Work Text:
when death
takes my hand
i will hold you with the other
and promise to find you
in every lifetime
- commitment
Soft but clear rays of golden hues phased through and around the fresh leaves and branches of the herds of trees that engulfed the passing in Cumberland Forest, breathing in and out with the northern breeze that brisked past. The earth, honey-coloured under the intimate rays of light, carried the faint scent of the last rainfall among the dewed-up leaves and blades of grass.
It wasn’t John’s first time here, nor would his actual first time visiting be his last, even though it sometimes felt like it, even now. He had come down this way as of three times up before, now being his fourth, preferring the recalling of his visits northwards over the gnawing memory of him running away from that early morning dusk. The after hours concealing the world into a formidable battle ground shrouded in misty darkness as his panting suffocated him at his throat. The words of his brother, more than a whisper now in his memory, were somehow piercing through him more than the rain of bullets they both tried to flee from - fleeing which only John was successful in doing. He wasn’t headed to where Arthur drew his last breath, but it wasn’t that far, nor did the path look so different from the one he escaped from down the mountain in the sunlight, a realisation he unwillingly garnered every time he came through it.
It was almost nine years ago, and John Marston had found acceptance in Arthur being gone, despite what he initially believed as him having accepted it already. At least now, Arthur could be the subject of the conversation without John attempting to shut it down immediately, wanting to lock away the pain of abandoning the last of his family for his current one. He never regretted his choice though - Arthur had forewarned him after all - and the notion of doing what he could for his family would never be something for him to question.
But it didn’t stop him from thinking about the man who saved him and his family; it likely never would. It didn’t stop him from feeling a gnaw ache in his heart, sore enough for him to lightly tug onto it through his vest. For a time when John wanted no involvement in any conversation surrounding Arthur, that he was gone and that there was nothing more to it - perhaps he was more so trying to convince someone else of that notion rather than his wife and son.
John took a breath, and before he knew it, he was now in front of the mountain above the strange hill home, following the trail upwards past it. The peaks of the mountain covered up any trace of sunlight that could be imprinted on his face as he looked up, trotting up the steep passing beside it that led to the mountain range: a vein across east Grizzlies. Cutting to the right half way, he intended to step off of Rachel and hitch her on a branch of the tree he always hitched her on during his visits, only to look askance at what stood in front of him instead: a male, bay-coated American Paint hitched on where Rachel was usually hitched at. The steed bore a more than decent-looking, red and yellow-patterned side-saddle. There was no scabbard attached let alone any gun or defensive weapon of any sort holstered inside, and the saddle bag was hanging off the side, almost out in the open. Whoever or wherever this rider is, they’re just asking to get robbed, John thought to himself.
Stepping off of Rachel, he hitched her to the branch of another tree, near their now occupied spot. John kept his eyes and ears up as he patted her mane and hoped to approach the purpose of his visit without issue: the wooden Celtic cross awaiting before him that looked over the valley and what would later be the setting sun. He half expected to see the words reach him the moment he caught a glimpse of the grave;
ARTHUR MORGAN - BLESSED ARE THOSE WHO HUNGER AND THIRST FOR…”
..?
The words didn’t reach him for they were blocked behind a figure looming in front of the cross. A black dress - a woman - remained still where she stood besides the occasional raise of, what seemed to be, a handkerchief towards her face; no reason to sheath his gun from his holster, it seemed, but he couldn’t assume why she was here for Arthur. Who was she? John could only see so much from a distance behind her before slowly approaching, hearing her light sniffles the closer he got whilst making sure he didn't stumble forwards against the steep hill. It didn’t take long for the woman to turn around rapidly, a faint gasp escaping her lips, taking a step back. John put his hands up,
“It’s okay, ma’am, I didn’t…–”
Something about the woman seemed… off to him. Though the black hat she wore, matching her dress, had a veil attached, it was tucked inside rather than hanging above her glossy eyes; such eyes belonging to a face John felt some strange familiarity to, but couldn’t place where just yet.
“–... mean to scare you. I'm just here to…” he gestures to Arthur's grave, “pay my respects to my old friend here, if you don’t mind."
He could see in her eyes she hoped to grieve alone just as much as he expected the same for himself. He approached her, standing next to her in front of the grave as she shifted away, the cross dividing them both and leaving an equal distance between the two. His gaze was fixed towards the grave, but he at least got the chance to get a better look at this strange woman to his left that reminded him of what he thought he forgot about. Her attire clearly read as a woman - a widow - in mourning, her outfit embroidered with lighter grey trims and a silver brooch adorned below her dress collar, pearl-sized gems of emerald or jade - John couldn’t tell - sitting at the centre. Under her hat, her noir hair was tied delicately behind her in a low bun and a wee birthmark that John swore to himself that he recognised sat on her cheek below her umber doe eyes. John had a strong knack for recognising faces, but this one nagged at him and whatever memory he chose to lock away. Just where did he know this stranger from? Why is she alone without any form of protection? More importantly, repeating to himself mentally, just how did she know Arthur to visit his grave?
A deafening silence sunk between the two: John was stuck between trying to slowly break the ice or directly question this woman, whereas she herself was tugging at her black handkerchief out of nervousness from the presence of a stranger - a man - particularly whilst she was in an emotional state. Even so, despite the woman’s almost stone-face expression towards the grave as if John wasn’t standing right next to her contrasting against her nervous tic, she would then continue to lightly sniffle and dab her damp eyes here and there. He would have asked her immediately who she was, and specifically, who she was to Arthur, but he slowed. His brows furrowed, a soft sigh leaving his lips, as he tried to think back - if not to the past, then at least what John remembered from Arthur’s old journal. He was about to speak, until–
“So, you knew him?”
John turned upon hearing his words be taken from him before he could even say them yet before looking back at the skyline that laid before them both.
“Sure… I guess you can say that.”
He didn’t bother to ask her the same question - instead, he turned his head to her again, fixing his gaze onto her instead of giving small glances this time. His brows remained furrowed as he tried to scan her face from her side before she eventually looked over towards him, beginning to feel unsettled.
“... What?”
Arthur’s journal - John hadn’t looked through in a long while, but now that the woman’s face was towards him and closer, suddenly it began to register to him.
“I know you from somewhere.”
She stayed silent, her eyes making her look like a deer in headlights. Those doe eyes, one he remembered at some point in his earlier life, and one he realised he recognised through charcoal on paper.
“You knew Arthur, didn’t you?”
‘I feel like the luckiest man alive and I feel like a fool.’
It started to click for him. Not just the journal, but all those years ago: he was just shy of a teenage boy, scruffy-haired and looking over at Hosea calling his name. Arthur with his arm being wrapped around by the hands of a beautiful young woman with the same noir hair, the same umber doe eyes, and the same birthmark on her cheek, being introduced to Dutch and Hosea followed by Bessie and Annabelle, a little boy dressed like some weird little sailor by the girl's side. He only heard about the woman in question, sometimes by name, from Arthur’s incessant rambling that made John wonder if he actually was shot by Cupid’s arrow, or a poisoned one making him go all silly, retreating to the seclusion of his tent anytime he got a letter from her like some timid idiot. John had only been with the gang for many a month at that point, but already knew that Arthur either kidnapped this poor girl or she was unwell. What did *he* do to get a city girl to be all sweet on him like that all willingly?
John remembered sitting next to the woman in front of the campfire a number of times, one instance being one of her slapping the back of her hand at Arthur’s arm following a mean remark he made towards him - ‘Why do you talk to him that way? He’s just a boy!’
She was always kind to him. Somehow, it annoyed him more than Arthur being a teasing prick, but he didn’t argue against it to her. Not always anyway.
But John also remembered the man Arthur was like around her. He was the same Arthur that she somehow fell in love with, sure, but there was a side to him John never saw. A side to him he only recognised in his journal, reflective in the words he poured onto the paper that would only become more and more frantic towards the final pages.
‘Oh Mary! Be happy. Please be happy.’
Her eyes were still fixed on John’s. Those umber doe eyes that he recognised from his youth and from Arthur’s delicate translation on paper.
“Mary? Mary… Gillis, was it?”
She shuffled slightly. Normally she would have corrected him on being named Linton for the past twenty-plus years, but she had no energy or care for it anymore. And although John knew her, he was still as much of a stranger to her. What if he was an associate of Arthur? Or more likely, what if he was an enemy? She recalled Arthur reminding her in their final conversation that he was a wanted man and that anyone who was with him was wanted too. Her heart rate began to increase in speed, but she kept her composure, or at least tried to.
"Who’s asking?”
“Ah, uh…” He glanced down slightly before eventually looking back at her, his whole body now towards her direction, “You probably don’t remember me. I was still new to the gang and- just a kid last time you and I met, when… When you and Arthur were sweet on each other.”
He could see her try to remember just as much as he was just earlier. The gang… A kid? There was only one - a feral, potty-mouthed creature that Mary saw a scared little boy in, a good child deep down even if his poor behaviour reflected otherwise.
Surely that scrawny delinquent isn’t the tall, broad man in front of her now, all scarred, raspy-voiced and harsh-looking… Surely! But who else would it be? There was only one child in the gang, and now that she was the one staring back at him, she couldn’t help but see a resemblance of the boy she once knew. The same eyes, the same hair - although less choppy. Could it really be..?
“... John? J-John Marston?”
A faint smile bloomed from John’s lips, lifting his arms up sideways before letting them fall to his hips again half way, “Yeah..!”
The woman’s - Mary’s - mouth slightly hung agape as she scanned him up and down, before breaking into a slight chuckle, wiping away at her eyes again.
“John! Well I– I barely recognised you..! You’re– you’re…”
He gestured his hand around his face whilst maintaining his smile, “All scarred and wrinkled-up since you last saw me?”
Mary chuckled, but looked down for a moment, “Well, I was gonna say…” her eyes, almost returning to their melancholy state, turned towards him again, “You’re a man now.”
“I am. Or, maybe my wife would beg to differ.” He turned his body to the grave but kept his vision towards her.
“Your wife?"
“That's right. Abigail Roberts. I think you knew her. Spoke fondly of you.”
“I… Remember her. Sweet girl. And you two are now married?”
“We are.” John continued, “We have a ranch and a son, Jack. Turns thirteen in a few months.”
“A ranch, huh?”
“Sure thing.”
Looking back towards the cross, Mary smiled, visible from under the brim of her hat, “... Maybe it’s because I’m still used to you from all those years ago, but- I never considered you to be a ranch hand.”
“Hah, I didn’t either for a time, but... Things are good. Abigail is well, Jack is well… All is– well, I guess!”
“Well I’m very happy for you, John. Truly.”
Though her words were genuine, her joy seemed fleeting as her vision remained locked in on the cross, a desolate stare hanging between her and the painted words above it. The sight made John remember what both of them were here for, and gazed towards the grave with her. The distance between the two grew again, back to where it was before they recognised each other, albeit now it felt less invasive. A silence fell between them, Mary standing perfectly still whilst John shuffled slightly here and there,
“So… How’d you find out?”
Mary thought he would ask that question - it only seemed logical. Still, she took her time before taking a deep breath and responding.
“I found out in newspapers almost immediately after everything. It was everywhere: the ‘fall of the van Der Linde gang’, as they called it… There were names included of– Pinkerton agents and those from the gang that died within the process of it all. Grimshaw, dear Hosea…” she paused, taking a gulp before speaking, praying her voice wouldn’t waver at even the mere mention of his name, one she thought she could never utter again. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out immediately until, “When I read Arthur's name, I…”
She sniffled, sealing her mouth shut and blinking, shutting her eyes closed before opening them again. They began to prick, and this time she felt almost embarrassed to dab her tears away with her handkerchief now that she was in the presence of someone. But she didn’t care anymore, not when she had cared too much about everything else besides what she desired the most, and look what became of her.
But she didn’t just lose the only man she loved. John lost a brother - and if there was anyone who understood Arthur best besides her, it would have been him. Perhaps Mary didn’t internalise it yet, but at least there was that remnant of hope.
“He saved me, you know.” He paused, but continued when Mary didn’t react in any way, “The night it happened, he…”
He paused, not knowing if Mary already knew.
“... Did you, uh… Know about Arthur's…–”
“His tuberculosis?” she interrupted, “Not at the time, but… I was told by someone who was very close to him and you. I… I'm sorry, I cannot remember her name. A young woman, Black, maybe twenty or so… Lily?”
“Tilly? Tilly Jackson?”
“Yes… That was her name.”
It wasn’t a name he suspected to be anywhere near associated with Mary aside from Tilly's dislike for the woman she believed unrightfully broke her brother's heart. Her brother who he was close to, perhaps more close than he was with John when things were rocky between them until the end. John looked quizzically at Mary.
“I didn't remember her; she must have joined the gang– after I broke things off with Arthur. But she told me how close she was with you two, and…” She looked down, “Well… I don’t know how– open Arthur was about what happened, but Miss Jackson did admit her– initial dislike of me, which…” she gulped and looked towards the skyline before her, “It wasn’t like she was cruel about it, but– she told me that, despite however she thought of me, I at least deserved to know what happened to him, to… Set personal feelings aside. She told me how he saved her, how… he was already severely ill, and– how she got word from another friend who buried him and told her where, how she returned after the Pinkertons cleared off to lay flowers for Grimshaw and him, and–... I asked her where Arthur was buried, and she told me what her friend told her. Gave me that kind of closure despite everything else, I guess.”
John looked away, understanding, though - knowing Tilly - he didn’t assume her to be so generous to those she didn’t favour. But perhaps, at the time, things mattered more than personal grudges, especially when despite everything, Arthur still kept Mary in his failing heart and final memories.
“Well, as I said, he… He saved my life. He tried to make the others see sense, those that stayed. One final effort, despite everything. We was trying to run, and he was already dying… He told me to run, and I did.”
“That… Must have been hard. To do, I mean.”
He tried to lighten his tone, “I don’t need your pity, ma’am.”
“I know. I wasn’t– trying to pity you, but still– I can… Only imagine how difficult that must have been on you. I’m sorry, John.”
John stayed silent, looking at his boots as he furrowed his expression again. Because it was hard. It was something he made himself accept, and very rarely - at the back of his mind - did he just wish he could deny it once, that he could pretend that what happened that night wasn’t what actually transpired. That, just for a moment, he wouldn’t be so desensitised to death so that he could properly mourn the man who he grew up with as a brother. But where would he be if he thought like that? He’s here now at least, isn’t he? Another silence fell between them.
Mary inhaled slightly, “It doesn’t surprise me that Arthur did that. He was always selfless. Perhaps too much for his own good. He was more than just loyal, I know that, but… I know I wasn’t perfect - I had my reasons, as did he, but…” she gulped, refusing to look at John at that moment otherwise she would never get the words out and give in to the clawing feeling residing in her throat, “He was loyal to the gang until the end, more loyal to the gang than to me - what he promised me. A different life, away from everything. Just me and him. I wanted to hate him for every moment he disappointed me, every time he broke my heart, but… I never could, at the end of the day. And I– never forgave myself for the times I broke his heart neither. I… We– ...”
She paused again when her voice began to break, tears resurfacing harshly before letting them fall. She began to seal her eyes shut as if she were attempting to envision the old days, wanting nothing more than to relive the softest moments they shared that would be forever ingrained into the skin Arthur had once touched and kissed,
“We were both so young… But we had hope. I had hope. We were young and thought we still had so much time left - time we could have had to run away, get married, have children… I still think about it - about him - always.”
John still stayed silent. What could he even say to that? That he and Abigail were living the life that may as well have been stolen from Mary? How was he supposed to feel that he got to live the life Arthur didn’t get the chance to live for himself? Or was that the plan the whole time the sicker Arthur became? John took his time recalling Mary's words again and the memories attached to them. How, even back at camp, in the later hours, he - still as observant as much as he was young and vulgar - would sometimes catch a glimpse of her and Arthur sitting alone together, conversing, and seeing a different look behind his eye. He probably would have made fun of Arthur to his face about how head-over-heels he was over some city girl if it weren’t for what followed. The impact said city girl left him in at the end of things, especially after their last conversation, which was more of an emotion-fuelled argument anyway, in what would be many a year. But worst of all, the letter he would receive from Mary, confirming her suddenly-due marriage to some other feller, slightly crinkled and still freshly tear-stained when John found it on the dirt besides Arthur’s bed with Arthur himself nowhere around.
He didn’t see him as often during that time, but when he did, it was always from a distance: sulking with a beer bottle in hand, or leaving - whether to go somewhere more private to spill out his broken heart through whatever tears he had left to shed or to attempt to flood it out with more booze at saloons. John may not have learned the full side from Mary’s perspective, but at the time, he might as well have thought that he didn’t need to; the result of what spawned before the boy was evident enough.
But he wasn’t a boy anymore. He may have still held onto that bias, but now that she was here, what better time than to ask?
“Then what reasons did you have then, ma’am–?”
“Please,” she turned her head to him, a streak of a stray tear already seeping against the skin of her cheek, “There’s no need for that. We know each other. You can still call me Mary.”
“Well… Mary. You said you knew you weren’t perfect, that you and Arthur both had your ‘reasons’. What reasons were there for you, then?”
Mary dabbed at her eyes and cheeks with her dark handkerchief again, sniffling and looking forward, “... He was twenty-one, twenty-two. I was almost nineteen- when we first met. He loved me, and I loved him. I wanted to be with him. But…” her head tilted downwards, looking down towards the hemline of her dress, “My parents, my– my father, he… He eventually found out that Arthur was an outlaw after I already did, and he treated Arthur horribly for it. Didn’t want me to be with him at all. At that point, my mother was very unwell and dying herself, and my father– he began to struggle with gambling, spending our family fortune bit by bit, and often slept in his office with two or three bottles beside him… I went against his wishes to stay away from Arthur many times; went behind his back, tried to make him see sense that Arthur was a good man, that he didn’t know him like I did, that…” she shuddered slightly, “That Arthur was a better man than my father ever could be... He would shame me, berate me, threaten to send me away, accuse me of– bringing shame to our family’s ‘respectable’ name… As if he wasn’t doing all that himself already!” Her voice began to strain slightly against tears threatening to fall again. She sniffled.
“One time– me and my father had, uh… an argument - one of many I suppose, but… During this time, Arthur had already asked me to marry him. I said yes, and my father never spared me any mercy for his disapproval. He was always telling me how I should be with another man - a man like us, ‘civilised’ ... I loved my mother, despite everything–” she brushed her gloved fingers along the gems of her brooch, “– but I’ve seen what being married to someone ‘civilised’ has done to both her and my father, and I didn’t want to have anything like that. I didn’t want to be miserable like my mother, and I told him as much. In the end, he– I suppose, dismissed me. I feared he was finally kicking me out for good, but it was just for the night or two. He told me that if I wanted to be an…” she gulped, feeling the hurt pierce her throat, “… An ‘outlaw’s whore for the night’ as he called me, he’d let me do so. Clearly not because of a sudden change of heart, but… Because he couldn’t bear to see my face for the night, so he said. I just… packed a day’s clothes and left. I went to Arthur, told him everything.”
John barely looked at Mary as she spoke, visualising her words coming to life before him, but still somewhat not understanding of what gnawed at the front of his mind,
“With all due respect, ma’a– Mary… Why would you stay? I mean– life out there ain’t pretty, I should know, but… Didn’t sound any better at home, either.”
“...”
Mary held her handkerchief against her lips, sealing her eyes shut again before regaining some sort of composure. It was that kind of question that plagued her mind, one that Arthur always asked of her. She breathed in, lowering the fabric.
“I stayed… For the same reason Arthur stayed with the gang. I loved my father, despite how he treated me. I didn't want to admit it then, but I loathed and resented him, but somehow I still loved him at the same time. I defended him every time because I thought that he would eventually come around, tried to convince myself that he wasn’t always this way, even though I know now that there wasn't anything I could do... I thought I– owed it to him. My whole life.”
Owed it to him. It felt familiar to John - and he was very much sure it would have felt the same to Arthur as well - to the man they themselves once thought of as ‘father’, however many moons ago that was now.
“That night, I… I stayed with Arthur. Things between us started to get… rocky. I wanted to run away with him, but… I felt– trapped . I couldn't abandon my family, especially my little brother, Jamie. Arthur couldn’t understand why I would stay in such an environment, not that I felt like I had much of a choice. He said he would protect me, provide for me… And I believed him. But it would always end up with me asking’ ‘Why can't you just– turn your life around whilst you still have time?’ to him asking me , ‘Why must I be the one to change?’ ... I was elated when he proposed to me, and we tried to keep spirits up, but things were getting harder. We would have arguments more often, and I returned home shortly after. When I did…”
Mary blinked through more tears, the memory of her entering the foyer and the sight of the sitting room - knowing what would follow - left a venomous stain in her mouth.
“When I came home, my father had already found a man for me to marry; someone like us, someone ‘respectable’, so that my father would know for sure that me and Arthur would be completely over. I couldn’t say no. I feared me and Arthur were already over by that point, but this one sealed it, and all I could do was… Essentially write him out of my life through a letter, telling him about my future marriage.” She sealed her eyes shut again, gulping down what felt like the gasps for air she would choke out through her cries when she was younger, “Over the years until– and even after my husband died - and my mother before him… Our family fortune began to go down the drain the more my father sold, spent and gambled. I went from living in my father’s house, to my husband’s house, to being alone renting rooms.”
John looked down, a sigh leaving his lips.
“That’s… Bad business.”
He wasn’t the best with words, even less at comforting others. But as heartless as he saw himself as - as heartless as he had been - he would be lying if Mary didn’t remind him of the woman he had back home. Abigail’s early life, her whole life, contrasted Mary’s greatly, but in a way, they also almost mirrored each other: forced into lives they didn’t ask to be born into. At the centre of their suffering, it was always somehow intertwined with the actions of men they both loved from the heart and men they were conditioned to obey.
“What about now?”
Mary dabbed her cheeks with her handkerchief again, “Well… My mother passed away less than fifteen years ago, my husband died ten years ago from pneumonia, the man I wanted to have as my husband since I was twenty is dead too. My father, well… He died a few years ago himself - his drinking seemed to have caught up with him, it seems… All I have left with me is my Jamie. I was living with him for a long while after he graduated college when I started to not even be able to afford renting rooms anymore. But he’s since graduated and is a lawyer with a wife and a baby on the way. He’s a man now. It’s still sometimes hard for me to accept, especially when I had to depend on him for help… I didn’t feel good about it, as the oldest - I practically raised him more than mother and daddy did… But him being grown is something I’ve learned to accept. He’s a– a good man, better than his father, and he’s… Actually helped me get a job as a stenographer. It’s decent money, but he has his own life now. I used to type for his court trials, but not anymore. He lives all the way in Maine, and I… I admittedly have nothing left to live for. Financially, I’m quite comfortable, and for that I am grateful, but I’m… Well…”
Alone was what she was. Alone for so long, mourning in solitude. She needn’t say it for John to pick it up though.
“I understand.”
A sigh left her lips - tearful, tired, and utterly defeated, “Oh, you must think I’m a fool…”
“Not exactly.” John turned to her, seeing her head hanging low, “Or at least, no more than Arthur was. You stayed for loyalty, he stayed for loyalty…” he then moved his vision towards the cross before them, feeling a sting at the sudden memory of what once was, “ I stayed for loyalty… Loyalty towards the wrong person. Arthur once said that perhaps it wasn’t about us choosing this life, but this life choosing us. But…” he looked towards her, Mary returning the eye contact, “I may not be an expert on ladies, least of all women of your… Standing. But it seems that applied to you just as much. Me and Arthur made our choices a long time ago, at least there was a time where he could have left. Whether or not he had the willpower to do so is different, but if he did, he could have - I don’t know - at least attempted to turn himself around. But… He couldn’t, and that’s that. But you didn’t ask to be born a female either, just as me and Arthur didn’t ask to be born and raised in the situations we were in before Dutch found us. But with you, already by that point, your life must have been entirely decided for you, I imagine.”
He looked forward again, those umber doe eyes following his own.
“Like I said, I… Am by no means an expert on women. Hell, I feel like there’s still something new I learn about them every day at home that I can still never get right.” his lips tugged upwards barely, “But, I think of my Abigail, and… With how she lived and all…” he bit the inside of his lip slightly, brows furrowing slightly before looking up again, “Maybe when I was younger, I held whatever grudge I had for you for how things went down with Arthur, but… At the end of the day, you’re both women living in a man’s world. That already seems harsh enough.”
“Hmph.” Mary held back a tearful scoff, “Trust me John, being born a woman in this world is the greatest punishment.”
He didn’t need to be a woman with first-hand experience himself to understand or even try to. Perhaps he even contributed to such experience when he let down Abigail and Jack time and time again, giving him more chances than he knew he deserved. But the women he knew growing up - some of the best women he had the privilege of knowing and calling them family - were whores or thieves, or both, who had to fight tooth and nail to just barely survive. Not ‘civilised’ women like Mary who, prior to today, John figured must have lived more than comfortably and content with themselves. He knew the world was an unkind place to people like him, but especially to women - women vulnerable enough like Abigail growing up. John recalled her opening up to him about her childhood working in more ways than one in brothels whereby she would be told by her madames that the one advantage women could hold closely to themselves was that they could be broken and destitute, yet would still always have ‘something people would love to take a piece of’. Such words made John’s stomach churn and fists clench up, especially knowing it was something Abigail had to live by. Something he couldn’t help her from himself, even if they never met each other yet at that point.
He always assumed the struggle would never be mirrored - at least in a similar way - among privileged women. But following this unexpected reunion transpiring before him, it seemed as though Mary was equally as trapped under the thumb of men who saw themselves as superior. Not even she had the luxury to run away with whom she loved. And even family reputation and shame aside, not even she was immune to being loyal to what she was conditioned to believe mattered most. It reminded John of a certain someone both he and Mary knew, one who was lying beneath the dirt before them.
“... I don’t doubt that.” he finally replied.
Hesitating to not make her feel potentially worse, John opened his mouth, but no words came out until they finally spilled,
“If it gives you any consolation, Mary… Arthur gave me his journal the last time I spoke to him. His satchel and everything inside, and reading through it… He always spoke fondly of you. Always. After you two was in Saint Denis together, he wrote that he still loved you. He struggled believing the life he belonged to, and he wasn’t perfect, but he loved you, after all those years–”
“I know.” She replied quickly, not wanting to wait for her voice cracking as her eyes began to prick at the memory of his hands gloved around hers, the sweetness of the promise he made to her - the same promise he made many times before - the same promise he failed to keep, painful even more knowing it was likely not even his goddamn fault.
“I know he still loved me. I still loved him too. I had enough of my father - everything - and told Arthur to run away with me myself… And he said he wanted to. More than anything. But he said he had to look after people, apparently, just a little longer and get some money for us first. Only then would he come back to me... Maybe I was foolish for having hoped that things would be different this time, but then I read the newspapers about the bank robbery in the city, then about all that Leviticus Cornwall business up in Annesburg… That was before I read of him dying. That day in Saint Denis was the last time I saw Arthur alive.”
John stayed silent. Mary hoped not to cry again at someone being close to finally understanding her perspective of things, but the gates guarding her tears abandoned her like everyone else seemingly did.
“I’m sorry–.” she pressed her handkerchief over both her eyes, suppressing it against them.
“For what?” Turning towards her, he worried if he might have said the wrong thing before a small but pitied chuckle escaped from her. God, she felt so silly and weak.
“For crying, again.”
“Well…” he looked towards the grave and back to her, “I don’t suppose that’s much to be sorry for, especially here.”
“Maybe. It’s just… You’re the first person I’ve talked about Arthur in this way, or at all, for many years.” she sniffled, lowering her handkerchief down with the attempt to compose herself through a pitiful smile and laugh, “You’d think that after almost nine years of visiting this grave, and everything I went through, that I would be dried up of any tears left to shed. Clearly not. Maybe Arthur is spiting me once and for all.”
John snorted slightly at the claim, as did Mary - although for him, it was unintentional admittedly. Eventually, she broke into a wet chuckle, one strange, the sight of her giggling through her tears, yet seemingly contagious as John laughed along with her. Both knew that the claim was far from true. Even in life, in some of his lowest moments following the collapse of their young love, the last thing Arthur would ever wish upon Mary would be pain, much less pain inflicted by him directly. Both John and Mary knew this, but they still laughed anyway. After their laughter died down, Mary felt her shoulders ease slightly and the pulsating soreness in her head started to alleviate.
“Thank you, John.”
Her words, minimal as they were, weighed heavily in the way John understood. He gazed towards Mary as she stared at him back, recognising the understanding behind his eyes. Somehow, even after roughly two decades of not seeing him - both her more prominent smile lines and his light, sinuous wrinkles over his engraved scars being only the physical remnants of such passed time - Mary swore she could still see the little boy behind his clouded and ever-harsh looking eyes, his faint smile bringing her back to those days by the gang campfire in the early spring eve. Eventually, they looked beyond them. A silence of many fell among them again, but this time, it felt comfortable - natural. They stood there for some moments in peace until another question boggled at John’s mind.
“That your horse back there?”
“Yes.”
“And would it be safe to assume that you came all the way up here… By yourself?”
“... Yes?”
He exhaled through his nostrils in a soft snort as he looked away, causing Mary to quizzically raise her brow.
“What? Surely you didn’t think of me as too pompous enough to be required of a chaperone?”
“Ha! No, it ain’t like that. Well… Maybe , but– it’s more so that–” he turned to her, “There’s still a lot of bad out here, especially so isolated. And with no protection or weapon–”
“I do have protection. I carry a revolver in my saddle bag.”
John was admittedly taken aback. Mary Gillis Linton? Owning an armed weapon? The present implication of her knowing how to use one? She looked like she never laid a finger on a gun in her whole life, and he would have scoffed right there if it weren’t for her claim of where she kept her gun not doing her any justice for him to not call out.
“Yeah. In your saddle bag. Which is hanging off your horse all the way up there - next to the path and exposed. Whilst you’re down here, anyone could slip their hands in there and rob you blind.”
It was clear she had little argument against John’s words when she turned her nose away from him, scrunching it up slightly in annoyance. But it wasn’t until the words that next came from John’s lips that she turned to him again, unexpecting:
“How about I take you back?”
“... Since when did you learn to be all chivalrous?”
“This ain’t about that.”
Mary paused, squinting her eyes slightly, “... I– Haven’t not gotten into trouble with any particular folk, if that’s what you mean.”
“Doesn’t mean it can’t happen. I don’t know or care to know if the O’Driscoll Boys are still about New Hanover anymore, but we’re real up north of the state, and I’m unsure how far the Murfree Broods have spread up around here. If not them, then some other bastards you won’t want to come across. Is there nowhere I can drop you off?”
Mary wanted to deny him again, but she would be lying if she wasn’t nervous every time she reached so far up north in quite a desolate area just overlooking the Ambarino border. She was always stubborn, as Arthur would constantly remind her as she did so to him back.
“Alright… You can drop me off at Valentine station. I’ve been here for a while, my train must be due soon anyway.” She tucked her handkerchief away as she gave one last longing look at the grave before making her way back up the steep, rocky hill with John joining her.
“There, that’s more like it.” He offered his arm for her to wrap her own pair around to support them as they walked upwards, “How you could even get up and down this part of the mountain in a dress is beyond me. I've even struggled to not take a tumble sometimes.”
“Oh shut up, Marston!”
“You sound like my wife!”
“I’m not as hopeless as falling on my ass on the dirt like you say you apparently are.”
“I’m real sure, Mrs. Linton.”
Mary held her right gloved hand onto her dress above the rocky terrain as she held onto John’s arm with her left, the two - particularly John, with Mary struggling to keep up if her arm wasn’t interlocked with his - making large steps to advance quicker. Eventually, they made it up top, Mary trying not to pant slightly at how fast they were walking - almost climbing. Walking her to her steed, John held his hand out to help her up, which she politely declined as she effortlessly got on top by herself.
“Handsome one you got.” He exclaimed as he made his way to Rachel, unhitching her from the tree before handling himself onto her saddle.
“He’s not mine, unfortunately. He’s a loan from the stable back in Valentine.”
John looked towards Arthur’s grave from above, whispering a soft “‘Till next time, brother.” under his breath as Mary already made her way towards the main path. Clicking his tongue, he swerved the reins to his right slightly and followed her down the mountain pass. The two, now side-by-side, trotted past Bacchus station and through the passage, leading them both deeper into Cumberland Forest. The air felt less cooler now that they weren’t above ground anymore, and the sung chirps of the cardinals caused Mary to look up at them, a small flock soaring above.
“So where are you living now?” Asked John.
“Philadelphia.”
“That’s a… Lot of civilisation.”
A chuckle escaped Mary’s lips, “I know, it’s terrible. But I don’t mind it. I’m used to a lot of ‘civilisation’.”
“Glad to see you haven’t changed from being a city girl still.”
“Oh hush, ranch hand .” She sneered towards him as he only chuckled in response.
The two continued to cut through Cumberland Forest, and as the golden rays of the sun continued to bleed into the passing, John looked back on his earlier years, the last time he and Mary had spoken.
“You know… I remember when Arthur brought you to camp for the first time.”
Mary looked down, her eyes hooded as she smiled faintly, “Do you now?”
“Yeah. You were under his arm when he introduced you to Dutch and Hosea, then Bessie…–”
“Oh, sweet Bessie… I still miss her.”
“Yeah. Annabelle liked you a bit too, I remember.” He continued following Mary’s hum, “Hosea called me over, and when I got a better look at you, I remember thinking, ‘My Lord. This girl looks so pretty and fair, I wonder how Arthur got her. Surely he must have kidnapped her, forced her at gunpoint, or she’s beyond having a fever of the mind!’ ”
Mary almost guffawed, something that not even she thought she would ever do again. As her laugh died down to a chuckle, she loosened the hold of her reins whilst the horse carrying her continued to trot along.
“Oh, I don’t doubt I must have been unwell! Arthur sure had a way with words, and I had already known him for a good half a year by that point.”
“How did you two meet again? Ain’t too fair to insult me by calling me a ranch hand when I swear you came from a family of ranch hands yourself.”
Mary chuckled in a breath, “We were not ranch hands, we were ranch owners from Kansas.” She stroked her horse’s mane, swirling the combed hairs between her gloved fingers, “It was a family business that I was due to inherit. Like I said, I was nineteen at the time, same time I met Arthur, and my father– I suppose he wasn’t ready to wait so long for Jamie to grow older. I didn’t inherit the business immediately - my father was still very much at the head of it all - but he was teaching me the ways of it. I learned fast, and by then I was mostly helping out with the finances. And I was good at it. One day I hear word of a new worker, Arthur, at the ranch. I had already known all the other workers, and I thought that maybe it would be good for me to formally introduce myself to this newcomer. Good practice, I guess, for when I would have to welcome new potential workers for hire in the future myself. I went over to him and I said ‘hello’ . And he…” She looked down, grinning to herself as a slight colour of blush bloomed above her cheeks.
“... What?”
Mary didn’t answer immediately, biting her lip slightly so as not to laugh at the memory before speaking again, “When I said ‘hello’ and introduced myself, he just… Stared at me. I thought I had something on my face or whatnot, but he came down to Earth eventually and was all flushed! He was tall, very handsome, broad - maybe not as broad as last time I saw him, but…” Suddenly becoming embarrassed that she was thinking out loud to the man who was technically Arthur’s brother, she cleared her throat and tucked some of her hair behind her ear, “R-Regardless… He seemed shy at first, but quickly got over it. He was a silly man - real silly, doing peculiar things to impress me, I suppose - but I loved every attempt, deep down. Every letter he wrote to me, every drawing, every poem… Hm .” She breathed a light snort through her nostrils at the flashback that played in her mind, memories of moments between the two that were only intertwined between her and Arthur, no one else.
Even when Mary was married off to another, older man, she never threw away Arthur’s mail. Even letters her father found and tossed into the fire or tore up, all in front of her as she wailed in pleading tears for him to stop, she managed to at least save some and hide them better from his wrath. Letters, poems and drawings alike - not a single piece of paper wasted away from her memory, for the words he wrote to her were written in more than just pencil lead and charcoal. There, whether they were written words or sketches, contained the deepest of what Mary quickly learned as being both the rawness and purity he felt for her that he otherwise would struggle to hitch out verbally: paragraphs and stanzas that built fortresses for her to seek refuge in and lie back in the darkest of nights. Despite what others might have assumed, Arthur wasn’t entirely emotionally closed off; if anything, he was willing to be vulnerable, but only to those he could truthfully open his heart to. Mary was one of those people, one of the first ones. It showed particularly so in his writings to her, the illuminating warmth of the candle light sitting on her night stand not being the only thing heating her up during the after hours. Her eyes drifted away, as did her words, before quickly being brought back to the ground.
“Never took Arthur as a romantic until you came along.” John spoke out, “I spared him nothing when it came to it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I do recall stealing his journal, reading what he wrote about you out loud to make fun of him, and him chasing me around and whoopin’ my ass as a result.”
Lifting her hand above her mouth to stifle a laugh and failing in the process, John smiled, his teeth baring slightly, before returning to being stone-faced.
“So… What happened afterwards? With you, your father and Arthur, I mean.”
Mary paused, her smile fading. Still looking ahead, she inhaled deeply before answering. Her hand, at this point, returned to the reins, stroking both her thumbs along them.
“Well… With all the money my father was plunderin’ to his spending and gambling, he ended up selling the ranch. Even my darling Etheldreda; my little Ethel. She was a good horse, a beautiful one too: a pretty and witty appaloosa... But I had to sell her off for the money, for us… What was once a– fruitful family business became nothing more than a charred legacy. At that point, my wedding was in just a week or so.”
Of course. Why would he even ask that? Things were just becoming light-hearted until now. Awkwardly, John looked away at the terrain that surrounded them, the grass blades and leaves from the trees and bushes less dewy than they were earlier upon his arrival. In the meantime, Mary bit her lip. She didn’t want the conversation to end up sour over something she had already poured her heart over to John previously. She began stringing whatever she could to divert the topic,
“I… I remember how you were back then, when me and Arthur were still sweet on each other. I sometimes worried you hated me.”
“I mean…–” John replied, his tone a little more than flat as the pieces of his memory were rebuilding itself around whatever Mary was suggesting about him. Frustrated sometimes at the affection and politeness that John saw as civilised pity and pretentiousness, sure, but hated?
“– If it's any consolation, I hated everyone outside the gang. Not sure much has changed, admittedly. But I didn't hate you. You was always kind to me when Arthur was tossin’ me around. Maybe it annoyed me at times, but perhaps I was just… Not used to it.”
“I understand. Perhaps I just wasn’t used to roughhousing being how you two showed you cared for one another.”
“Yeah, well… Things started to sour between me and Arthur in the last few years before he passed…”
Mary turned to him, “How so? You two were close, I remember.”
“I know, but– it’s just that…” he looked down, gulping lightly. Was he going to regret revealing all this?
“I oughta confess: I wasn’t the best to my boy and woman. Not stepping up to the plate as much as I should have... When she was pregnant, I didn’t want to face the fact that I was going to be a father; responsible for another life. A smaller life, pure and innocent and all… And easily breakable. I didn’t think I was good or capable - or strong enough, I guess. Everything else, I could do just fine. Robbin’, shootin’, but fathering? It… Scared me. My father was an absolute son of a bitch, and I didn’t cry at all when he died. I guess part of me was worried that I would be like him, but…” John frowned, his voice lowering, “Maybe I just ended up being another kind of bad for my son.”
John hung his head in shame the whole time, feeling Mary’s gaze towards him, but not wanting to look up and see if it was full of judgement or some kind of pity - at that point, he was unsure which was worse.
“When my Jack was born, I just… Ran away. I was gone for a whole year . Abigail was so young, and I just left her. When I came back, she spent the next few years trying to involve me in his life. I tried to find any reason I could and hold onto it that he wasn’t mine, even though everyone - and maybe even me deep down - knew that he was. I have a lot of regrets, but that…” he inhaled and sighed deeply, “That is my biggest one. Jack was four when I decided to step up. Four years too late, I know. He was a sweet kid, and I realised then what I had been missing out on. And Arthur– well he…” A sigh left him, “He resented me for it. When I came back, it took a short while for things to go back to how they used to be - but not for Arthur. He didn’t let it go, and would remind me of such almost every time. I thought he hated me for good. Abigail had to lean on him the most when I refused - he was the one who took the boy fishing, willingly gave her money to buy him new clothes, looked after Jack for a time when he was still real young… In the end, when he saved us, maybe he did it more for them than for me. I wouldn’t blame him.”
Mary didn’t reply immediately. Did John say too much? Would he even care what she thought of him now, for better or for worse? If John cared less, he would have accused Mary of having a bad habit of seeing the best in everyone, even those that may not be deserving of it. And, perhaps, Mary wouldn’t have argued against such a claim; it happened with Arthur and all the chances she gave him, it was the entire reason why she stayed with her father for so long, and it was probably why she was riding with John chatting as if they were old friends despite everything he just admitted to. He knew he wasn’t as bad of a father as Gillis was, but he was still a deadbeat at one point - would Mary resent him for that?. She turned away, looking forward,
“And… Things are better now?”
“Oh yeah, sure. I… I had to face my faults, I guess. And in the end, I got my family back. Abigail is happy with me, as I am with her. And Jack, well… He’s becoming a man. Slowly - certainly slowly - but surely. Sensitive, quiet, prefers his little fantasy books over huntin’ or fishing. Or much else, really…” John turned to Mary as he heard her chuckle ever so lightly.
“Maybe there is more to life than that. Maybe it’s a good thing he prefers to read over… Whatever you are perhaps more used to doing. Those who enjoy art like that see beauty in the little things.”
“With all due respect, Mary, there ain’t much beauty left in the little things in this world no more, if there even were any to begin with. I want my son to live a better life than I did, no doubt. But others won’t care about that for him as I and his mother do. You know that as well as I do.”
He wasn’t expecting an answer, and even if he was, he didn’t receive one. Mary knew he was right - mostly - but what point was there in pointing it out, especially when a part of her still clung onto her statement? She didn’t bother thinking further when, before she and John knew it, the two had reached Valentine, the raw squelching of wet mud replacing the sound of what just used to be the drier earth from up north. Chatter of the townspeople overlapped each other as the two approached the stables; John waiting outside and Mary entering to return her horse before eventually exiting, lifting herself up onto Rachel with her escort slinging her on with his arm. Trotting to the other side of town and arriving at the train station, John - dropping the reins over the hitching post in front of them - slid off of his saddle, not given the time to hold out his hands to lift Mary down from her waist as she pushed herself off with no issue. A ranch owner’s daughter, no doubt.
“Well, we’re here. I’ll walk with you to the platform.”
Mary hardly replied again, the most words she spoke was her asking for a singular train ticket from the booth. Almost out of nowhere, a woeful mood fell upon her as she looked down, tugging the ends of her gloved fingers upwards. John had noticed, and when he saw her bare a similar expression as he first saw her on that mountain, he opened his mouth to speak again.
“What’s wrong?”
No answer.
“... Mary?”
“... Sorry– it’s just…” she paused, looking back up at John, but words betrayed her before eventually returning, her eyes diverting elsewhere. They were standing on the platform, overlooking the tracks from a considerate distance.
“My life… Things– weren’t meant to go this way.”
John was sans a reply as the change in tone took him back to where he first found her overlooking the cliffside where Arthur laid. He wasn’t sure what to reply with. Life isn’t fair, but he wasn’t going to remind her that - he didn’t need to: she was seven years his senior and lived a long life of one heartbreak after another with death shrouded all over it. He opened his mouth to speak before hearing the roaring horn of the train - Mary’s train - arriving, slowing down as it made its way.
“Back to Philly, then?”
A smile tempted itself to grow on her lips, but a weighted sigh came instead.
“Back to Philly.”
The train continued to slow, and Mary made her way further down the platform towards the edge, John following beside her. The train halted to a gradual stop, herds of people coming in and out, and he took this moment to finally speak up again,
“You know, Mary… You were wrong about what you said earlier on that mountain, that you didn’t have much left to live for. Because the truth is that you do .” He looked towards her, meeting her gaze as he held his hand out. This time, she finally accepted it, holding onto his palm as she stepped onto the steps of the train.
John continued, “I know that Philly's a long way's away from my home, but anyone who was a friend of Arthur’s is a friend of ours. And you, well… You were more than a friend, certainly. Knew him as best as we did. I’m sure Abigail would be happily surprised to see you too, after all these years.”
“Oh, John… I don’t know.” Her breath hitched slightly, “I’ve spent so long trying to move on, but– since Arthur died… I keep finding myself back where I used to be. I don’t know if– if…”
“Well, think about it.” John encouraged, “You ain’t gotta do nothin’ if you don’t wanna, but the offer is there... You were alone for a long time, dealing with this - but you’re not alone anymore. Beecher’s Hope, just north of Blackwater. Whether it’s to visit or to write, you know where to find us.”
Mary nodded slightly, wanting to contemplate his suggestion more on the spot if it weren’t for worrying when the train will start moving half way, “Maybe… Maybe so.”
“And you know…” John took a step forward, “Like I said, Arthur… He spoke very fondly of you in his journal, but… One of the very last things he wrote when he was alive was about you.”
Mary froze.
“He… He wished nothing more from you than to be happy . And I know that you haven’t had much reason to be happy for the past eight and a half years, but… He still loved you enough to have hope you’d find peace, I suppose-... in the same way you loved him enough to have hope that he’d better himself when no one else did.”
‘Oh Mary, I’ll miss you until I see you again.’
Surprisingly, Mary didn’t break like she probably thought she would. Instead, her shoulders lowered slightly, her eyes less dim than before. It broke her heart knowing what she knew - and even more what she didn’t know what happened to him specifically. But if this was the closest to closure in almost nine years she could receive, she was willing to take it, and let it take her too. She sniffled slightly - although she didn’t sob right then and there. She was internally hoping to hold it all in until she would sit down inside the train, heading up north, or until she reached home at the very most. John would ask if she wanted any of the journal entries he made of her, but she denied him, claiming that she likely wouldn’t bear to read what he wrote of her back then. No. Now, she had what she needed, at least for now. She felt more at ease knowing that Arthur, the man who knew her best and loved her the most, wished no ill towards her. He never could, despite whatever resentment Mary might or might not have assumed he held after receiving her final goodbye and ring - the second time she wrote him out of her life.
“Then at least take this.”
Scavenging through his satchel, he picked out the photograph, from one of the interior pockets that John had previously buttoned up, of a younger - happier - Arthur and Mary. Holding it out towards her, he waited for her reaction. Her face softened upon recognising the image, debating whether she should take it at all. She gave away the photograph to Arthur alongside the ring he proposed to her with for the sake of moving on. To be free of a life of worrying whether the man she loved would keep his promise to her, or find his name addressed as a casualty in newspapers detailing the closing-in of his gang. One of those things did happen, and she didn’t move on at all - if anything, she remained frozen in time, the world moving on without her when she felt like hers was crashing down more and more. She remembered shedding more tears than she could count over her and Arthur, even on her wedding night, silently crying against her pillow following the consummation of her new marriage to a man she barely knew, a man that wasn’t the one she wanted. She couldn’t bear to return to such a place of turmoil, even though she may as well have been living in one for almost a decade.
And yet, she still reached out for the photograph, hesitant, and took it from John’s hand. Mary understood the notion of forgetting a loved one’s face and voice years following their death, but it was never such a thing towards Arthur where everything still felt raw and painful. Despite this, seeing his face again reminded her of who she fell in love with in the first place. She could almost hear the laughter they both shared after taking that photo, despite how formal it looked and how silly they both felt afterwards. Mary’s breath was caught at her throat slightly as John uttered again,
“Arthur, he… He gave me his satchel last I saw of him and… There was a ring inside. Yours, with the photo. I hope you don’t mind that… That I used it to propose to my Abigail.”
Mary’s heart fluttered slightly at the mention of the ring, remembering why she gave it back to Arthur in the first place and finding solace that it wasn’t for naught, “I… I don’t mind at all. It was what I hoped for when I returned it to him, to give it to someone else who may be in love…”
All she could do was stare intently at the photo. Maybe soon, she would learn to be happy again. She knew - or at least thought and assumed - that she never actually regain any form of happiness, not ever. But it was a pretty thing to imagine, one that felt sweet enough to pursue it solely for it being what Arthur last wished for her. She blinked slowly and looked up as if hoping to see Arthur right there behind John, the last remnant of hope she had for what used to be, before mustering up the effort to speak again,
“... I’m very happy to see you again, John. Like I said, I– I haven’t spoken to anyone about Arthur in so long–” she gulped slightly, holding the photograph to her chest, “– and maybe… Maybe I’ll keep that offer in mind… So thank you.” She uttered, finally looking back up to John one last time with a gaze that John reciprocated after nodding his head towards her.
As the whistle of the train cried out - the crowds of people no longer coming in and out of it - John took some steps back, eyeing Mary the whole time as she turned and walked inside the carriage, sitting beside one of the windows facing him. She looked back at him through the glass, and John swore he could have seen a smile crack through her. Whether it was a sad one or one of hope, he wasn’t sure as she turned back quickly, the train accelerating forward. John stood where he was, murmuring a soft "So long now, Mary" whilst watching as her train carriage was out of sight before turning back himself.
Maybe, in another time, things would be different; John knew Mary had thought as much over the last couple of decades since her relationship with Arthur fell. Taking John’s words into consideration, she sat there on her seat with the photo in her hand, continuing to wonder if maybe reaching out really would help her heal after years of mourning alone. She still wasn’t sure, and would probably have to ruminate on it for a day or two. Yet, she could also feel the words start to write themselves in her mind on what she would write to him.
There was no one else that could have made Mary feel the way Arthur did. It was Arthur who taught and showed her what love really was, not what she was subjected to growing up. It was Arthur who didn’t see her as some spoiled city girl who cried over the littlest of things, but as someone who must have been experiencing so much pain to the point that not even someone as privileged as her could escape.
Alternatively, it was Mary who saw Arthur at his most vulnerable, yet also made him feel like the biggest love-stricken fool for thinking he could ever deserve a life of sweetness he could only find in the written words she engraved back to him in letters. She may not have known what Arthur truly felt or thought of in true nature every time, but she did when he showed it to her with every drop of blood from his heart that he etched onto the paper, with every passionate or featherlike touch and kiss that Mary swore she could feel again at the mere thought of them, or with every look he gave her that transcribed a novel of words only she was fluent enough to understand.
In what Mary once considered to be God’s curse as now His lesson and gift, she thought to consider seeing Arthur in every aspect of her daily life as less of an emotional burden of what she lost, and more as a reminder of the best years of her life, despite everything. He may no longer be among the living, but he still remained alive to her at heart for as long as she remembered him. If John Marston - who knew Arthur longer than Mary did - managed to make the most of the time he had left whilst still having his brother in his heart and mind, there was no reason Mary couldn’t do so either, especially alongside him now that she knows where to reach him; that she was no longer alone in her suffering.
In her memories of Arthur that Mary held dear, he - even in death - breathed as much as she did, and for the first time in years, she felt a trickle of peace bleed within her. If being happy was the last thing Arthur wanted from her, Mary would at least try to hope for the closest thing to happiness, if it was even possible, to grasp on to. Not just for his sake, but for hers too.
The conversations John had with her since seeing her for the first time in twenty years replayed in his mind - a newer impression of her imprinted into his thoughts. Since reuniting with dear Mary Gillis (Linton), John found not just someone to call a friend, but someone to honour Arthur with. Someone who knew him best to remember him rightfully by. Mounting back onto Rachel, John departed from Valentine and made his way down south, the last remnant of modernised civilisation behind him as the train had departed, its silhouette no longer visible beyond the mountains that laid beyond.