Chapter Text
Arthur Morgan died on a mountain, alone.
He knows this. He remembers this, felt the breeze running through his hair, the sun warming his face. His tired body seemed to relax slowly, slowly, till there was nothing left but the ghost of a smile and blue eyes turned to the sky.
So why was it so damn cold?
Naturally, Arthur had always assumed death would be a cold thing; eyes growing cloudy and life draining away into the stiff corpses he’d seen so often. Lips turning blue and flesh rotting away. Corpses were always cold, unless they were fresh. This felt different, though. Insistent, real- distinctly undead.
Arthur’s eyes snapped open to a wooden ceiling, worn oak weathered by time and that cold that was beginning to seep into his very bones. It was familiar in a way that couldn’t be possible. It was a ceiling left behind a long, long time ago, when they still had hope in their hearts and fire in his soul. It didn’t make sense.
He cast his eyes around, though no further clues jumped out at him. Just the hauntingly familiar room, furniture dusted from years of disuse. Not even a cobweb decorated the corners, the spiders themselves driven out by the blizzard.
His room, like the rest of Colter, had always been unbearably cold. Cold, cold, cold. The cracked windows never quite kept out the snow, flecks peppering the windowsill and dancing in the air before him. He might’ve said it was pretty, if he’d ever had the time for such thoughts.
Sitting up seemed easier than it should have been. The bone-deep ache that had plagued Arthur for months was nonexistent, and he found that he wasn’t choking on his own breath. He felt… a little cold, but fine. He felt fine.
Arthur’s breath hitched, though this time it wasn’t because of the rot burrowing into his lungs but because of the tears that had embarrassingly sprung to his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt fine. Was this some kind of afterlife? A terrible nightmare? Or had he simply woken up from one? Was it possible he really was back in Colter, that some great power had taken pity on his soul and given him a second chance?
Arthur shook his head, pulling himself to his feet and rubbing his eyes with a weathered hand. First, he needed to see exactly what was going on and-if he really was somehow back in Colter- what to do next.
He shuffled his way towards the bedroom door, surprised by how stable his legs were, and pushed it open into the small living space. A fire burned ever-presently in the hearth, chasing away the biting chill- though not completely. The same rickety chairs were set in front of the flames, the same drawers in the corners of the room. If he’d had doubts before, they all but evaporated when he saw Hosea huddled on one of the chairs in front of the fireplace.
Arthur let the door swing softly shut behind him, jaw slack as he stared at the undead man, unmoving. Hosea glanced up, smile fading at whatever he’d seen in Arthur’s face. He quickly rose to his feet.
”Arthur? What’s wrong, my boy?” Hosea’s voice was calm in that gentle way he rarely showed to anyone who wasn’t his sons, and suddenly Arthur was on his knees, the air leaving his body in one gasping exhale as his vision tunnelled. Hosea was instantly on his knees next to him- or maybe he wasn’t, because Hosea’s knees were bad and he couldn’t get about like he used to and oh, Hosea.
He was still talking but Arthur couldn’t hear a word, could only see his father- because damn it all, that’s exactly what Hosea is- talking desperately at him, eyes tight as he turned to call at someone. Arthur reached out blindly, hand twisting in Hosea’s vest as the older man gripped his shoulder. He hadn’t even realised he was swaying.
He opened his mouth to speak, a thousand words on the tip of his tongue, but his voice failed him. He wasn’t sure whether he was about to weep or laugh. Even if this was some nightmare, he didn’t care- not when Hosea was here. Hosea was still talking, still searching his gaze like he could read what the hell was going on in Arthur’s half-crazed eyes. He pulled him close, cradling him like he was a child again. Arthur really did laugh, at that.
Hosea turned back over his shoulder, shouting so loud Arthur could feel the rumbling in the man’s chest. He couldn’t hear him though, just that high-pitched whine that had started since he’d first laid eyes on him. The door bust open, a shadowed figure looming in the doorway, as confident and self-assured as ever.. Arthur stilled, breath hitching as he pushed himself away from Hosea’s reluctant grip.
I gave you everything I had. I did.
But this Dutch was different. His eyes didn’t hold as much of the coldness that had seeped into them since Micah had joined them. This Dutch still had warm eyes, wide in shock as stared down at the pair on the cold, cold floor. He rushed forwards, practically throwing himself at them. This Dutch was willing to dirty his trousers to kneel beside his son- his son- as he gasped silently for air on the dusty wooden floor. He was speaking with Hosea, their lips moving around unheard words as they argued with each other.
Arthur felt the world tilt dizzyingly, muffled cries of alarm finally reaching his ears as he slumped sideways. Strong arms caught him, bundling him close as though he were something precious and shaking him slightly. He should answer, should say something, but his voice escaped him once again.
He knew he ought to be concerned, but he was so tired, so confused. The man he loved as his father had abandoned him to die, and now held him with such warm, warm eyes.
He was so cold.
~
The next time Arthur woke he was significantly warmer. The overwhelming sense of pressure had eased somewhat, and he no longer felt the curlings of panic at seeing Hosea alive and in the flesh. All that was left now was a faint headache and a distinct sense of embarrassment.
He peeled his eyes open to stare at the same wooden ceiling, still as confused as the first time he woke, but a lot calmer. The relentless pounding in his head had faded to an ignorable pulse, and he no longer found himself staring at a kaleidoscope of shapes and colours.
The door creaked open and Hosea slipped in silently, looking more tired than he had since… well. The grey light washed out the colour of his face and reminded Arthur uncomfortably of the way he had crumpled to the crack of a gunshot. He shuddered.
”Are you finally awake, son?” Hosea settled comfortable into a chair sat beside his bed, patting his leg comfortingly. “Gave us quite a scare, going down like that and then sleeping here for three days.” Three days? “You went pale as a ghost, thought maybe you got hurt at Blackwater and never told us.” He chuckled, but the worry lines didn’t ease. “We checked you over, but you were fighting fit, as always.”
Arthur suppressed a snort. As always. Hosea caught the twitch of his lips- he always seemed to notice- but didn’t acknowledge it other than a confused frown.
”Javier went out with Charles,” he continued. “John still hasn’t made it back and Abigail is getting worried. Dutch was going to ask you to take a look but…” Wait.
Arthur sat bolt upright, horror clawing in his chest. Hosea startled back slightly, pressing a hand to his shoulder to push him back to the mattress. Arthur gently waved it off. John. The wolves. Fuck. He hauled himself unsteadily to his feet, ignoring Hosea’s fussing, and holstered his guns.
”I’m gonna go find that idiot.” He grumbled, already heading to the door. He paused at a firm, bony hand wrapping round his forearm. Hosea searched his eyes, worried.
”What’s going on, Arthur? You’re not seriously going out after the spell you had? If you’re sick-”
“I’m not sick, Hosea, I jus’…” he floundered, trying to find an excuse that was believable. “Just been feeling the stress since Blackwater, is all. I haven’t had as much of an appetite, jus’ probably overdone it a bit.” Hosea nodded slowly, looking pacified for now. His eyes were solemn as he squeezed Arthur’s arm and pulled his hand back.
“It’ll all be just fine, son. Dutch will get us through it, he always does.”
Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m sure he has a plan.”