Mud and Gold [Arthur Morgan] [RDR2]

➵ chapter xii

"How much do you know?"

The words got caught up in his throat, as his mouth opened and closed, like a fish out of water; his mind swirled with many a question, too many things clouded his senses in that instant. 

What could he possibly say?

Time seemed to freeze. All Arthur could bring himself to do was keep her scrutinizing stare, whilst he tried to regain some control over the turmoil of emotions that battled for control within him. But only one thing reigned in his chaotic mind: he had been used. Again. Just like Mary Gillis—Linton—had done not too long ago.

The outstanding acting (y/n) had pulled until roughly 12 hours prior was all the gunslinger could focus on. He'd trusted her enough to bring her with him in this treasure hunt, and he'd been a complete fool for allowing himself to fall for her enchanting ways. It hurt, knowing that everything had been all pretend; what he'd deemed as a new opportunity for him to feel loved, had been but a mere decoy to trap him, swallow him deep within another endless hole filled with nothing but hopelessness, treason, and heartbreak. Just when he thought he'd finally climbed out of a similar situation, he'd been immediately pulled back in—only this time even deeper.

The outlaw wanted to be angry; angry at himself for being such a fool, but also at the woman standing in front of him, for daring play him like that. He wanted to explode out of rage, finally let his anger take the best of him, and help him get back what he'd lost—his dignity. However, it wasn't anger what coursed through him.

The pain of knowing he'd been a fool to trust a woman again was far too much to handle for him. This only helped him realize he wasn't made for any kind of romantic relationship. Any woman that dared get his hopes up of finally having a partner, a lover—someone he could trust, love, adore in a million ways, worship even—always ended up crashing his dreams in the blink of an eye. They used him whenever they needed him, and when he needed them, they were gone.

All of them left him, one way or another.

And that was all he felt: the pain of knowing he had been used again. His heart ached with every breath he took, and with each second that passed it worsened. Disappointment, hopelessness, defeat—he had no energy left, no incentive to keep having hope for something good ever happening to him. Arthur no longer felt the need to fight.

Maybe he had finally had enough. Finally.

He let his head hang as his gaze finally broke eye contact with her. Instead, he focused his eyes on the floor; the photograph remained there, untouched, reminding him yet again of who (y/n) really was—someone completely different, for sure.

An almost inaudible, but still perceptible, tired sigh escaped from her. Arthur saw from the corner of his eye how she holstered her gun slowly, and almost hesitantly reached back for a hunting knife she had strapped to her belt.

"Don't bother," her voice was quiet, somewhat soft, almost comforting. "Whatever it is that you know, it's enough to make us lose whatever we might've had."

Confused for the most part, Arthur lifted his gaze to meet hers just for a split second—her words echoed in his head, again, and again, causing his heartbeat to speed up. Too many questions swarmed his head, but only one stood out: what did she mean?

Her once neutral expression had morphed into one of dismay, just for one second, but Arthur noticed it before she moved out of his field of view. She now stood behind him, and he could feel her hands fidgeting with the rope wrapped firmly around his wrists. 

The gunslinger couldn't stop himself, even after scolding himself mentally, even after calling himself a fool yet again; he couldn't help but wonder if she felt anything for him. He couldn't help but have hope, again: maybe this wasn't one-sided, like he had thought. Her words had had to mean something.

"You're free to head back to your camp, Mister Morgan." (y/n) spoke, her voice laced with a neutral tone yet again. His wrists were freed in an instant, as the sharp blade of her knife cut through the rope with ease. "It's best you stay away from me, from now on."

Arthur automatically brought his hands to his front, and rubbed his sore wrists, hissing slightly at the pain it caused. And then he glanced up; he met her eyes again, and had his heart dropping a beat as he analyzed her face—her visage went back to hold an emotionless expression as she put her knife back in her belt with a swift move.

Her (e/c) eyes met his for just one second—although short, it was enough time for Arthur to notice, despite her neutral expression, the guilt and hurt that plagued them. He even dared think, she seemed to be holding back tears.

She turned around quickly, hastily made her way to the wide open door. She stopped, hesitantly stood by the opening for a few seconds, but did not turn around as she spoke for the last time. "Your horse is outside."

And, then, she walked away.

(y/n) left the small wooden cabin without another word, and her steps soon were engulfed by the loud downpour drenching the land outside.

Arthur didn't move. He couldn't. As though he was glued to that chair, he stayed still, yet his mind raced rapidly. He wanted to stop her, but something kept his mouth shut, and his feet fixed on the floor below. He didn't move, and simply watched her leave him behind, as though nothing had happened.

He caught sight of her figure through the window across the room, walking fast across the large yard without dithering; he watched her go, until her silhouette was quickly swallowed by the darkness of the night, and the wilderness ahead.

And like that, (y/n) was gone.