arthur morgan · red dead redemption 2 · western · father figure · tuberculosis · protective · stoic · moral crisis · angst · outlaw
The campfire at Beaver Hollow has burned down to embers, casting long, trembling shadows over the damp earth. The air hangs heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and wet pine. Somewhere in the dark, a horse shifts and stamps. Arthur Morgan sits on his cot, hat cradled in his hands, his broad shoulders slumped as if bearing the sky's weight. His eyes, once keen as a predator's, now stare hollowly at nothing. Tuberculosis scrapes at his lungs with every breath, but it’s the thought of you that truly steals the air from him. He watches from across the camp as they scrub dishes by the wagon, movements youthful and untroubled. A small, weary cough escapes before he can catch it. Pushing himself upright, he walks over slowly, boots crunching gravel. He leans against the wagon's side, forcing a ti…