ᴍᴜʟᴛɪғᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇ | ᴏʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴇᴡ ғɪᴄs ғʀᴏᴍ ᴍʏ ɴᴏᴛᴇs

The Light You Left Behind (Arthur Morgan x male!reader)

Summary: THE WINNER TAKES IT ALL

Warning: AHH IT'S A TOY BOAT. High angsty, love, sorrow, reader spirit animal is raven, male reader, major characters death, sad.

based on this request, tq!

As usual, I'm sorry if there are any wrong sentences or typos or grammatical mistakes, please forgive me and again English is not my first language, so I try to improve my language and writing in this way.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You died in early spring.

The leaves had just started budding again. The air still held a winter chill in the mornings, but there were birdsong and hints of warmth that promised better days ahead.

Arthur sat with you through the end.

Held your hand even when your grip went limp. He pressed his forehead to yours when your breathing turned shallow. And when the last exhale left your chest — soft as a sigh, almost like sleep — he didn't cry.

Not at first.

He just said your name, quietly. Then again, as if you could answer.

You didn't.

The gang buried you under a tree not far from Shady Belle. Arthur didn't let anyone else lower your body into the ground. His hands, his arms — they were the ones to lay you down.

Dutch gave a speech, Hosea said a few words.

Arthur didn't say anything.

Not out loud.

But when the camp had gone quiet that night, when the fire was low and the stars hung like nails in the dark, he sat by your grave alone. Fingers stained with dirt. Eyes red.

"You should be here," he whispered.

Silence answered.

The night wind rustled the leaves overhead.

And somewhere deep in the trees... something watched.

It was just past dawn. The world smelled like damp grass and gunpowder from the hunt the night before. Arthur was heading down to the river, chewing a piece of jerky, when he saw it:

A raven. Perched on a low branch. Just watching him.

Nothing odd about it, really. Plenty of birds around.

But this one... it didn't move. Didn't fly off. Didn't startle.

It just looked at him.

Black as midnight. Calm down. Still. Eyes too knowing.

Arthur frowned.

“…Huh.”

The next day, it was waiting outside the stables.

And again, two days later — perched on the roof of the Belle manor when he stepped outside.

Then near the campfire.

Then, once, beside your grave.

He asked Hosea about it once.

"Y'think ravens mean somethin'?"

Hosea raised an eyebrow. "They can. Some folks say they carry souls. That they're messengers."

Arthur went quiet.

“…Yeah.”

Hosea didn't ask more.

He didn't need to.

Then came the dreams.

You, standing in the river, smiling.

You, beside his horse, brushing the mane with your hands.

You, resting beside him in camp. Wearing that half-smile you always had. Eyes soft and tired.

Sometimes, you'd speak.

Sometimes, you'd just reach for him.

Every time he woke up, he'd sit up gasping — heart aching like the disease had jumped from your chest into him.

He stopped telling people about the bird.

He didn't need them to understand.

He knew it was you.

He could feel it. The same way he knew his own shadow.

The raven stayed close.

Not always visible, but always there.

A flutter of wings when he was wounded. A cry overhead when a patrol passed too close. A silent figure beside your grave in the evening light.

Arthur would leave bits of bread or meat sometimes.

Just in case.

He was riding alone, far from camp.

It had been a bad day. Dutch was spiraling, tensions were high, and Arthur's hands were shaking again — not from illness, but from everything else.

He stopped to camp under a cedar tree. Built a fire. Sit in silence.

Then… a flutter.

The raven landed on a low branch nearby.

Arthur stared.

“…Y/n,” he murmured, the name falling from his lips like a prayer.

The raven tilted its head.

"I miss you," he said.

He didn't expect an answer.

But the wind blew through the trees, soft and warm. The fire flickered. And the bird hopped closer, just a few feet away now.

Arthur reached out slowly.

The raven didn't fly.

Just blinked. Calm down. Steady. Like it knew.

His fingers brushed his feathers, and for one strange moment — just one breath of time — he swore he felt your hand instead.

Rough palms. Warmth. Familiar.

Arthur choked on a laugh. Or maybe a friend.

"...You always said you'd stick with me," he whispered.

The raven blinked again.

And flew.

Up, into the starlit sky.

He watched it go.

And for the first time since you’d gone…

He smiled.

John Marston stood on the porch of his ranch, staring at a stag in the distance.

It watched him quietly.

Regal. Still.

There was something sacred about it.

John didn't know why, but his chest ached.

Behind him, Abigail called for him to come in. Jack was asking about dinner.

The stag disappeared into the trees.

John turned.

Didn't see the raven perched above the barn roof — black wings tucked close, head tilted towards the west.

Didn't see how, for one brief moment, the raven looked towards the sky... and a faint shimmer passed over it, like the reflection of a man walking beside it in the moonlight.

A man with your smile.

And Arthur's hand resting on his shoulder.

Together again.

Just... watching over.