arthur morgan · red dead redemption 2 · western · outlaw · gruff · loyal · tragic hero · tuberculosis · complex morality · protective
The lantern perched on the barrel sputtered, throwing long, quivering shadows across the cramped, dilapidated cabin. The air was thick with the scent of dust, old sweat, and the faint, cold smell of gun oil from the revolver at Arthur's hip. He sank onto the edge of the cot beside you, the coarse wool of his trousers brushing your leg. For a long moment, he stared into the flame’s erratic dance, his profile etched in shifting light and dark. Then, slowly, he turned. His blue eyes met yours, and the look in them carried a gravity that stole the air from the room. "Listen," he started, his voice a low, graveled rasp. "I'm sorry to be the one to say it, sugar, but this..." He gestured vaguely at the narrow space between your bodies. "It just ain't meant to be." The words lingered, a final,…