Arthur Morgan did not intend to survive when he gave his hat to John Marston and stayed behind to gain his redemption. As he crawled towards his final resting place, he never intended to wake up again.
But he does wake up. Thanks to time travelers F...
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At long last, Arthur's doctors declared him well enough to check out of the hospital. His body still ailed him, it seemed, but he was certainly on the mend as well. Now, instead of a few agonizing steps, he could walk and even run with little difficulty. His cough remained, but the blood was gone again, and Arthur finally felt like he could breathe at a level that reminded him of his life just before the misadventure in Guarma.
The main problem was his body condition. His muscles were small and frail, and he had virtually no body fat. Arthur actively avoided looking into mirrors because the sallow skeleton with gaunt, bloodshot eyes he saw staring back at him was the stuff of nightmares. The Lintons were fond of reminding him that it was only temporary, but the self-doubt constantly nagged at Arthur. His doctors swore up and down that he had already put on twenty pounds since being hospitalized, but those twenty pounds seemed to have disappeared when they applied themselves to his body. It must have gone to his meager muscles, Arthur decided eventually. He could finally lift objects at similar sizes he could before, and had resolved to use them to lift a deer carcass as soon as he could.
Truthfully, his physical self was still in the hospital, but his mind often wandered to Big Valley. Sometimes, in the times when he was half asleep and half awake, he could swear he felt the cold chill of the breeze on his cheeks and could smell the fresh scent of damp earth, pine, and brilliant, purple lupines in the air. He had no idea if the valley still existed as he remembered it, or if time had ruined the unspoiled wilderness as it had so many other things. He never saw it mentioned on TV, and no one seemed to talk about it in conversation either. In fact, Arthur was staring out the window daydreaming about that very place when he heard the door to his room open.
He turned around and nearly jumped out of his skin.
Micah stood in the doorway, grinning evilly as he stood beside an equally happy-looking Charles. He was just as Arthur remembered, with long, dirty-blond hair and a red shirt that would barely stay buttoned over his beer gut. Arthur could even smell him; his stench was one of the most vivid memories Arthur had of his last night in 1899. It was a smell of death and decay: whiskey and cheap whores and gunpowder and blood. Always blood. The rusty scent of it made Arthur feel like gagging.
Terrified, he blinked rapidly. Micah's rat-like grin faded away and was replaced by the kind, warm smile of Jackson Linton. Arthur forced himself to take long, slow, even breaths to calm himself down. What the hell had just happened? Clearly it was some type of hallucination, but it felt so real.
Jackson seemed oblivious to Arthur's distress, but Charles noticed. His large, dark eyes froze and filled with confusion and concern for his friend. "You ok, Arthur?" He asked.
"Never better," the outlaw lied. "What you doin' here?"
"We have good news, Arthur!" Jackson announced. "You're getting discharged today! You never really told me and my sister for sure whether you wanted to come live with us, so I figured I'd ask again. We kind of assumed you did, but we wanted to make sure."
