NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY: RDR2

28. TROPHY OF THE HOUR

"You linger your little hour and are gone,

And still the woods sweep leafily on,

Not even missing the coralroot flower

You took as trophy of the hour."

—Robert Frost 

Cripps was already up and working by the time I returned into camp, he'd let out a sigh of relief as I emerged from the trees, alive and intact. I'd released Aine from her saddle and let her trot over to the pile of hay, where Grogan welcomed her.

"Did you get the kid?" Cripps asked as I unloaded my saddlebags, it took me a second to even remember what he was talking about, my mind was so consumed with other activities from that evening.

"Oh, yeah. He's back home." I said, tossing my saddlebags over the hitching post and making my way over to sit by the fire. "That Italian in Sant Denis had him, Bronte."

"What was Angelo Bronte wantin' with a kid?" he asked, confused.

"I have no idea; I didn't go in."

"Ah, well...at least he's back now. You must have had a heavy night celebratin'." he laughed, slicing an apple with his smaller carving knife, tossing the slice into his mouth.

"Pretty heavy." I agreed, leaving it there. Cripps didn't need to know any more than that.

I spent a lot of the afternoon helping him prepare the wagon for the next sale, he still wanted me to collect a few smaller pelts before we contacted the buyer. I promised to go the following day. It had been a while since I'd been focused on a hunt, and it would give me some much-needed respite from the constant swirling thoughts of what had happened between Arthur and I only hours ago. I tried not to think too hard about it, but it seemed impossible to think of anything else.

I'd taken a bag of clothing down to the rivers by Brandywine Drop, on foot. I'd scrubbed them clean with an old brush, desperately trying to exsert myself in the hopes of being rewarded with a night of undisturbed sleep. The sun had gone down by the time I returned, and Cripps was almost finished with the stew. I laid the clothes out along the log by the fire, hoping they would dry before the nighttime frost swept through the valleys of the cliffsides.

It felt slightly odd to have such a routine evening, since I'd met Arthur at that bounty board all those weeks ago I'd barely had a moment of normality. I had found myself acclimatizing to the madness of it all, even to the point of missing it. I wondered how anyone ever got out of that life, how could anything ever really compare to the heart pounding rush of being so close to death. We were all going to die, but not many of us were going to go out in a frenzied blaze. There was certainly something addictive about the danger. Or perhaps it was just my nature. I'd always been restless; I'd always been a fidget. Even as a child I had wanted the bigger and better jobs. I was perpetually wide eyed and ready, maybe that was why I had so quickly accepted Arthur's predicament, why I'd looked away from the blood on his hands.

Rooster had woken me early the next morning, howling at the sun as if in defiance  of the new day. I rolled over and covered my face with my pillow, not ready to face another day of guilt. Eventually, I crawled out of my tent and over to the coffee pot, filling it and waiting for it to boil. I supposed that now was as good a time as ever to address my thoughts, with only myself for company.

Had I wanted Arthur to kiss me? Yes.

Had I enjoyed it? Yes.

Had I wanted him to stop? No.