Chapter Text
It was the dead of night when she heard the gunshots from the distance. Although rare, she was no stranger to it.
Charlotte Balfour did not really think she’d end up like this, living alone like a hermit, and enjoying the rest of her days surrounded by the evergreens. But here she still was, going strong, almost decades later since she first laid a foot into the land she now calls home. Her love of her property was only further cemented with the rough news of the outside world, where stirrings of worldwide war was just above the horizon.
Of course, she never forgot the man who made it all possible. The memories of Arthur Morgan still burned deep within her, although as a bittersweet sentiment knowing he passed not long after. In his passing, a man named John Marston somewhat replaced him, making visits to her home from time to time to reminisce their early days, and of Arthur, whose mention always brings her little joy in unforgiving and grueling life.
The knock on the door did not startle her. Instead, it only piqued her curiosity. Still queasy after being woken up from her deep sleep, she peered through the window and found a lone fellow with a hand braced on his stomach. The vibrant redness around him only became visible when she regained most of her vision in her grogginess, along with a revolver in his other hand whose metallic sheen glistened in the moonlight. Her eyes wandered to his face, never once expecting to see a visitor she would have never guessed.
She lowered her rifle and swung the door wide open. They stared at each other for only a moment, before she pulled him inside, staining her hands in the crimson red that coated his body. She slammed the door shut and looked at him, cold and shaking and drenched in blood that was unknown to her if it was his or another’s. She did not bother to think, only to act, carrying him towards the bed she recently slept in, and laid him down as he groaned in agony. She ran towards her medicine cabinet and grabbed all that she could hold in her arms. She had not opened that cabinet for years, and she hoped they were still good for use. When she came rushing back to him, his breathing was already slow and faint, but still very much alive.
She had only managed to lessen the bleeding by the time another knock echoed from the front door.
“Wait here,” she whispered to him softly. His worried eyes met hers for just a moment, short enough not to linger in her mind, but still long enough to make her look away, unable to bear the sight of him. She stood up and focused her eyes on the door, where the clamors have begun.
“Pardon for the intrusion. Anyone in there?” the voice bellowed.
Her hands were soaked in his blood, and some stains had rubbed off her shoulder as well. With some quick thinking, she grabbed a thick cloth and tied it around herself to act as a large scarf, covering the blots that would have given her away. She slipped on some thick gloves, hoping to hide the redness on her hands. She closed the door behind her, and after hunching her upper body forward for a little bit, her masterful theatrics was just a voice crack away.
“W-who is there…?” She croaked weakly. “I… I have a gun!”
“Oh, pardon us ma’am,” the voice answered. “Could you please open the door?”
“I-I can’t. My grandson told me not to open the door to anyone…”
“Ma’am, it’s okay. We’re from the Bureau of Investigation. We’re here to protect you.”
She half-opened the door, only taking a slight peek into the darkness of the outside. Three men in fancy suits on the porch greeted her, with a couple of more men huddled around her yard. She couldn’t tell how many there were. With these many people in tow, and armed to the teeth to boot, there was no way else out. She had to make sure they go away.
“Oh…! Hello. That’s very kind of you. I-I heard the shots. They really gave me a scare.”
“I apologize for the disturbance, ma’am. We’ve been tracking down a murderer you see. We’ve shot him up real good, but he ran along this way and lost sight of him. “
“Oh my, that is… indeed… worrisome,” she responded, deliberately cracking her voice.
“You don’t happen to have seen a young feller going around your property, have you?”
“N-not at all,” she stuttered, almost breaking her character. She cleared her throat. “Once I heard the gunshots, I tried looking out the window to see what the commotion was. I was worried some whippersnapper was gonna try to force ‘imself in, but nobody was around.” Whippersnapper? Dear lord, what am I saying, she thought.
“I see, you are very lucky to have not encountered him, ma’am,” the man remarked. “We’ll continue our search for now. You don’t mind us looking around the property, just in case he’s hiding somewhere close by?’
“I don’t mind it at all,” she answered with a sly grin. “Hope that bastard’s caught soon, can’t enjoy a peaceful life around here with a murderer up and about.”
“Sure, ma’am. You be careful now.”
The man gracefully nodded at her direction and left, closing the door behind him. She peered through her window, watching the group of men wander about, searching every nook and cranny around her home. Her heart was still racing even after they left, as she had left the boy all alone in dark in anguish. When the agents had left, she ran back to her room and swung the door open, fearing the worst, but a wave of relief washed over her face upon seeing him still alive, albeit only barely.
Charlotte treated his wounds with care, hoping that the little first aid she knew was enough to give him a chance to survive. The debilitating silence between them was the least of her concerns at that very moment. She had initially thought that he was only shot once, but a couple more holes showed up around the area when she had wiped away the blood. She noticed one more puncture on the other side of his stomach and another just inches away from his heart, but with a bandage firmly stuck to them already. The bandage itself was already dirty and old, and she didn’t dare to take a look at the mess underneath it. She replaced it with a fresh bandage, only to find herself fighting back the tears she had painfully resisted throughout the ordeal.
His worn figure slumped in the bed reminded her too much of Cal, who took his last breath with gashes and lesions all over his body, and Arthur, whose struggling form to take a simple breath mirrored that of the young man.
“I… I didn’t know where else to go,” he said, breaking the silence. “I’m sorry.”
“There is nothing to be sorry for, Jack,” she assured him.
“How’d you…” He paused, and took another breath. “How’d you know who I was?”
“I’ve… I’ve seen photos of you. From your father. Is he…?”
“He’s dead.” He closed his eyes, as if he was reliving the moment all over again. “Uncle, he died protecting us too. My Ma… I guess, she didn’t take it too well. She died soon after.”
Her heart sank, even though in her mind, she had already known their fate. There would not have been a reason for him to come here except for that situation alone.
“They’re good people,” she mentioned dejectedly. “I’m sorry, Jack.”
“My Pa… He wasn’t always good.”
“Just because he wasn’t good before, doesn’t mean he won’t ever be.”
She dipped a rag into a bucket of water and squeezed most of the water out, leaving it wet and slightly cold. She wiped away the sweat on the boy’s forehead, and felt a considerable heat emanating from it. She closed her eyes, trying to drive away the grimness of the sight, but his labored breathing drowned out her hopes all the same.
“So… How’d you find me, all the way out here?” she asked him, trying to steer away the mood through conversation.
“You were… just one of the many friends Pa always talked about,” Jack said, coughing. “He said that… if I ever needed trouble, I just knock on their door. You… You were the closest I could find…”
“You did more than knock, Jack. You scared me half to death.”
“Well ma’am… you seem old enough. I would have… I would have probably just cut you down a decade or so,” he joked through his strenuous breaths.
“I suppose your Pa taught you how to be a wisecrack too?” she said, chuckling, but it was as short-lived as Jack’s temporary smile.
“Yeah… and Uncle Arthur too, I guess.”
It made sense for her that Jack knew Arthur, based on the stories John told her about their life back in the gang. She knew how hard it must have been for John to recall those memories every time he visited, but that man was much of a fool to even know how to keep good company with people like her. But his stories were the only thing he knew that always kept a smile on her face, and so he kept going and going, even through his misery. She always loved piecing together the bits of tales that make up their whole story, even when it had been a couple of years since John had stopped visiting her. She shuddered at the thought that the end of his visits marked his very demise, pulling her back into the unease of the current reality.
“I know I ain’t got much time left,” Jack whimpered.
Charlotte wiped his forehead again. “Don’t say that. You’ll be okay.”
“Your face already says it all,” he said, grasping at her sagging fingers.
With his other hand, he slowly peeled a brown satchel from him, carefully placing it on the side of the bed. It hit her that Arthur had carried something like that long before, and she wasn’t mistaken that it was, in fact, the very same one. He opened it and pulled out what looked like to her as a worn, brown book, almost ragged yet enveloped with antiquity. Papers were peeking out from within the pages, likely letters of old that hold much sentimental value. He raised the book to her. She retreated a few steps.
“I… I don’t understand.”
“I want you to have it… It’s… It’s Uncle Arthur’s journal. I know you knew him, even if just for a bit."
He followed with a cough, much longer and harder than before. “It would mean a lot to me… knowing that I’ve passed it along to a good friend.”
“We… We barely even know each other.”
“But you know a lot about me, and my Pa,” he said, before wincing from a sudden jolt of pain.
She was hesitant, if anything. If she accepted it now, it would be as if she accepted that the boy’s life had become forfeit.
“Even if I die at this very instant, you’ll still have to take it all the same,” he insisted.
It was enough to bring her to take it from him, clutching at the rough edges and admiring the old leather. She cradled it close to her chest, relishing the gift with tears already filling her eyes. She was already in mourning, even when death hasn’t claimed him yet.
“That journal… I didn’t really remember much about life with the Van Der Linde gang since I was little then,” he rambled. “But that helped so much in reminding me.”
She sat down beside him, running a hand over his cheek. “Do you… Do you want to tell me all about it?”
“… Sure,” he said faintly.
If anything, she endeared his storytelling, as it helped the both of them pull away from the reality in front of them. Even though his face sometimes contorted from the torment of his injuries, he still manages to pull off a smile to make her feel at ease. The constant darkness from the outside made it hard for her tell the time, but she figured it must have been hours since his first step into the house. His voice grew weaker and weaker as time passed on, as if fading into nothingness.
With all that was said and done, Jack’s tales shifted towards his father’s. She told him how his father was forced to hunt down the very comrades he rode together with back in the gang, and his unfair and unjustly death at the hands of agent Ross. He told her that he took it upon himself to take revenge, and granted him a death he felt he so rightly deserved. But to her, Ross’ death only served as a catalyst for another.
“I still couldn’t believe Pa’s dead,” he said, sniveling. “My ma… She must have felt so much more than I did, enough to bring her to her grave.”
She cast her eyes downward, unable to see him in such a pitiful form.
“Did I… Did I do the right thing? To avenge him?”
She wanted to tell him that what he did was wrong, and that he was the bigger fool than John Marston would ever be. She achingly desired to tell him how he had doomed himself, and that he wasted away the sacrifices that not only his father, but also Arthur, made for him to live a truly normal life. Her throat was heavy when she opened her mouth to answer. No words came.
“I know… I know…” He said, as if he knew all along what she was supposed to say. He broke his gaze upon her and shifted it towards the ceiling, as if reaching out to something that wasn’t there. “I… I want to be buried somewhere peaceful… somewhere… that can touch the sky, even just for a bit.”
“Please, don’t say that.”
“I have to, or you wouldn’t know what to do.”
He breathed a heavy sigh, perhaps his last one.
“I just hope it all ends with me.”
Charlotte held his hand. It was cold and jittery, just as the rest of him was.
“Rest easy now. Stay strong, you’ll pull through,” she repeated, but felt as if all she was telling were lies.
He nodded silently, as if his mouth had nothing to say anymore. Charlotte watched his slow, shallow breaths, and the rise and fall of his chest. It was, to her disdain, a reflection of a nearing end to the few people she had known all her life. She thought, almost jokingly, that she should just throw away this bed, knowing its cursed history, but it seems her plans of coping through dark humor just falls short from the sight that impaled her there and then.
She maintained her hold on him, hoping the warmth of another would let him pass on with no struggle. Most of all, she wanted to assure Jack that he wasn’t going to die all alone, and that she was there for him, for better or worst.
With the other, unoccupied hand, she firmly gripped the spine of the journal that Jack had given him, reading it, cherishing each and every page full of art and wonder. It felt as if she peered directly into Arthur’s soul, dissecting each entry piece by piece. Each crisp turn of a page was a pleasure to behold. It gave her peace knowing Arthur was truly a good man, just blinded by his loyalty to a surrogate father who exploited his poor upbringing. But the same revelations also gave her misery knowing that he deserved so much more than perish alone on a mountain, betrayed by a father he gave everything for.
When the sunlight was already creeping from beyond the window panes, casting an ethereal, orange glow into the room, Jack had pushed with his final breath, and there it ended, forever.
She took extra care in bundling him in a thick blanket and carrying him over her horse. It was almost like a normal routine for her. But for this moment, she felt like she was reliving her past self, struggling to carry the lifeless body of her husband Cal through the woods, and burying him in the earth that he always praised in his dreams.
Jack’s frail voice still echoed in her ears.
I just hope it all ends with me.
Perhaps it did; that the vicious cycle they were entrapped in has finally departed along with him. Jack had told her he wanted to be buried somewhere that was peaceful. At first, she was hoping to carry him all the way to where his mother, father and Uncle lay, but Beecher’s Hope was a long way south. His body would have fallen apart by the time she got there. Instead, she sought after the location of his second request, a place where it can touch the sky, and she knew just where it was. Arthur’s grave was just somewhere nearby, close enough to journey with a body in and serene enough where Jack could be laid to rest with a dear old friend.
The trek was long a long and arduous climb up the mountains of Ambarino. In her younger days, she could go hiking on foot through the trails days on end without feeling tired. Now, she struggles even with a horse as she shifts her weight around her saddle to keep her balance, making each step of a hoof a grueling task. Still, the difficulty of the path makes it worth the trouble, especially now that she was given an important obligation. It was somewhat odd for her, passing by a field of vibrant colors and journeying through stunning landscapes in the morning sun, and all of which did not stir her one bit. The refreshing wind brushed her face as if it was nature’s way of cheering her up, but everything was still as melancholic as it turned out to be.
She dropped down from her horse and picked a fresh set of flowers, making sure to choose the best looking ones, and placed it in her saddlebag for safekeeping. It wasn’t her first time gathering them for Arthur, but to be picking twice as many of them to place was almost heart wrenching, even for her. The last time she went to him, the grave itself was already worn down and crumbling. She made sure to replace it, rewriting the same inscriptions that were made to it by one of John’s friends.
When she arrived, she wasn’t as bewildered upon seeing that a circle of flowers to have already been placed beneath it, likely just a few days before. She didn’t know who this other, mystery person was, but Charlotte had a feeling that it was one other person who Arthur helped give meaning to his or her life, just as he did with hers. It was just a pity for her that they never came across each other after all this time. It would have been a couple of nice stories to share between them. New friends to gain were always welcome, and maybe even a companion to cope with the loss of these three wonderful men would have done so much to wipe away her tears. She wondered if she should have left a note, taking a solemn chance to come across one another. But knowing Arthur’s former affiliation, there are worse things to fear than a mountain lion or a bear, and so she never opted to.
She began digging another grave somewhere beside it, and readied another marker to place. She retrieved him from her horse and gently placed him in the hole. She scattered a couple of the flowers she’s picked above and below the hole before refilling it. The marker was simple and minimalistic, of a similar design to Arthur’s with Jack Marston’s name inscribed along with a quote that paralleled Arthur’s: BLESSED ARE THOSE WHO ARE PERSECUTED BECAUSE OF THEIR RIGHTEOUSNESS, FOR THEIRS IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN. She didn’t have the opportunity to ask him what to write, as if anyone else would have the gall to ask a dying man what to inscribe on their grave markers, but she knew Jack had always loved reading books and stories, along with the bible that Abigail read to him with much enthusiasm. Such an ardent passion would’ve made him a great writer, she thought. She wondered that if he had chosen a different path where he had not followed his father’s footsteps, that life would have been his future.
It was not easy for her to endure the sting of having to bury the boy beside him. She was no religious person, but she clasped her hands together and uttered a short mantra of her own, wishing the boy well in whatever the afterlife might be.
With all that is said and done, she turned towards Arthur’s grave again.
“What do you think?” she whispered into the empty space.
She imagined what Arthur would have thought, bringing the boy here beside him. Would he have welcomed her gesture as if it was a kindness, or lash out at her, treating it as a painful, lasting reminder of a sacrifice that never bore its fruit? While confusing at times, she knew Arthur was a kind enough man to find no bother in her action.
She removed Arthur’s satchel from her shoulder and placed it on top of his grave, leaving it behind to serve as a memento to the other person who had visited him all these years. She was just selfish enough not to give away the precious journal in her arms. For her, perhaps just a small token like his bag would’ve been enough to show her appreciation to the stranger that paralleled her admiration.
She opened the journal once again, trying to make sense of it all. She landed upon the same page that boggled her mind, the mention of a person named Francis Sinclair – a man turned baby. It was a confusing thought not only for Arthur, but also for her. She pulled out the business card tucked between the bundles of letters that came along with the journal. As she ran her fingers along the worn edges, her eyes just barely managed to make out the faded words below the name.
“Looks like I’ll be going to Strawberry, Mr. Morgan. Maybe I’ll see you soon enough, if fate would have it.”