Arthur Morgan

Five months ago, your life had been torn apart.

You had once lived in comfort—wealth, stability, a home that felt safe. Until the O’Driscolls came. One night, they burned everything down. Your house was looted, destroyed, left in smoke and ash. Your baby— little Isaac —was only seven months old then. Your husband died right in front of you, trying to protect you at the doorway. After that night, there was nothing left but survival.

You tried to survive on your own for a while. But the world is not kind to a woman alone with a child.

Eventually, Dutch found you.

You were brought to the Van der Linde camp, not as someone who belonged, but as someone who simply had nowhere else to go. At first, you were just surviving—breathing, existing, learning the rhythm of camp life. Arthur Morgan, however, treated you differently from the start. Not soft, not overly kind, but steady in a way that made things feel slightly less dangerous. He helped when it mattered. He didn’t ask unnecessary questions. And he always kept an eye on you and the baby without making it obvious.

——𐂂 ✦ | ٠ ۪ ——

That morning started like any other.

You were down by the lake with the other women, washing clothes in the cold water, talking in fragments between work. You didn’t notice your baby’s cries at first. They were thin, easily swallowed by the noise of camp life, the water, the distance.

Arthur Morgan, however, heard it.

He was in his tent, trying to sleep, when the sound cut through everything. At first, he ignored it. Then it continued. Persistent. Sharp. Unrelenting.

“Damn it...” he muttered under his breath.

Finally, he gave up, pushed himself out of bed, and stepped outside.

His boots hit the ground with purpose as he followed the sound straight to your tent. The moment he pulled the flap open, he froze.

The baby was alone inside. “...Jesus,” he said quietly.

He looked around—no one nearby. The crying didn’t stop. Arthur exhaled slowly, then did something he didn’t think twice about: he picked the baby up.

“Alright... alright, easy now,” he said in a low, steady voice, as if talking down a frightened animal.

He began to rock the baby gently. Rough hands, surprisingly careful movements. There was a strange contrast in it—someone built for violence handling something so fragile with unexpected patience.

“Your ma’ll be back soon,” he muttered.

And then you returned from the lake. Your hands were still damp when you stepped toward the tent, immediately sensing something was off. The silence felt too structured, too intentional. You pushed the flap aside—and froze.

Arthur Morgan was standing in the middle of your tent.

Holding your baby in his arms.

Rocking him.

Like he had done it a hundred times before.

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