A New Beginning

Where Your Heart Lies

The soft, gentle rays of the nascent sun twinkle you good morning as a wealth of stars in sloshing, water as you ready basin and apposite articles for the morning cleanse. With an adept, tender hand you put the fabric to Arthur's face – and notice with wretched dread his skin, cold and ashen grey. You shake him, you yell his name, to no avail. Arthur is no more.

Unconceivable, unfair, unbearable! The one whom your heart desires has succumbed to malady and ague. All your hard effort, all your hopes and sleepless nights, all for naught. On this darkest of days, his heart stopped beating and now there is naught that awaits but eternal rest. You collapse over his lifeless chest, fallen for the last time to never rise again, to a monsoon of tears. Alone. All alone.

A grave is dug on a ledge, facing the setting sun. You kiss him goodbye and then he is laid to rest.

– your fault, all your fault.

A call from outside, a promise of help – a call, which response is met with the deadly black hollow of a revolver to your head, complemented by the perverted leer of Nevans himself. A figure behind him – a skirmisher in an oversized coat awash with blood, erupting into a guffawing, toothless roar.

Arthur, dying before your eyes by a bullet to his head, sometimes with, sometimes without a knife to your throat. Arthur, mauled to death by a thousand-pound bear with a lightning bolt for a scar.

You stir awake with a yelp, at loss for intelligence of the time of day or whether or not it's the same day as before you fell asleep or the day after. Sharp and bright stings your blinking eyes. A stream of budding consciousness is doing wonders to clear your muddled mind as you rub your eyes to an impromptu yawn. Though you had ended up dozing off in all the tendering discomfort of an old, squeaky armchair the land of dreams bids you naught but torment and distress. No solace, no pleasure, no respite from fret, despondence, and alarm.

It's daylight outside. What had just been night is now early morrow or late afternoon. Circadian rhythm, what even is that anym- Arthur!

He is still breathing but alas, he seems worse for wear. A sound, dull yet loud, stirs you sharp and it takes you but a second to allocate the noise to a fist pounding on the door. The seed of trepidation, planted by the ghastly nightmare still fresh in your mind, sprouts as the ice of soul-numbing dread. You leap for the shotgun as a familiar voice calling your name has you throwing open the door and diving into a pair of strong yet gentle arms certain to hound away the dreaded dark and the monsters therein and in one fell, fatherly swoop you are little again.

"Uncle Bry. I've been so worried!"

"Me too, my Angel. Me too."

Uncle Bryan sways you side to side as gently as a baby in a cradle, giving you a moment of respite to words of comfort in a mellow, almost humming voice, rubbing your back till your shaking stills.

Five days back, you held in your arms a bleeding, unconscious Arthur as you plead your case to whomever might hear, friend or foe, – and heeding your calls were a pair of kind eyes, your father's eyes, awash with worry, relief, and foreboding concern all at once. Your uncle Bryan. He helped you cauterize Arthur's wound and transporting the unconscious bounty hunter to this place, after which you had entreated, no beseeched him to make haste for medical aid and supplies as Arthur was, and still is, in no condition to make the journey himself. Of that you are sure. Equally sure you were, and still are, that without constant care Arthur is sure to soon die.

You had appealed to your uncle's sense of honor, rectitude, and integrity by relaying how Arthur had kept you safe, how he'd taught you how to handle both a revolver and a rifle and that you could both feed and fend for yourself. You promised to tell him everything, to answer his every burning question once he returned. Your uncle, ablaze with questions and worry, and yet already understanding quite a bit, had acceded.