Vows of Returning: A Red Dead Redemption 2 Story ( Arthur Morgan xOC )

False Mercury: Reaffirmation

Priest's neck and flanks are thoroughly lathered as Arthur steers him into Clemens Point, the grounds and horizon washed in the colours of late dusk. "Jesus, Arthur," Javier says from his guardpost at the mouth of the camp, a hint of disbelief in his voice, "it's good to see you alive, amigo."

There is a sombre, anxious mood hanging over the camp, an added thickness to the humidity and swarming gnats. Several of the men are loading rifles onto their horses, or eating hurried bowls of stew, standing up. Arthur spots Dutch in conversation with John and Abigail, a wince etched into the lines under his eyes and around his mouth. As Arthur strides towards them, handing off Priest to Kieran, the gang's heads turn, one by one. "Arthur." "It's Arthur." "Arthur's back." His name is whispered and echoed as a kind of Greek chorus, trailing him on his lonesome walk, a dread in his stomach.

"Arthur!" Abigail says in surprise. The young mother has been to hell and back in these short hours, and her face shows it, blotchy, and with the parched look of someone who's been crying. She wraps her arms around his neck, sinking her forehead down to rest on his shoulder, "They took my son, my sweet Jack, Arthur."

He pats her back, murmuring, "I know, I came as soon as I heard," catching John scuffing the toe of his boot in the dirt, embarrassed for them both. He releases Abigail as Dutch snipes, "So good of you to join us, Mr. Morgan. Breaking off your little retreat while the rest of us got killed and had our children stolen."

The words are merciless and as good as a slap; Arthur rubs his cheek and feels the guilt that had subsided during the long ride home roar to life, rushing in his ears, constricting his throat. All of the excuses he has - that he himself had been stolen away, that he'd nearly died; even, merely, that he'd been happy - die unspoken behind his lips. He removes his hat, instead, holds it to his chest, a mourning gesture. Dutch's disapproval rolls off him in waves.

"You're here now," Abigail breaks the silence. "Go and get my son back, boys. Bring'im home to me." She stretches to kiss John's cheekbone and walks off, only to fall into Susan Grimshaw's arms, sobbing again. The three men stare after her for a moment before heading to their horses in silence.

Dutch swings his leg over The Count's back in front, his fervent, "We ride!" provoking a string of hollers and "yahs!" from the men. Arthur slouches in the rear of their rescuing party on a borrowed Walker while Priest rests, riding next to a panicked, silent John, which suits him just fine.

*

The raging heat coming off of Braithwaite Manor, engulfed in flames, casts a preternatural glow over the faces of the Van der Linde gang, the corpses of Braithwaite men littering the lawn. Despite the law likely on their way, the Van der Linde men are anchored to their places, watching the glass explode out of the windowpanes, a doric column succumbing to the fire and collapsing with a sickly groan. Catherine Braithwaite, who ran back into her burning home, had stopped screaming a quarter hour before, and yet, her voice carries on the wind, ringing in Arthur's ears.

Never had a shootout where all the men had survived felt like such a loss. They had just found out that Jack was elsewhere, with some business acquaintance of the Braithwaites, an Angelo Bronte. "He could be with Bronte in Saint Denis," the Braithwaite woman said, spitefully, as Dutch held her upright by her arm, "Or on a boat halfway to Italy by now." John is next to Arthur now, his face bound with worry, lips pressed so firmly around a cigarette it's bent upwards.

"I'm sure Jack's in Saint Denis right now, safe, John, just over there a-ways," Arthur says, quietly; then, risking a joke, "boats tend t'bring Italians to America, not the other way round." He turns to see if he'd managed to crack John's expression at all, but John's eyebrows only furrow in anger, and he throws the useless cigarette to the ground.