said, and you hadn’t been able to stop yourself from letting out a whimpering cry, your throat burning with a heartbroken heaviness. His face, the way he said it after a long breath—like this would be the last—it broke you. He curled you into his arms knowingly.
“Don’t do that,” you cried.
“Do what?”
“Say it like that. Like you’ll never say it again.” He just hugged you tighter, and you started to sob. “It’s over, Arthur. Abigail’s safe. We can go now.” His sickness was another matter, a darkened blot on an already too-hard life lived. You chose to ignore it. “We can go and…live and-”
“No, sweetheart.”
You pulled away and looked up at him. He was smiling at you. But for the first time since you’d met him, you saw tears forming in his eyes. You couldn’t stand that. You pulled him to you, trapped him in a hug so tight you were sure you were crushing his already wounded lungs.
“I’ve got to go take care of things.”
His words made something settle within you—a knowingness that he would not survive this. Maybe he didn’t want to. Maybe he wanted to die on his own terms instead of succumbing to some greedy sickness. Whatever their meaning for him, you knew their meaning for you. He was leaving. And he was not coming back.
You pulled him impossibly closer, memorizing his smell, the feel of his coat beneath your gripping fingers, the sound of his steady heart. It was still beating, still beating, fighting every day just as he did for you. It was a constant murmur, a mockery—here, here, here. It was him, his life, slipping through your fingers. Pure agony, hearing that. Knowing it would not last.
“Don’t go,” you whispered. But it was now him that began sobbing, his shoulders shaking. You couldn’t stand the sound of it, of this man broken by his decision to die fighting but standing by it all the same. “You don’t have to-”
Arthur cut you off with a kiss. One last, soft, caution-be-damned kiss that took you by surprise. You felt his tears meet your face as he did it. And, after what felt like an eternity of savoring his gentle touch, he broke away. He looked down at you with a face swollen and eyes filled with emotion, eyes that were so full of love for you that you could have died happy beneath their gaze. He took in a shaky breath, and he smiled.
“I love you.”
The way he said it crushed you. It was his goodbye.
“I love you.” It was all that could be said.
With this, he pulled you into another tight hug then let go all too soon, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He smiled at you as he backed away, the tears shimmering in his eyes full of love and happiness and all things worthwhile. Without another word, he mounted his horse, nodded at the others, and took one last, long look at you. He smiled. And he kicked his horse and was gone.
You bitterly remembered the remainder of that day, of fighting with Abigail and Sadie, trying to mount your horse and go after him. They had stopped you, insisting coming with them was what he wanted for you. You remembered Charles finding the small group of you later that night, remembered your desperation in asking him to go after Arthur. He obliged you. You remembered the following day, John’s shocking return and the somber news that the love of your life had fought valiantly and died. You remembered the hollowness you felt at those words. You remembered that the most, in fact, because you still felt it. Every day, you felt it like a shadowed promise—that he was not here, and he never would be.
With this, you turned back toward your nightstand, remembering at last Charles’ return. He had sought you out a week later, bringing with him something you couldn’t stand—Arthur’s belongings. Arthur had given his satchel and hat to John, that sentimental soul, but he had kept his journal stuffed into his jacket pocket. You knew why when you finally worked up the courage to read the damned thing.
Your eyes flicked to the nightstand drawer. In it lay his journal, words long since written yet just as saddening as they had been since their origin. You had only ever read it once, in its entirety, long into the night. The last pages broke you, and you had hastily shoved it back into the drawer never to be touched again. But with these memories plaguing you, with the way he said those two words ringing so fresh in your mind, you couldn’t resist reading it again. You missed him desperately, needing to hear his voice, even if it was through written word.
Your hand shot out for the nightstand drawer before you could stop yourself. You dragged his journal out, your hands shaking as you sat up and flipped it over, running your fingers across its leather face. The number of times he had held this, had pored over its pages…
With more emptiness than courage, you undid the leather binding and opened the journal, careful to hold it at arms length so your tears wouldn’t stain the pages. It was difficult to read through such sadness, but when it fell open to a drawing he had done of a beautifully colored deer, you let out a sob, your resulting smile crushing you. His drawings. Him. God, did you miss him.
You flipped through the pages, noting every drawing, every entry. The way he wrote to himself, the amusement and the desperation in his words. How worried he grew over his found family.
Finally, you got to the drawing of you. Your breath caught in your chest at the sight of it, of the first time you had met and how beautifully he had captured that moment in drawing and in words. How much this would come to mean, he could never have known. Your happiness swelled at his words of ‘hell of a woman’ and ‘put me in my place.’ But mostly, you liked the last two sentences: ‘So, like a proper fool, I invited her to come back with us. I hope I do not live to regret it.’ Neither of you had regretted that decision. No matter how much it hurt to lose him, it was the having him that mattered.
You pushed on, turning pages, admiring drawings. There were a few small mentions of you here and there, becoming more frequent as time went on. Finally, boyishly, one of his entries took up two whole pages with just one tiny paragraph: ‘Maybe I ain’t as blockheaded as I’m told—I kissed her. Or maybe I’m an even bigger fool than before. For her, I gladly would be.’ You fondly recalled the memory, smiling over his words on the matter. And you flipped on, hearing about all of your firsts with him through his eyes, seeing his adoration for you spilled out on page after page.
Your recollections of him solidified until you came to the first entry in which he expressed his worry. His words were a taunt, especially where you were concerned: ‘Maybe I’ll find a way to get her out of this whole mess unscathed, with me alongside her. What an empty promise to make, but it’s a pretty dream.’
That was before he had known about his sickness. Before his sacrifice became inevitable, before leaving you was known between you but never spoken. As it turned out, he had written about it instead. You flipped on, to the last few entries about the dread that ate at him. ‘I guess the best thing for it is to try and save as many folk as I can before my time on earth is done. And Y/N—I owe her the world and yet cannot give it to her. She deserves more than saving. She deserves happiness. Whether I can grant it to her in so little time, we shall see.’
You read through three more entries, thinking of that line. He had made you happy. Every second with him was happiness in his final days. It was bittersweet, but you had never been so appreciative for his simple company as you were then.
Finally, ruefully, you came to the last entry. Your vision blurred with new tears. You blinked them away, letting them fall to the blanket as you stared at their source—the first time Arthur wrote to you in his journal. The last time he would write anything at all.
‘Hey darling.’
Seeing it written in his sprawling hand…you nearly couldn’t stand it. You pushed on nonetheless, desperate for every word he had ever given you.
‘It always made you smile when I called you that. I am hoping to give you what little happiness I can one last time.’
You took a breath, remembering in fondness his selflessness and how he had it always—until the very end.
‘If you somehow get your hands on this journal, it means I’m long gone, because you know I would never let those greedy eyes of yours near it under normal circumstances.’ You let out a weak laugh. How true that was. ‘If this is the case, as I expect it is, there are still a few things I need to say to you. First, you’re still alive to read these words, and if you’re there without me, I want you to know how proud I am of you. I can’t imagine life without you—don’t know how we ever managed it so long before—but you’ll get through this. I know you will. At least try for me, knowing I’m with you every step of the way.’
You recalled the first time you read those words, how bitter you had been over them at the time. But now, you saw his optimism in a different light. You saw his goodness, imagining he really was with you every passing day, cheering you on to keep going no matter that he was only with you in spirit. You turned the page with a little more courage than before and kept on.
‘Second, I’m sorry I dragged you into this whole mess in the first place. Hopefully you find a way out of it with the other women, being that you remained mostly innocent and nameless in the eyes of the law. I’m sorry I took away so much time being a fool myself, thinking I could get out of it and live a simple life after all the hell I raised. You deserved more than that from me—I should have gotten us out the day you came along. But now is not the time for regrets. Instead I hope you live and thrive and be happy, putting all this behind you, knowing you helped a broken man see what really matters in life. Because you did sweetheart, and I thank you for that.’
Your tears overwhelmed you once more. He was always a good man, and how he never saw that in himself you couldn’t begin to understand. But his description of himself dug a little deeper—not evil, not wrong, but broken. He was right in that at least. You could only hope that you had patched him up well enough to be happy in his last few months on earth.
‘Lastly, this journal belongs to you now. Read every word of it if you like, or disregard it completely (though I know you won’t, you little minx). Hell, maybe it’ll never find its way into your hands in the first place and this is all for naught, but I hope it ain’t. Because I need you to know that I love you, Y/N. I always will. What else is there for it?
I’ll miss you until I see you again.’
He had drawn a small heart next to that last line squished in at the bottom of the page—something so tender-hearted and gentle as to make you smile through your tears once more. In fact, you were glad you had picked the journal back up. Whereas the first time reading it was a punch to the gut and a heavy reminder of your loss, this time was different. This time was a remembrance of how he spoke and how overwhelming a love he had for you. Reading it through now felt like healing. And you didn’t know how you had ever gotten to that point, but you imagined his words had something to do with it, knowing he was with you in spirit, helping you to be who he would have wanted you to be. The least you could do for him was strive to be that—the girl he had loved so deeply.
You turned the page and saw the last thing he ever wrote to you, to anyone, and smiled. You closed the journal and tucked it back into the drawer, thinking it would do you well to read it more often as those last words of his rang in your mind, replacing the two that had made you pull out the journal in the first place. Instead of a sorrow for his absence, a gratefulness for the time you had with him settled within you, taking its place.
You got out of bed with a newfound vigor, deciding to take the day head on, those last words making it suddenly easy to do so. With every step, they repeated, reminding you that you would never truly be without him.
Forever yours,
Arthur