Work Text:
“ i’m staring at the sky
but i can’t tell which way
my thoughts are traveling ”
—
Charles marked the map without John even needing to ask. Now, a small black circle near Bacchus Station rested on the paper. A part of him felt grateful for this, as he thought asking would disturb some imaginary peace that settled over Beecher’s Hope in the past few weeks.
John accidentally smeared the mark with his finger as he planned out a path. After finding the bridge near the station, his mind lingered on how he had blown it up all those years ago.
Adrenaline pumped through him as he remembered the train rushing over the bridge, the wood shaking under his boots. His throat had ached as he yelled down for Arthur to hurry the hell up. The exhaustion after barely making it off the tracks resonated with him even in memory. He gripped the edge of the map after finalizing the route, nearly tearing it in the process. A long journey awaited him.
The dark lines consumed him for several minutes, his mind racing but somehow as still as the surface of undisturbed water. After a while of silence he rolled it up to put it in Arthur’s satchel. It felt heavy on him as he told Abigail his plans in the kitchen, her already hard at work on dinner preparation, and he wondered if Arthur ever felt the same weight.
After a kiss goodbye to her, and then a parting word with Jack and Uncle, he stepped outside; the fresh, dry air allowed him to push forward.
Sombra was roaming around under the blinding sun, the grey-spotted Hungarian Halfbred all saddled up and seemingly knowing of the upcoming journey. John made his way over to her, giving her a loving pat once he reached her side.
Charles came up behind him, silent despite his size, and wished him well on his travels. After a second, his hand fell on John’s shoulder. It was warm from working in the heat and calloused from years of work, so much so that John could feel both through his shirt, and he never knew how he would be able to thank Charles for everything.
“Say something for me, would you?” His request lodged itself somewhere between John’s rib cage, threatening to pierce his heart, but he nodded despite himself. What was he supposed to say, when he couldn’t even find the words for his own grief? The sun suddenly suffocated him.
Anxious to leave, he hooked his foot in the hooded stirrup and swung himself over, Sombra huffing throughout, and John still couldn’t escape. Charles’ dark eyes met his.
A brief pause held itself between them as if Charles was reading John’s own thoughts roaring through his head and then, “If you can’t find the words to say, then don’t. Your presence there is enough. . .just. . .think of him on behalf of me.” John tried to contain his relief, but he could feel his face relax despite himself.
“‘Course,” was all he could say, even though Charles was already walking away to do more work, and John couldn’t help but ponder what it was like for him up in those mountains all those years ago, the only company being the lifeless body of a friend and the ravens soaring in the sky.
If it had been me — but it hadn’t been. Maybe it had been for the better, the last memory being one of sacrifice, of love. Charles didn’t get that luxury, but John felt, oddly enough, that he had still been cheated.
—
On the way, he stopped many times. Much more than he needed to. Rabbits ran through the grass, people drove over the dusty roads, time passed, and John sat. He sat on cliff edges and smoked cigarettes, sat on soft hotel beds and ran his fingers over the black leather of Arthur’s hat. Sometimes he sat on a bedroll at his makeshift camp, fire crackling and popping in front of him, and looked through the worn-out journal.
It felt wrong to read it at some points to where he considered burying it somewhere or burning it, but he could never bring himself to do so. Instead, with a somewhat guilty conscience, he kept turning the pages and attempted to connect every piece of Arthur’s feelings to his actions.
Arthur used to be so hard to read. His face used to be as hard as stone or set with indicators of sarcasm, but every word in the journal morphed every glance and expression into something else. Every gesture and decision had meaning, and he wondered how he never saw that before. Perhaps he was too blind to see, or perhaps he didn’t bother to ask. Sometimes he did notice, though, the moments of vulnerability. Flashes of genuine happiness back in his youth. Sorrow and determination near the end. Even acceptance.
He remembered, back when he was just a scrawny, feral thing, circling around Arthur trying to sneak a look into his journal. Arthur would laugh and walk away, or he’d continue to sit there just to taunt John. He’d cover the pages with his big, calloused hands just to spur a reaction. Sometimes he’d even throw out jabs, “Try harder next time, Marston!” John would just stick out his tongue or snatch one of his cigarette packs to get even. Sometimes, if he got lucky, he would steal every pack Arthur had stored in his tent, only to be chased later. If he was fast enough he attempted to have Arthur buy them back for twenty-five cents a piece, although that rarely ever happened. “At least you can run faster than you can think,” Arthur would say after he caught John by the back of his shirt. “But hardly.”
He could recall Arthur sitting near the horses — or under a tree in the heat of summer — with his back propped up on sacks of food. Less folk back then, which allowed them to keep supplies longer, until they occasionally decided to splurge just because they could.
Dutch’s phonograph always blared over the sounds of even the cicadas, but the hitching posts provided enough distance. Arthur’s hat would be pushed down low over his eyes while he sketched. Other times it would be discarded onto the grass beside him — never too far from his reach, though. Temptation typically rose in John to steal it off the ground and run, but he knew better than to mess with the hat. It set itself as a rule unspoken between all of them. Instead, John found enjoyment in annoying the hell out of him until he finally looked up, or at least until Hosea would take him somewhere else. There was only so much they could take of John’s consistent yapping.
Before, he used to think it was stupid. All Arthur did during every spare moment was scribble and write in the damn thing. Even when Arthur would take him hunting or out for a ride, John would glance over and find him staring down for half the journey. Hosea told him once that the journal was a way for Arthur to stay calm after John complained about it for the hundredth time, or at least a way to prevent him from spending most of his time in a saloon. John still didn’t quite understand until several years later, but he never bothered Arthur about it ever again. There were some things they never talked about.
Things they would never get the opportunity to talk about, now.
He stumbled onto some portrait drawings after heaps of animal sketches, and an ache suddenly coursed through his wrists down to the tips of his fingers. Arthur had only given him one page out of his journal, and it was several years ago. It had been a messy sketch of John, Hosea, and Dutch sitting around a campfire. Hosea’s arms were drawn raised to capture his gestures during his storytelling, one of his ways to hook people into the tale.
Unfortunately, the sketch had been lost when they once had to abandon most of their belongings a long time ago. When they had pushed their luck too far, at least, before Blackwater. So, when John turned the page of the journal, fire still blazing in front of him, he did a double-take.
On a page adjacent to a sketch of a whitetail buck and yarrow rested a similar drawing. Patches of charcoal stained some of the paper, possibly from Arthur looking back to it so many times. It was Dutch standing near a fire, hands raised and mouth open, no doubt giving a speech of some sort. Hosea sat nearby, the drawing leaving him in the process of playfully punching John on the arm. Despite this situation probably occurring dozens of times over his lifespan, he could remember this exact moment.
They had been at Horseshoe Overlook still, the taste of coffee lingering in his mouth — soon to be replaced by beer — and Arthur was sitting a little ways away. Probably so he wouldn’t be caught sketching, now that John thought about it. The rest of camp went about their daily business, whether it had been chores or lazing around.
Dutch had started on a speech, the only specific thing John couldn’t remember. They all started to blur together after so many years, but he recalled Hosea glancing at him with that twinkle in his eyes, punching him on the arm and whispering, “Who’s gonna tell him no one’s listening?”
It was always the question that Hosea asked, so full of disbelief and humor that John wondered how he could put up with Dutch for so many years, even though deep down he knew. He saw it every time Dutch and Hosea had a conversation, every time they planned something together. A raw truth sat in his stomach, another pit to add to the others. He missed Hosea, too. As much as Arthur.
Sometimes, more than he’d like to admit, he even missed Dutch.
The chill of the mountains that day still haunted him, along with the resigned look on his mentor’s face. The glare he received even after trying desperately to say anything, only to shakily express his gratitude, still burned behind his eyelids. Micah was gone forever, but maybe it would’ve been better to. . .no, he thought, shaking his head, it was necessary.
He closed the journal before anything else spilled out that he couldn’t handle, and continued on his way after snuffing out the remaining flames.
—
Sombra was left behind a little ways. He decided the best way to continue was on foot. It allowed him time to reflect as he ascended. It felt more respectful, anyhow.
The place was even more gorgeous in the daytime. The stark contrast between the night he associated the area with and the breathtaking view under the sun nearly left him motionless for moments at a time.
The sun rested at a perfect spot, just in between the peaks of snowy mountains in the far distance. Orange light reflected off the tips. Trees, green and lush, painted the ground below as far as John could see. Wind whistled through the grass and leaves. Birds flew through the sky, in and out of the branches. The sunlight still peeking over bathed the area in gold. Even Bacchus Bridge could be seen, once again a reminder of one of their final times together.
Charles chose the best place.
John wondered how long it took for Charles to carve into the wood. How long did it take for him to decide what to write?
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.
Flowers surrounded the grave. Greens, oranges, reds. A beauty to blend the death in with all of the life around it — a beautiful frame for a solemn picture.
John removed Arthur’s hat and held it in his hands. It felt warm from riding all day underneath the sun. Feathers decorated the side, an accessory Arthur grew quite fond of when they finally moved from Colter. John never took it off, since it had been that way when Arthur placed it on his head several years ago. Wearing his hat at first had been hard. Almost too painful. But then, John found it to be a source of comfort, and a way to honor him. The same applied to using Arthur’s guns, and wearing his satchel. He couldn’t imagine going anywhere without them, now.
In the end, despite his best efforts, he couldn’t think of anything to say. Instead, he sat on the grass, and drew. He knew he couldn’t draw anything like Arthur, didn’t have the skill nor the patience to learn. But he also supposed that it didn’t really matter. He did take this time though, making sure to include as many details as possible. He sketched the flowers, the words onto the wood, the longer blades of grass. The rustling of the paper filled the space with sound.
He thought about Charles like he had been asked, spoke to Arthur in his head since he couldn’t bring himself to speak out loud. He told him about Beecher’s Hope, about how he’d seen a lot of the old members doing just fine for themselves. About Evelyn Miller, about all the land in the west. Jack was mentioned, and how he had remembered fishing with his Uncle Arthur. And finally, he thought about Dutch. Spoke to Arthur about what happened.
And. . .we got Micah. Sadie, Charles, and I. Dutch helped, surprisingly. I know you wanted to put everything behind me, but I just couldn’t. Hopefully you still ain’t thinkin’ about how stupid I am.
Once he finished drawing, he exhaled and stretched, bones cracking and muscles sore from traveling. He knew Arthur didn’t want him to seek out revenge, but how could he let Micah go? Did that make him a bad man? He couldn’t help but feel Arthur would do the same for John. The hatred had been too much to shoulder for him to pass up the opportunity.
The sun disappeared from the sky, the night creeping up fast. He stood, legs shaking, and wrote a final message in the journal. The words remained unspoken. Maybe another day, when he visited again, he would say them. Find it in himself to say something, at least. He could bring Charles or everyone if he wanted. Arthur probably wouldn’t like all of the attention, “Mind your damn business,” he’d most likely say. But, John also knew he would want to see his family. Arthur deserved to be with his family after dying alone.
He glanced down at the journal one last time, and after a mental goodbye, made his way back to Sombra. The moon illuminated every rock, every blade of grass, in a soft glow.
Guess we’re just about done, my friend. It’s been quite a journey.