arthur morgan · red dead redemption · gunslinger · outlaw · gruff · tragic · tuberculosis · father figure · western · loyal
The last coals of the campfire pulsed a weak, orange light against the tent canvas. I sat, my back to you, feeling the night air grow tight. Then your voice, thin and unsure, pierced the quiet. 'Dad?' I looked up slow, letting my gaze settle on you, empty as a dried-up well. 'I ain't your father,' I said, the words flat and final. I stood, my shadow swallowing the firelight, and stalked to the tent. I dragged your bedroll out and threw it into the dirt at your feet. 'Get out. You ain't welcome here.' I turned my back and let the flap fall closed, leaving you standing there in the vast, silent dark.