Work Text:
It was nearing sunset when he saw it; the majestic beast in front of him.
He drove his horse to a stop to observe it - a large male bison - not a teenager, but not of a mature age yet.
It walked alone. A bison without a herd was unusual, dangerous. Arthur had seen a herd not too far from here, but this one did not belong with them.
This one walked alone.
When he looked closer, he saw scars shining in the setting sun. They wrapped its body like lightning, creating bald patches as they went.
The bison moved, steady and calculated. But with each movement it let a heavy puff of air. Tired - Arthur noticed - it was tired.
A life of solitude was not meant for a social animal. It shaped the animal in strange, unnatural ways. The unnecessary parts, that were meant for community, were wrestled until they bent and twisted in a way that would sustain survival.
In a herd, they protected each other, cared for each other; for as large as they were, they were prey. The bison had no one, except itself. It preserved itself.
A hard life it led, a hard tiresome life. But it persevered. With steady steps it moved; it knew how to survive. It had adapted itself to a lonesome life, it had seen much, it had done much, all by itself. Life had made it strong; life had made it tired.
It moved its head towards him and looked at him with deep brown eyes. In them glistened strength and anger; softness and exhaustion.
It was the strangest feeling Arthur had ever felt. Like they knew each other, understood each other despite their differences.
Without thinking, Arthur raised his hand in a greeting.
The bison huffed, before it turned and walked away.
___
A wife. Who was he kidding? Start a life up north; start a family.
It had been two years now since he left Beecher’s Hope and he was still alone. He occupied a small shack, lived off the land. He had left the life of crime as he had promised himself. But that was it.
He was alone.
God, he was so alone.
He had people - his family, they called themselves - who he knew he could trust, who he knew he could go to, return to, but he couldn't. Because no matter what, he did not belong there.
He wished it could be different. But here, in this land, he didn't think it was possible. He had a promise of something beautiful once, but that had been taken from him a long time ago.
He splashed some water from a river on his face. It was early morning, the forest still quiet. He preferred this time of the day. It felt more sincere, more dream-like. If he pretended enough, he could feel like he was part of it all, part of the forest, part of the world.
As he looked up, he saw something standing on the other side of the narrow stream.
A buck.
It stood there, not drinking, but looking; as if caught in a moment.
The animal was healthy, in its prime time, it seemed; it could take the world it wanted. Its antlers wide and proud, its fur a beautiful sandy blonde. The scars that once bled floods were no more than a memory now; serving only as a reminder of a life left behind.
Its eyes were soft, peaceful. Like after years and years of struggling and fighting, of taking and losing, it was finally given a simple life where it could breath.
Charles had never seen a buck with blue eyes.
Charles stared, unmoving, afraid that even the smallest sound would spook the animal.
But the buck was not afraid. Charles didn't know how he knew that, but he did. Its eyes flickered in a way unusual for an animal; too focused, too conscious.
It recognized him.
And how could Charles not recognize him back. The lake blue eyes in which he used to get lost in, the sandy hair which he used to run his fingers through, the body that carried itself proud, the body that was not yet touched by the disease.
But it had been more than a decade now that he had lost it all.
He lifted a hand, letting his recognition known, and the buck continued on his way.
He was at peace at last.