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Everything hurt too much.
Seeing the gang fall apart, Dutch abandoning him in the warehouse, Eagle Flies’ death... and this damn chest. It hurt as if he inhaled metal shavings.
Cough attack struck again. This time worse than usually.
Unable to catch a breath, Arthur stopped his horse and slowly slid from the saddle onto ground; he knew what was going to happen and this time he didn’t plan on falling down from horse. His lungs burnt as he bent with hope it’d reduce the pain. Wishful thinking. He felt like his lungs and head were going to explode, vision became blurry. Arthur didn’t even realize he was laying on the road, now covered not only in blood but also in mud, as he fought for even the smallest gasp of air.
Is that really how he was going to die? He, a feared outlaw, who escaped death way too many times? Maybe that’s why fate decided to bring this illness upon him; he was being punished for cheating destiny, supposed to die in the middle of nowhere, alone, killed not by a hand of justice nor brute from rival gang, but by his own body.
He deserved that.
He was never a good man, after all. Failed too many people, broke too many spirits and hearts. The blood on his hands would never wash away, Arthur even saw it right now, as he stared at his palm. Red, moist stains. Or perhaps it was his own blood he spit out.
But the worst thing was that he failed to save John and Abigail, and poor Jack. He should had acted earlier, right after they broke John out of prison. Now, it’s too late. He could only hope Sadie would keep her promise...
Arthur was about to close his eyes as another rough wave of cough shook his body, when all of sudden he heard a voice.
“Good heavens! Are you alright, sir?”
A familiar voice at that.
Where had he heard it? Somewhere in the forest, or perhaps in the swamps?
A shaky hand lands on his shoulder and turns him onto back.
“Christ! Mr. Morgan, what... Is that blood?! Are you injured, sir?”
Arthur could barely see the man hanging above him - blocking any rays of sun that might make their way through clouds – as his vision was getting more and more narrow. Yet now he knew well who the man was. Only one person he’d ever met had such remarkable way of being.
In last burst of strength, he grabbed sleeve of man’s shirt, “Mason...”
Another attack drained him fully.
Arthur woke up feeling like shit.
Not like it was anything new, for past few weeks this terrible feeling had been following him and hanging on his shoulders, as if it was a ghost that wanted to drain life out of him. His limbs feel heavy, made from stone. His chest caused him pure agony. He was hungry but mere thought of food made him nauseous. Yet he had to get up. He had things to do, he had to talk to Dutch, get as much people as possible leave gang before it was too late… And the worse thing was that he didn’t have enough time to be able to waste it laying in the bed, no matter how comfortable it was.
He pushed himself up, to the sitting position, and groaned when he felt a sharp, tugging pain at his side. He looked down and hiked up his shirt (not truly his – this one was clean and definitely not owned by him). There was a wound, bullet must had grazed him during fight. But it was sewed now, not professionally, yet his doctor did a better job than he would do. Letting the shirt fall down, Arthur finally focused on the question which should be the first thing he thought after waking up: where the hell he was? This comfy bed with sheets white like milk, wooden floor covered with a rug, ridiculously enormous fireplace and deer skull hang above it, green, fresh wallpaper, and many, many paintings – around ten, from small one showing some mountain, to the one which took almost whole place on one of the walls. This painting caught his attention. Not because of its size, no, bit because of its content. Three crosses with people hanging on them, the focus on only two of them. The man in the center had something mystical to himself; only one covered partly in white cloth, with wooden crown on his head and a light around it. He was looking at other man who was…crying. Something about it made Arthur shift on the bed. If he had more time, perhaps he would sit there and admire the artwork more, wonder about its meaning and history. But he never had time. There’s always something to be done.
As he was about to stand up, the door creaked open. Arthur instinctively reached for his revolver, which was resting on the bed table. His grip loosened after seeing familiar face.
“Mr Mason?”
Albert stepped into the room with hands slightly up in the air, as if afraid Arthur might actually shoot him. Upon this, the outlaw let go of his weapon and cleaned his throat with embarrassment. Hell, he’d never hurt his… acquaintance.
Mason let his hands fall to his sides and relaxed. “How are you feeling, Mr Morgan?” He asked, as he came closer and sat down on the armchair next to the bed.
"Could be worse," Arthur answered, suppressing a cough. "Guess I should be thankin' you for savin' me, Mr Mason. For once I'm the damsel in distress. "
The man in armchair chuckled, yet it was a strained laugh. His face was wearing a polite smile, but it was his eyes that were betraying him – the worry craved inside them, glistering in the dim light of setting sun sneaking through the dirty window.
"Yes, it seems so…"
Silence stretched between them two, like a thin string that's about to snap. They both knew what topic should come up next; there were so many uncomfortable questions, too.
It was Albert who gave up first, and cleaned his throat before speaking up.
"Forgive me for obtaining such intimate information, Mr Morgan, but…" He shifted on his seat and sighed. "After patching you up – not professionally as you see, I have two left hands – I called for a doctor. And he said…"
He took a deep breath, "You are sick, Mr Morgan. Deadly sick."
Arthur nodded and felt his throat burn, as he tried not to show any sign of illness.
"I know. It's a goddamned TB." Seeing Albert's face twisted in a grimace of concern and pity, Arthur decided to change the subject. "And you made a damn good job with those stitches, shoulda seen ones sewed by me." Laugh turned into another attack.
Albert's lips pressed into a thin line. The anxious photographer somehow seemed even more nervous than usual. "I'm so sorry to hear it, Mr Morgan."
"Don't be," Arthur grunted.
He didn't deserve pity, didn't deserve this kindness. That's what he got for being a bad person. His action actually did have consequences, now he had to face it. No good deed would grand him redemption.
"And this blood, you were soaked in it when I found you, sir." Albert leaned forward, fidgeting with his sleeve. "It wasn't yours, was it?"
Unable to look the other man in the eyes, Arthur slightly turned his head. Now he could see well the painting with crucified people. For a moment he felt the need to tell Albert about what happened, about how poor Eagle Flies threw away his life for nothing, about how he, Arthur, should had been the one to die. Instead he just shook his head and let his lung spit out more blood.
Sighing, Albert stood up. "I will bring you some food. There should be some eggs left, so I hope you will enjoy an omelette?"
"There ain't–"
"Oh, Mr Morgan, be so kind and let me be a proper host!" Albert cut him off. "I should have offer you a meal way earlier, how foolish of me…"
Muttering to himself, photographer left the room, leaving the door open. Arthur stared at them for good minute before bursting out a short laugh – this man was the weirdest and most intriguing person he had every met. There were no more questions, no "whose blood is it, then?!" with panic in the voice. Just acceptance. As if Albert only cared if he was more injured, who knew. Or perhaps he had already knew the truth about Arthur Morgan, the wanted outlaw. Maybe Albert saw his poster in the city. To Arthur, it didn't matter. If the wildlife photographer was brave, or stupid, enough to help the criminal just because of their brief friendship, so it be.
And Arthur wished he could stay longer, but he didn't have much time left. Both the gang and his body were rapidly falling apart. The end was the matter of few days.
A deep, full of pain, breath in, and he got out of the bed. His hat, boots and jacket were on the chest under window. Not wasting even a second, Arthur got ready and grabbed his revolver.
Just wanted to have last glance at painting…
Perhaps he spent too much time admiring it, because familiar, fast footsteps were becoming closer and closer, but there was just something in the painting that was speaking to Arthur. It was calling to him, singing to him as if he was a sailor lost at sea, who fell a victim to a mermaid. It took a great effort to draw his gaze away and turn to Albert who was holding a steaming plate and wearing an expression that made Arthur's throat clench in a way he didn't want to dwell upon.
"Are you a religious man, Mr Morgan?"
The question made him raise both of his eyebrows. "Uh, no. Why you askin'?"
"Oh, it's just how you were looking at this fine piece of art. I thought…" Albert shook his head and looked away. The tips of his ears turned red. The plate, forgotten in his hands, wiggled dangerously. "Never mind, forgive me."
Under shadow of Arthur's smile, Albert became even more skittish, if it was even possible. After putting the platter on the drawer, he took few steps ahead, his eyes glued to the figure hanging on the cross in the middle. "It shows the moment Jesus, son of God, forgives one of bandits, thus allowing his soul into Heaven after death. And, you know, it represents the core of Christianity – love and mercy. Everyone deserves redemption if they confess their wrongs."
Arthur hummed. "This Jesus fella sounds nice."
And Albert tried his best not to laugh, since some of Church representatives would find it deeply outrageous. But his good mood dissapeared as soon as Arthur coughed terribly and then put a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"I should get goin', Mr Mason. You take care fo yourself, alright?"
The seriousness in his voice, the morbid acceptance in his eyes… Before Albert could say anything in return, the outlaw was already at door, leaving him and untouched, now cold, meal behind.
It was their last meeting, they both knew that.
"Hold still, little guy. Just few… seconds… more…" Albert whispered under his breath.
The camera took a photo, and the flash scared the bird away. Its yellow belly was still visible on the blue sky as it was slowly disappearing in distance; moments like that had always made Albert sad that cameras can't capture colors. Maybe then they wouldn't be so boring to upper-class and…well, most people in general? No surprise most still preferred paintings to photos.
Now, with a photo of Vermivora bachmanii and satisfied with his work, Albert packed his camera. Maybe he could find another bird before night's fall?
Picking up all of his equipment, he was about to set off, when a deer jumped out of bushes right in front of him, almost giving him a heart attack. The animal stopped, looking at photographer, waiting for something. Albert slowly picked up the bag he dropped out of panic and watched as deer started walking, turning its head around, as if urging the man to follow it.
To tell the truth, Albert never believed in stories about shape-shifters which he heard during his travels, but this situation… it made him question everything his believes. And his sanity, too.
Despite better reasoning, he followed the animal. The deer stopped looking around to check on him, just kept on guiding the man through rocky scenery, like Orpheus leading his beloved out of Hades. By the time they reached the top of mountain, Albert was panting and fighting for breath.
"Dear God, maybe I do should start some exerci-"
The words died on his lips. Before him stood no more deer but a grave. Wooden cross with circle around him. Albert took few steps closer, wanting to see the engraved message on it. But it was the name that hooked his full attention.
Name that haunted him in dreams.
"Arthur…"