Chapter Text
Everything he did was razor sharp, precise, splitting the skin from the meat, a smooth, slow, exact motion, something a river would make. Even now, hunched over the turquoise and orange beads, calloused fingers, carefully plucking each bead from the small container, muscle memory tying knots. From this angle, the fire cast a low shadow onto the rough stone behind him, the dance of quick fingers on the stone, the fluttering of the flames- a silent beat in the dark. Arthur remembered the shadow puppets Hosea had taught him when he was younger, rabbits, wolves, elk, …this, no one ever cast a dance quite like this one. A curtain fell over the performance, Arthur grumbled, snapping out of his late night, alcohol induced musings and straightening his aching spine where it stood, uncomfortably low against a tree trunk. The curtain, he realized, a strand of Charles’ hair, the entertainment, all in his head. As if awakened from his own trance, the younger man took a deep breath and paused, setting the beadwork and container on the log next to him, tying his hair. Their eyes meet over the flames, the fire is suddenly so close, a pair of deep set dark eyes full of it, bright lights flickering, surrounded by a dark halo of shadows. Transfixed, something caught in his throat, maybe a gasp or a yell, he wasn’t sure, after a moment, he swallowed. Arthur looked down at his lap, the opened bottle of some cheap whiskey his only other companion, everyone else was already on guard or in their dreams…this all felt like a dream. Maybe someone mixed moonshine into the bottle, he lifted it to his nose, regular whiskey. Blame it on the hard day. When he returned his eyes to the other, he was engrossed in his work again, the dance was noticeably slower now. It was like a snapshot, one moment the dark eyes were aflame, the next completely gone, like a whole person appeared and disappeared before him in a second. No one mixed his alcohol.
“If you ever want to learn…I can teach you.” The statement cut through the fogginess of his dream-like state. The relaxed, cool words barely entering his mind, it was all swimming in there.
“D’you know any of ‘em uh, shadow puppet things?” His own voice came out tired and gravely, nothing like the other one, composed and smooth, slow, exact, a river. “Shadow puppets?” Charles turned to him again, questioning gaze, the dance never stopping. “Oh, uh the um, on the cliffside behind ya’.” He stumbled the words, they felt foreign in his mouth. Charles looked behind him, shoulders twitching, as if he scoffed at his own shadow. The shadows stopped for a moment, then transformed into a…something, Arthur couldn’t quite place it. A head? The fingers at the top of the shadow fanned out, revealing horns, an open mouth. “A moose!” Arthur excitedly said, a little too loud, a hushed shhh coming from the other side of the fire. The hands returned to Charles’ lap and his face turned again. A muscle on his right cheek was tight, like he was suppressing a smile. “I was asking about beadwork, Arthur. I could teach you if you want.”
Arthur huffed at his own stupidity. “ Oh, yeah, maybe…” He lifted his half empty drink, shook it around a little for emphasis. “Maybe when I’m not..like this?” A hopeful gaze, returned by a slow nod. “You were looking very entertained by the process. Thought I would offer.” A matter-of-fact statement, followed by the slow continuation of the beads, thread, knot, shadow on the rock. Of course Charles felt him staring like an oaf. Thankfully, this time, he could feign interest, maybe even convince himself it was the colorful patterns he was so enamored with.
“I should get going, you on watch tonight?” Arthur slowly got up and grabbed his hat, sparing one last glance up at the other. “No, not tonight.” His voice was lower, he was tired too. Arthur nodded briskly at the other, and retreated back to his lean-to with drink in hand, on wobbly legs. If he forgets, and no one knows, did it even happen? What was he supposed to forget again? He frowned at himself, his lean-to flickering with low candle light, something about shadow puppets. Charles’ hands, a large moose, Charles’ hands, large. He grumbled to himself and heavily sat on his cot, taking one last mouthful of whiskey before capping the bottle and leaving it next to his picture of Mary. He sighed, looking at her, half expecting her to move, for the eyes to look the other way, at him, to look at him fondly. Dark eyes, in flames, looking at him trough the shadows. What? “Arthur Morgan you must be already dreamin’ or in-to-xi-cated.” He drawled and laid down, covering himself haphazardly with a thin blanket, it wasn’t the warmest of nights. His head was swimming. All his thoughts were drowning in it, a low humm of a river enveloped his senses. In the valley between sleep and consciousness, a river so smooth and cool, took all his worries away. A black curtain fell over him, it was quiet, and in that silence, daft hands worked swiftly, the sound of tiny beads, knocking against each other.
