A New Beginning

Together

Arthur's recovery is as remarkable as the remedy that saved his life. The second day on his feet he is out hunting deer, returning in the midst of a downpour with a buck over his shoulder and a grin on his face, smelling of moss, rain, steed, and blood. That night, your love is unhurried and gentle; every touch savored, every kiss languid and tender, it is a night where gratifying the loins matters not, rather, you are both rapt in the fulfillment of spiritual intimacy and being united as one. Carnal indulgence came second, though it certainly came. On the third day Arthur is chopping wood without as much as a twitch of pain and that night he is pounding you into the mattress at your unabashed, brazen beseech harder, faster, later succeeded by you presenting yourself on hands and knees, your derrière high in a silent entreat Arthur is powerless to resist.

You spend a few days like this, in the euphoria of doting bliss and fulfilling peace, enjoying the spring and each other, with no skin left unkissed or amatory pose untried. Once a sweet has been savored, any creature of the flesh disposed to relish such earthly pleasures is most certain to pine for more and the hours not employed to eat, sleep, or on chores of the most pressing concern are bestowed to cuddles, kisses, and conversations as intimate and heartfelt as the concomitant canoodling. Yet all good things must come to an end and so does your repose. On the fourth day of May, the post-pleasure, mutual-embrace lull after Arthur has wished you a particularly sweet good morning is disrupted by the alarming herald of fast-approaching hooves.

Arthur is on his feet, pulling up trousers, throwing on apparel, stomping into boots, fetching guns and gunslinger appurtenance faster than you ever seen anyone do as you hover on all four, peering out the window. Although the silhouette in the pre-noon light of a lean figure of average height with shoulder-length, unkempt hair is vaguely familiar, it is the dark brown Halfbred and silvery mane that has your heart pounding and throat exclaiming, "It's Mr. Marston!"

Garb and gear donned, a wisp of air swirls over your naked shoulders, and thudding stomp-stomp-stomps are promptly ensued by the squeeeak of old, rusty hinges. You stumble out of bed, wriggle into your breeches, and put on your chemise with such ardent haste you have no idea if the apparel's becoming, backwards, or inside out. You button the blouse by the window, not at all attentive to fingers or fabric, full-on committed to not miss a blink of a reunion, which a mere week ago seemed impossible, save from the bleak prospect of a grave being dug on a ledge to face the setting sun.

The patchwork of sun and shadow infers a morning past and a midday yet to come. Marston, hitching his steed, likely expecting to be greeted by you alone (or by none) is, despite the ruckus of Arthur yanking the door, in no hurry to raise his head, that is, until a gruff 'John' spurs immediate attention. Ensuing the mandatory blink of surprise, he calls out Arthur's name with a medley of relief, disbelief, and perplexity. Deeming yourself dressed tolerably enough to pass as not-indecent you haste to the doorway, where you linger. Though the voices are subdued by the song of the canopy and a breeze, to which you fetch a shawl from the adjacent wall, you catch every word with ease.

"So... you'n Abigail, huh?"

Marston tugs the brim of his hat to an affirming yep, a gesture ever so convenient for concealing one's mien until shrouded by the pretense of inconsequence.

"John Marston makin' wedding vows'n settlin' down, now I heard it all." The jibing lilt cannot veil the luster of big-brother pride in Arthur's eyes, rousing in you a warmth that makes it impossible not to smile. Concurrently, an antithesis stirs deep in your gut, a tinge of displeasure drawing your attention to the wanting brotherly hug you did not know you had been expecting, wishing, or hoping to see.

"Didn't think you cared 'bout these things."

"I didn't–," Marston admits. "But I do now."

"I'm happy for ya."