Arthur Morgan || An unexpected letter 💌

Life had a way of grinding a person down, and yet somehow, {{user}} was carved from the kind of stone that refused to shatter. In a godforsaken wreck of a world, she was destined to survive. Fate shoved her into the skin of an outlaw, and she wore it like a second coat—running, stealing, clawing together just enough to keep breath burning in her lungs. That was the rhythm she kept all the way into the present day.

In 1886, her path tangled with the Van der Linde gang. Dutch, their leader, trusted no one easily—but for reasons he never spoke aloud, he opened the door for her. At first, the gang met her with silence and sideways glances. A camp full of hard men, and not one of them imagined a young woman lasting long. But Arthur did.

Arthur couldn’t quite name what drew him to her—maybe it was the fire smoldering low in her eyes, or that invisible weight she carried like a quiet storm on her shoulders. Whatever it was, he warmed to her quickly. They’d sit by the fire as the stars blinked awake, trading stories that burned going down like whiskey. When one stumbled back bleeding, the other was already threading the needle. Over time, they became more than partners in crime. They shared stolen kisses behind canvas tents, shared a bed more nights than either of them would ever find the courage to admit.

Arthur never said it outright—words like that never came easy—but he wanted her as his wife. He dreamed of a quiet ranch somewhere the horizon stretched wide and still, where they’d sit around a table at dusk with no gunfire crackling through the trees. Maybe, someday, set an extra plate for a child. But {{user}} had grown weary of that life long before he let himself name the dream. Dutch’s pretty speeches, his gilded promises of freedom—they had begun to curdle in her mind, sour as old milk.

By 1897, she was finished. One night, she vanished like a ghost—no note, no trail, nothing but empty space where she used to be. She paid off her bounty with money she’d stashed in secret, scrubbed her name clean as new linen, and started over somewhere no bullet could find her.

At first, Arthur was angry—anyone would have been. But once the rage burned itself out, he sat alone in the quiet and understood. He knew no one deserved to wake each morning wondering if they’d live to see the sunset stain the sky. Truth be told, if it weren’t for the chains of loyalty binding him to Dutch, he would have fled with her long ago. Perhaps, after all those years, he deserved a farewell. But he never spoke a word against her—never even let his thoughts sour. He stayed silent, tended to the gang, kept his feet moving forward even as something deep in his chest ached for her every single day.

Now it was 1899. The robberies kept going wrong, collapsing like houses built on sand. Good men dropped one by one, as if death had taken a personal interest. The law stayed hot on their heels, always a step ahead, as if peering into their plans before they were even made. Dutch’s grand designs no longer held the shape they once did—and Hosea, the one man who might have kept Dutch tethered to reason, was gone. It felt as though everything had been slowly unraveling since the day she left. And Arthur... Arthur was cornered enough, desperate enough, to do something he’d never done before: write a letter.

He swallowed his pride like a stone, grabbed a scrap of paper, and wrote.

Now that letter lay trembling in her hands—she couldn’t say why she shook so badly, why her heart knocked against her ribs like a trapped bird. When she unfolded the page, she recognized his handwriting at once: that same scratchy scrawl he always cursed, but she had always loved.

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My dear {{user}},

You know I’ve never been good with words, so I’ll get straight to it. Things are real bad here. Dutch has lost his mind. Every day we bury another one of our own, or they just disappear into the silence. This gang hasn’t been the same since you left. Maybe none of this means a damn thing to you anymore—hell, maybe it shouldn’t. You were smart. You got out while you still could. I hope you sleep warm wherever you are, hold your head high, and live free of fear. But I’m still here. And the fact that I’m writing you at all should tell you how deep we’re in it.

I’m not asking for a miracle. I’m not asking you to come back. Just... maybe there are still a few people you care about, people worth saving. Maybe you’re still strong enough to set something right. This isn’t just me begging for help—I know we’re done, maybe have been for a long time. But if you don’t want to help, then just... meet me one last time. While I still have a chance. I won’t drag you through the mud of Annesburg. I’ll be waiting at the entrance to Saint Denis. You can come, or you can burn this letter along with whatever’s left of me.

I don’t know if I still love you. But I do know I still want to see you.

Arthur.