When the Devil Cries (Arthur Morgan X Male OC)

3. Freedom

From Arthur's POV

SAINT DENIS

Sticking close to the young musician, Edward led me through the bustling traffic and thick crowds of people as the city gradually became more and more awake, rising to its average amount of daily commotion along with the sun.

By now, there was horses and stagecoaches rollin' around all over the place, as well as an alarming amount of lawmen patrolling in their stuffy, blue coats, keeping an eye out for the smallest hint of trouble and ready to act at a moment's notice. Well, most of them were, at least.

As for Edward, the boy seemed to have no problems whatsoever snaking his way through Saint Denis, and to be honest, it felt like he was starin' at his notes more often than he was at the streets. How this man hadn't crashed into anyone else yet was beyond me.

I, on the other hand -- like the absent-minded brute I was -- found myself constantly swerving and squeezing through people, doing my best not to stumble over my own two feet. At the moment, I looked like the town drunk tryin' to remember how to walk.

"How do you live here?" I asked Edward, barely pulling the boy's eyes away from his music sheets.

"What do you mean?" He questioned, evidently not picking up on my struggles at all.

"All these people..." I explained, "the confined spaces, the buildings stacked right next to each other, that god-awful smell...how do you live in a place like this and not go mad?"

Edward let out a chuckle. "Well, I was raised in the city. London, specifically. I suppose I'm just used to it. You're not though, I take it."

I straightened my shirt and picked up the pace a bit, catching up to the musician.

"You could say that."

Pausing for a second, Edward cocked his head in interest and glanced at me.

"Where are you from, actually? This whole time I've been talking about myself, but...I'd love to hear more about you, Mister Morgan."

Being the master of speech that I was, I decided to deflect the question with my horrible sense of humor.

"I'm afraid if I told you anythin' about myself..." I winked, "...I'd have to kill you."

The pianist laughed joyously. "Well, now you've only intrigued me more. Please...enlighten me. What are these deep, dark secrets that you're keeping?"

I shifted to a more serious tone, gazing at Edward with a dubious expression. "...You really wanna know 'bout me?"

He smirked, his eyes twinkling with fascination.

"Of course. A new cowboy shows up in town, waltzes right into the most opulent saloon in the city -- despite the unwritten rule that the Bastille is only for the rich -- and now he tells me he'd have to kill me if I learnt anything about him. Mister Morgan, I've spent my whole life writing stories without words...and your actions alone are enough to tell me that you're probably the most interesting man I've ever had the fortune to come across. What kind of fool wouldn't wish to know more about you?"

Admittedly a bit overwhelmed by everything he just said, I chuckled softly at that and shrugged, finally giving in at last.

"Well, that's certainly one way to put it. Alright, then...what you wanna know?"

Edward thought for a minute. "...What do you do for a living?"

I quickly came up with something.

"I'm...sort of a wanderer, I guess. I pick up jobs along the way, travel where I can, hunt down the occasional bounty. It ain't exactly stable, but it works for me."