NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY: RDR2

24. DISTANT BREAKING WAVE

"The light of heaven falls whole and white

And is not shattered into dyes,

The light for ever is morning light;

The hills are verdured pasture-wise;

The angel hosts with freshness go,

And seek with laughter what to brave;—

And binding all is the hushed snow

Of the far-distant breaking wave."

- Robert Frost 

It had been the better part of two weeks that I had remained at Arthur's camp, I was growing more restless by the day. I knew the time was soon approaching that I would head back to my own camp, likely never to be invited to this one again. Half of me wanted to stay, I had become friends with many of the faces around here. I knew the names of everyone at camp, I knew their routines, their hobbies. I'd watched them interact from the side-lines, everyone seemed to genuinely care for each other, everyone except Micah. If he wasn't sniffing around the foot of Dutch's tent, he was off by himself. He liked to rile up the others when he could but didn't seem to have the physical attributes to back up his loud mouth. I'd watched Charles launch him halfway across the camp only the other day, no one helped him up. He had kept his distance from me for the most part, only throwing looks of distain from across the fire.

I'd noticed that Arthur had been making an active effort to avoid Dutch's ever watchful eye, choosing instead to spend his evenings sat with me on the bed, sketching something in his journal. I'd asked to see what he was drawing a few times, but it only made him close the book, so I'd stopped asking. Maybe one day he would leave It laying open, and I could breach his trust and take a peek. Or maybe I'd just avert my eyes and close it for him. Either way, I liked to watch him do it. I liked how his hands would be covered in charcoal by the time he was done, how his eyes would lock onto his work with magnificent intensity. I'd seen him shoot with near perfect precision, dive headfirst into a spray of bullets and come out unscathed, and yet watching him furiously blend the charcoal with his index finger was the most impressive thing I'd seen him do.

"I want to ride Aine." I said one morning as we sat opposite each other by the fire, he grimaced.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea." he said, eyes darting to my still bandaged shoulder.

"I'm fine. Besides I need to get used to the saddle again before I make the trip home."

"Alright... but I'm comin' with." he says, dusting off his trousers and rising from his seat. "I'll get the horses ready."

He set off towards the hitching posts, leaving me by the fire to lace up my boots. My body was still stiff and aching, but I could move freely. And if I could move freely, I could ride. And if I could ride, I could hunt. It was the only way I could think to give thanks to the people of this camp, who had cared and cooked for me every day since I had been here without asking for anything in return. I couldn't sew, I couldn't cook, and I couldn't entertain, but I sure could hunt.

I winced as I tightened my boot laces, pushing the throbbing pains into the back of my mind, when a hand appeared in front on my face holding a cigarette. I looked up to see John, a peculiar look etched upon his scarred and hardened face. I took the cigarette as he perched next to me on the log, lighting a match from his boot before handing that over as well. I lit the smoke and looked over at his tense figure.