This is a bad idea. Two totally incompatible series. I always did like a challenge though. Theme for this fic is The River by Blues Saraceno.

Dutch has finally lost his ever lovin' mind. Storming around most days, ranting and raving at the nearest person like all the troubles we'd been through lately are their fault. I don't see the man that raised me, the Dutch that had run with Hosea and me for years. I know he's still in there; every now and then I see him stop and tremble, like he don't know what to do with himself. But soon, this new mad determination takes over, and he gets that feral look in his eye again. One second, he's preaching about how anyone who follows him will be rich and free, same as he always has. The next, he's jumping at shadows and screaming traitor at the first person that looks at him funny.

All except Micah. That slippery sumbitch was lounging around camp like a fat cat, and even with our recent losses saw no reason to lift a finger. Sure, he'd leave camp with Dutch, or maybe go alone to score some quick cash, but never for long. He was Dutch's shadow since before the bank heist in Saint Denis. The heist that got so many of us killed or captured. Hosea, shot in the street like some cur. Lenny, ambushed with shotguns before I could lift a finger to save him. John is stuck in prison somewhere, that poor fool. We've lost so many since Blackwater, and I fear I'm the next in line.

Dr. Strauss, the leech that he is, got me going after some debts a few months back. It was something we'd done plenty of times, despite how distasteful it is. Go out into town and find somebody down on their luck, the type that would do anything to escape the predicament they're in. Loan them some money, on the condition that they pay some ungodly rates, and wait for them to come up short. When Strauss got his first sign of weakness, he sent me in. I'd rough up the borrower, wreck their place, terrorize and threaten and do whatever it took to get the debt covered. I never liked it, but it brought in money when the gang needed it. Until last week, I considered it necessary.

Anyway, one of the marks was a man of strong spirit, but weak body. Thomas Downes. When I first met him, I thought he was another slimy weasel trying to duck his debt. Now, though... I know it's shallow to say things about the dead, but I've come to respect him. Weak and sickly, he still had the courage to step between me and another idiot in the middle of a bar fight in Valentine. When I came knocking, he begged and pleaded with me as they all did, with his wife and boy watching. I knocked him around, watched him hack and cough blood. At first, I thought it was from the teeth I'd knocked loose, but now I know better. I left that day with money and eyes glaring into my back, covered in Downes' blood. I learned later that he'd died, and I will admit that I did not feel as bad as I should have. At the time, I considered it just one of life's great tragedies.

Thomas Downes had Tuberculosis. Thanks to the blood he spit in my face while I was smacking him all around that farm and the months I spent without treatment, I now have Tuberculosis. The doctor told me I was dying the same way I'd tell a fella his fly was down. It's kinda funny, in a way. Downes had no way of fighting me, but he hurt me far better than I could have hurt him. I found his widow and son in Annesburg a few days ago, forced into poverty thanks to Dr. Strauss and myself. Mrs. Downes had been reduced to whoring herself out, and her boy was working extra shifts in the town's coal mine. Had I not stepped in, he'd have been hacking like his late father by the end of the month.

As for why... it's funny, what death does to a man. I know there was no stopping it, no way of curing it for an outlaw like me. And after I faced what I had done to Downes and his family, it tore me up inside. If I'd been man enough to tell Strauss to go fly a kite, that family would not be in the misery they were in. So I cleaned them up, handed them a fat stack of cash and told them to move on somewhere. The hate in Mrs. Downes' eyes wasn't quite as bright as it had been when I saw her in Saint Denis. I didn't do it for her forgiveness. Hell, I doubt I'd even respect her if she forgave me after everything. But it felt like I had at least made something right. Not entirely, it would never be enough for a blackened soul like mine, but I did something. When I got to camp, I packed Strauss' bag and threw him out of camp. The German bastard stammered and yelled just like so many debtors I had pounded on his word. The one person who could possibly keep me here on God's earth a little while longer, and I threw him out. Dutch still hasn't said a word, and Strauss was the only one who knew I'm sick.

And now, I'm dying.

Arthur Morgan closed his journal with a watery cough, bringing his fist up to keep the flecks of blood from leaving his mouth. If someone else caught the infernal disease because of him, he'd never forgive himself. The coughing fit went on for several seconds, his lungs screaming in agony as he both deprived them of oxygen and spit out their shredded remains. When it finally passed, he spit the bloody remains out of his mouth with a wince and wiped it with his hand. He stood up and stretched to his full height, rolling up his sleeves and looking around the camp.

The Murfree Brood had been right at home here, settled into the caves next to an impressive waterfall. A bunch of backwoods inbred killers, they'd been haunting the forests near Saint Denis and Annesburg long before Arthur, Dutch, and the rest had come around. This particular location had been full of grotesque trophies, mutilated corpses, and cages where they had tortured their victims. Arthur and Charles had killed every Murfree in the cave with extreme prejudice, though it hadn't been very fair. The Murfree Brood had largely been using machetes and the occasional revolver, while Arthur had used a pump shotgun to startling effect. A few dozen bodies later, and Dutch made the caves at Beaver Hollow their new home. Despite all that had happened around the place, it did have a homey feel to it now that the bodies and murderers were gone. Too bad this was the last time Arthur would see it.

He'd made up his mind last night. The coughing was getting worse, and people were starting to notice. Mr. Pearson was bringing him extra portions, saying something about how sailors would fake sickness to get extra rations. Karen had offered him a bottle a few times, before upending it herself as she stumbled by. The worst of it was Jack; the little boy had noticed Arthur down and out and had made every attempt to cheer him up. Arthur had been firm and sometimes even a little harsh when he sent the boy away, though it pained him to do it. But the look of hurt in the boy's eyes was a price he'd gladly pay if it meant he wouldn't catch this infernal disease.

Arthur grabbed a few outfits and some ammunition for his shotgun and bolt action rifle, leaving the rest behind. He planned on doing some good before he died, but the rest of the camp needed weapons to defend themselves. He had a couple of vests made from that massive bull alligator he had slain weeks ago, as well as a hat or two and some boots. For colder weather, a shotgun coat lined with wolf fur and some gloves made from elk and rabbit fur went into the bag as well. His journal, the pen given to him by Jimmy Brooks, the emerald from Mr. Margaret, and the Reutlinger watch they had stolen from the river boat heist all went in as well. These things were from when he had done some good in the world, whether it be saving a man or cutting down a monster. The letter from Mary, the last thing she had sent him since he'd said goodbye, he folded carefully and tucked inside of his vest close to his heart. His white gator hat went on his head, and he brushed off his gunmetal gray slacks. His black collared over shirt cinched under his chin, along with a red tie. His hair was styled to be slicked back, but it was still pretty short. If he was saying goodbye, he was gonna make sure he looked his best.

He reached out for his old gambler's hat, the one he'd worn since Blackwater. As old and traveled as it was, there were several holes and a lifetime of stains that marred it. Each blemish was a story, and stories deserved to be told. With a heavy sigh, Arthur set his old hat down on his cot, the letter explaining his condition hidden within it. Pearson or Javier would find it, surely. It was kinder this way.

Another wave of debilitating coughs wracked him, doubling him over as he hacked and sputtered. The powerless feeling he got as the disease briefly took control of his body away from him was not a new one, but it was no less infuriating in its familiarity. He was Arthur goddamn Morgan, killer of men and free outlaw of the West, only to be brought down by a hacking cough.

"Could be worse." Arthur chuckled around a clot of blood as he spit it into the dirt. "Could be dysentery." The coughs died out, leaving him feeling spent, but he still had to leave camp. He had to save them all from himself, as a last act. The thought of dying out in the wilderness, cold and alone and coughing like mad did little to make him feel any better. But it was a damn sight better than seeing so much as one person get the same death warrant he carried.

He left as he usually did, nodding to Pearson and Ms. Grimshaw as they passed. Charles was on duty, the black/Native American man keeping his dark eyes on the perimeter just as Hosea had taught him. The pang in Arthur's chest as he went by had nothing to do with the Tuberculosis. Charles had nothing but respect for him, and Arthur felt the same for his fellow.

Arthur's horse pawed at the ground, seeking a particularly succulent patch of grass. The black Arabian had been with Arthur ever since Valentine, when he had chanced upon the majestic beast roaming wild on the plains. Either born from escaped horses or a escapee himself, Famine had proven stubborn and nearly unbreakable, forcing Arthur to dedicate a week just to working with the hardy animal. Now though, the horse would follow him to the ends of the earth.

Arthur threw his bag across his alligator skin saddle, the dark and pebbled leather allowing the strap to slide smoothly. He climbed smoothly up into his place, carrying the reins with him as he did so. Famine snorted and trotted forward without any guidance from Arthur as he pulled his revolvers from the saddlebags, sliding them home into their holsters. Twin Schofield revolvers, styled to compliment each other. One was made with blackened steel and silver engravings, sporting an ivory grip. The other was silver with gold engravings, the handle a dark walnut and carved with a crawling snake. Life and Death, he called them. Most just called them Morgan's revolvers, seeing as how he had so many guns, naming them all would be tedious and immature. But it resonated with Arthur that no matter what situation he found himself in, life and death were in his hands. Even now, with the reaper hanging over him, he still had some control over things.

"Gone for a bit, Arthur?" Charles called, watching him prepare. Arthur's back stiffened, and he hesitated before he turned to face his friend. Had he turned right away, the pained grimace on his face would have prompted further questions. The sun's failing light gave his friend a hawkish look, and it hurt enough to lie anyway.

"Yeah, figured I'd go for a ride. Help out some poor fool, maybe hunt some deer." It was an easy deflection, assuming that Arthur would do what he had done so many other times. Still, his voice or his face must have carried some weight, as Charles didn't smile or respond with the usual banter. The young man just gave Arthur a stony, searching look, before finally nodding slowly.

"Whatever you're looking for out there, Arthur, I hope you find it." There was weight to Charles' words. He knew this was goodbye. Blame it on his less than legal upbringing or his Native American heritage, Charles knew that this was the last time he would see Arthur Morgan. The elder cowboy swallowed a little, before hiding his eyes in the way of tipping his hat.

"Same to you Charles. Take care of everyone for me." That was all that he could say. It was all he needed to say. Charles nodded again, and Arthur turned toward the winding path. A dirt line through the trees, curving up and around the hills that protected their temporary home. He'd always known there would come a day when he would look upon it for the last time. It just never occurred to him that it would be like this. Still, destiny waited for no man, and the longer he waited, the more of a danger he was to his family. So Arthur Morgan spurred his horse lightly, and he would tell everyone that ever asked him that as he left behind the company of Dutch Van der Linde, he never looked back.

A few hours later, little Jack noticed that Mr. Arthur wasn't around anymore. He had wanted to show him the cool deer he had whittled from a stick. Jack poked around Mr. Arthur's things, though he knew if he took anything his mother would be very upset. Mr. Arthur's hat looked like it was sitting on something though. Glancing around to see if anyone was watching, Jack pushed the hat out of the way and found a letter. It was thick and handwritten, but Jack was still too young to know all his letters. Maybe Mr. Pearson could read it to him. Mr. Pearson always helped him sneak around camp, and wouldn't tell Momma if the letter was something he wasn't supposed to see.

Jack hid the letter under his shirt and turned around, coughing lightly as he looked for the camp cook.

Arthur found his first order of business a few minutes south of Beaver Hollow, wandering around as he was. The smoke from a camp fire had caught his eye, and the outlaw had left Famine behind a good distance away so that he could sneak in on foot. The horse was still within whistling distance, but he knew better than to stop his horse right outside of a stranger's camp. Or in this case, a camp of Murfrees. The yokels were all crowded around the central tent, though there wasn't a lot of movement. He could hear their heavily accented hooting and hollering, and was thankful it allowed him to sneak up as far as he had. The collection of tents made it terribly easy for him to get close, and once he did the sight before him set his blood aflame.

The Murfrees had captured a young woman it seemed, though her attire was a little strange. Even though she was trussed up and nearly hidden by the press of unwashed bodies, Arthur could see her outfit was stumping their probing hands so far. She wore a brown corset and long pants that were a bit small in Arthur's opinion, judging by how they clung to her muscled legs. Brown boots muddied by many days in the rain were nearly off thanks to the grubby fingers of one Murfree, while another tried his hand at the rest of her clothes. Her hair was black or dark brown, obscured as it was by the fire's flickering shadows, though he could have sworn there were edges of red in her short locks. The only Murfree by the fire, another dirty man in coveralls held up an ornate sword, his eyes locked on the odd and mysterious mechanism near the hilt. A white cloak sat near the fire as well, partially wrapped around a satchel they had yet to pilfer through. Since she was both unconscious and as best Arthur could tell unsullied, they must have only just brought her to camp. Not a one stood guard in anticipation for a little 'fun' with their captive. Either the years of inbreeding had turned the Murfree Brood's brains to mush, or they were too excited to bother posting a lookout.

Regardless of the reason, it was child's play to sneak up on the lower side of the camp, creeping up a steep embankment flanked by trees and brush. Arthur dragged three of them into the woods and silenced them without catching any attention. When he heard the tearing of clothing, however, Arthur knew he had to move quickly. With the three outliers dead, only five more Murfree psychos remained. Huddled around the woman like they were, Arthur stepped between them and the fire, casting them all in his long shadow. His two revolvers were already in his hands.

"You boys partyin' a little early tonight?" His words caused all of them to turn in shock, their squinting beady eyes reminding him of swine. "Figured I stop in and say hi." Before anyone could reply with word or lead, Arthur's signature weapons spoke angrily. The first two rounds found the Murfree deepest in the tent where they had taken the woman, throwing him backward and knocking the pole down that kept it up. As the tent fell, the surviving four thugs scattered, though not before Arthur gave the two on the left some new eyes. The boys on the right scurried for their weapons, apparently a rusty Cattleman revolver and a wicked looking machete. The one going for the revolver died as he stooped, three of Arthur's four rounds filling his chest full of holes. The fourth shot winged off into the trees, forcing Arthur to back up as the last remaining Murfree came swinging. The outlaw tracked the machete in its swing, stepping back to dodge and raising Life to focus on the man's elbow. Another shot rang out, and the angry yelling was replaced by panicked screams. Arthur's final victim sank to his knees, his left hand wrapped around the spurting wound at his joint.

Arthur kicked the machete away lest the bandit try anything stupid, and stooped down to a crouch a few feet away as the man continued to put pressure on his wound and scream. Judging by the way blood continued to spurt up through his fingers, Arthur had hit an artery. Without proper medical care, which he doubted a group like the Murfree Brood could find, the man was condemned to death by exsanguination. Blood loss, as the lay man would say.

"Ya know, most people don't get holes blown in their arms when they keep their hands to themselves." Arthur had to raise his voice to get over the panicked cries of his last surviving victim, even though it make his chest tighten.

"Go to hell, you damn dirty Yankee!" The Murfree spit angrily, the ground around him turning red as he failed to stem the flow of blood. Arthur watched him for a while longer, as his cries became angry and frustrated whimpers and grunts. The outlaw stood up finally with a heavy sigh, and even then the Murfree boy watched him with wide, panicked eyes.

"I've been killing you Murfree shit heads ever since I came near Saint Denis, and that's the one thing you boys can't seem to grasp." Death lowered toward the man's knees before he could respond, and the revolver fired once more directly into the man's crotch. His whimpers turned to high pitched shrieks, the Murfree boy falling over and clutching his new wound. Arthur normally would not be so cruel, but he had witnessed first hand the things that the Murfree Brood did to women they captured. It didn't take a fool to guess what had been in store for the strange woman they had trussed up like a hog. Speaking of which...

Arthur holstered his weapons and coughed into his elbow, not wanting to dirty his hands with blood before he cut this woman free. God forbid he save her from one fate and condemn her to another. When the fit passed, he turned toward the other side of the fire where the tent had collapsed.

"Miss?" Arthur called out, his voice rough from coughing. "Miss, are you alright?" No answer came from the tattered remains of the tent, and he stepped forward and swept it away. Imagine his surprise to find that the woman was gone, her ropes cut and lying on the ground next to a sleeping mat that smelled really funky. A scuffle of boots behind him drew his attention, and Arthur's mouth fell open as the woman stood over the screaming Murfree, her sword pointed at his throat. She had her back to him, focusing on her would be rapist even as his voice began to weaken, his screams and expression slowing into a sleepy daze as he bled out. Arthur heard the woman sigh quietly.

"It never changes." She muttered, and slammed the pommel of her sword into the side of the bandit's head. It was a harsh blow, heralded by a loud crack as he was driven into the ground with force. It knocked the Murfree out, allowing him to bleed to death without agony. With that done, the woman turned to look at him, and the first thing he noticed was her eyes. They were...silver?

"Awful kind thing to do, considering what he had planned for you." Arthur said warily, ready to react if she decided to turn that sword on him next. The woman looked around at the corpses, her brow creasing as she winced.

"No one deserves to suffer like that. Even though he'll die, I don't want to hear his screams later." She explained, her voice soft and lilting. "Who are you?"

"Arthur Morgan, ma'am." He held out a hand, and she studied him for a moment. She seemed to have made a decision, however, as she scooped up her cloak and sheathed her sword in the same movement. The sword rested on her left hip comfortably, she finally returned the gesture and grasped his hand. And goddamn, was she strong!

"Summer Rose. Thanks for the save. They caught me in a, ah, moment of weakness." She blushed at the thought. Arthur released her hand with a small grunt of understanding. It was difficult enough for a lady to take care of her 'ablutions' on the road, even harder still with creeps like the O'Driscolls and the Murfree Brood running around.

"You need a ride anywhere? I was on my way to Valentine, but I ain't going too quick if you need to be somewhere." Arthur offered. He'd keep facing forward if she took him up on it, just to make sure he didn't spew blood all over her. Summer glanced around at the ruined camp they had destroyed. One of the dead Murfrees had caught flames from the campfire, and soon enough most of the supplies there would follow.

"I'm good on making my way, but could we go somewhere else? It's late and I'm starving." She nodded up toward treeline Arthur had come from initially. "Last time I came through here, I made camp near a pond up that way. There's some old ruins that we can take cover in, and go our separate ways tomorrow." Summer paused when she realized what that sounded like, and she blushed prettily and broke eye contact. "If you're okay with that, that is."

The idea would have thrilled the old Arthur Morgan. Spend a night with a lovely young woman, roll around on the sleeping bags and turn out the next morning before she woke up. But now, with the specter of death hanging over him and the pain in his chest, Arthur started to say no. The more he looked at her as she picked up her pack, searching through it to make sure everything was still there, the more he realized that whether he cared or not she needed help. He wasn't long for the world, what reason did he have to turn her out into the wild?

"Yeah, I guess I could cook something up. I've got some spices and some venison, as long as you don't mind the wait." He focused on the cooking part of her offer, to let her know he wasn't interested in that. Not with her, anyway. She wasn't Mary, and at this point it would probably be a death sentence for her, lying with a man so afflicted with Tuberculosis. Her visible relief was almost insulting, until Arthur reminded himself that she was against the act himself, not anything against him personally.

"Thanks. I brought some dried food, but nothing beats a cookout!" She cheered happily, a turn of mood that left Arthur wondering just what was up with this lady. Then again, most folk he ran into on the road were strange, so he wasn't going to judge too harshly.

"Alright then. Let's get out of here." Arthur agreed, bringing his hand up to his mouth and whistling sharply. An answering whinny could be heard in the distance, and sure enough Famine came trotting up the hill, standing loyally next to Arthur and tossing his head. The cowboy patted his companion fondly, and turned when he heard a small gasp come from behind him. When he turned, Summer's eyes were wide with glee as she saw the majestic Arabian.

"Oh my gosh! He's awesome!" She cried happily, bouncing forward with an energy that he would not have expected from someone who just avoided a night of terror and despoilment. And awesome? Who said things like that? Please tell me she isn't European...

"His name's Famine, and he's been by my side through a lot. I found him on the plains, and eventually he learned to like me." The horse snorted and pushed his cheek into Arthur's temple, knocking his alligator skinned hat to the ground. Summer chuckled and approached tentatively, not wanting to spook the beautiful creature. Arthur held on to Famine's halter as he bent down to retrieve his hat. While he was stooped though, another round of coughing bent him double. His head swam as blood spilled from his lips, and his legs went weak as he sank to his knees and continued to hack and sputter. Summer stepped back at the new development, grabbing Famine's reins to keep the animal from running away.

Arthur gasped when the fit finally passed, spitting another crusty glob of blood into the dirt. He wiped his mouth and cleared his throat, somewhat ashamed by the way she looked at him. Of course, the sickness would ruin what could have been a pleasant evening with a fellow traveler. If he was this far along, it was probably for the best that she go her separate way. He looked up to make the suggestion, but Summer was already on one knee beside him.

"I've seen this before." She said solemnly, picking him up to his feet faster than he expected. She really was a lot stronger than she looked. "We need to get you to camp. I may have something that can help." Arthur tried to wave her off, but she would have none of it as he was roughly pushed up against Famine's side.

"There's nothing that can help me, girl. I'm a little too far for medicine at this point." He rasped, and another cough stole any further words from his mouth. Still, he obliged her by stepping into the stirrup. He took no pride in the fact it took her pushing him from behind to get into the saddle. Arthur coughed again, leaning forward and shuddering while his head got light. He heard a feminine grunt of effort, and suddenly Famine was cantering forward under protest, tossing his head in annoyance. He turned his head to look back, and Summer's white cloak met his eye. She'd jumped up onto Famine's back from the flat ground? That took some serious strength, more evidence towards her being much stranger than he first thought. Her arms linked in front of him and gently took the reins from his shaking hand.

"I'll take over from here. Just rest, and try not to fall off." Her breath ghosted past his ear, and Arthur found himself nodding even as the world spun around him. His breathing grew raspier, and even then it felt like he couldn't get enough air. His chest felt tight, yet clogged at the same time. He blinked a few times, trying to focus on which pair of Famine's ears in front of him were real, and then things got dark for a while.

The next thing Arthur remembered, he was propped up on a log in the shadow of a waterfall, or something similar judging by the sound of falling water behind him. His hat was in his lap, or at least it looked like his hat. Arthur blinked, his blurred vision clearing slowly as he groaned. The white object in his lap indeed proved to be his hat, and he placed it on his head wearily in what had become an almost automatic response to losing it in the first place. When his hand came down, it went to cover his mouth as he coughed feebly. More blood than clot stained his hand, but he could still the the dark grains mixed in with it as he wiped it on the grass next to him.

"I can help you, you know." The voice came from across the fire, and Arthur looked up to see Summer struggling with his collapsible grill, turning it this way and that as she tried to figure out how it went together. He watched her for some time, too tired to speak, but his expression must have said everything.

"Where I come from, we have medicine that could cure you, even get you back to full strength." She continued, finally fitting the pieces together and setting the apparatus up above the flames. With that done, she pulled the venison he had wrapped up from his pack and began rubbing salt, pepper, and some thyme into the meat. "I could get you there, but I can't go with you. There are... people, trying to kill me back home."

"Who... would want to kill... you?" Arthur ground out, the words taking so much effort just to say. He was so tired, and his chest had stopped hurting as much. It was rude to fall asleep on someone though, so he'd fight through it for her sake.

"There are some bad people back home. I made them angry, and recently I took something from them. Something they desperately want. I came here to keep it away from them. I did the same thing a few years back, but things were so different here I had to return. Now, I can't." She sounded so sad, and Arthur could see the shimmer in her eyes. He grunted and sat up a little, fighting his exhaustion.

"That's a lot to do for a stranger." He growled out, massaging his throat. "You shouldn't be that generous, especially around here. People tend to take advantage of that. Where are you from, anyway?"

She looked up from the venison chops she had placed on the grill, and her face contorted with uncertainty. Why? She'd already spilled most of the beans, or so it seemed. Arthur couldn't see why she would suddenly clam up now.

"It's a city called Vale, and it's very very far away from here." Summer said with a sigh. "My family thinks I'm dead, and that's probably for the best. If they knew I was still alive, they'd come looking for me. Or worse, the people after me would go looking for them." Arthur looked down at the campfire when she admitted that. He knew something about leaving family behind, having penned his last letter only hours ago. The thought of abandoning them to their fate, wherever Dutch took them, was enough to turn his stomach. If Summer had done it years prior, and still had the guts to keep moving forward...well, good on her.

"You said you were takin' me to your home? Sorry to be a bother, but I think you can forget about that." A pained wheeze escaped his lips. "I don't think I'd survive the trip." It wasn't some verbal taboo to speak of death if it was the condemned that was talking. Even if it was, the weakness in his breath and the pain in his chest told Arthur he was not long for the world. Summer was a kind girl, really; far too kind for a man like him to spend his final hours with. She didn't deserve to be burdened by a cutthroat.

"If I really work at it, I can have you in Vacuo by morning."

...What?

"I can't say I've ever heard of the place." He felt he had to say something, seeing as how the camp went dead silent at her offer. Summer giggled at that like a teenager, and shook her head.

"Nope. It's not North, South, East, or West of here. Not that I've found, anyway. Still, it would take a lot to get you there. I'm not going to do it for free." Of course. Even someone as kind as Summer would have conditions. Who was he to complain, though? He'd been compensated for good deeds plenty of times.

"Ma'am, you fix my chest here and I'll dig up all the gold in California to pay you back." He meant it too, though the difficulty he had in getting a full breath had him doubting her words. He'd ridden all over Lemoyne and New Hanover, and he'd never heard even a breath of Vacuo. Maybe it was a new settlement, but that wouldn't get him some kind of miracle cure for the killer of cowboys he had floating in his lungs.

"Nothing like that. I don't really need money or anything. I just need you to look after someone for a while. And deliver a gift." As she said that, Summer placed the venison steaks on the grill and reached into her pack. What she pulled out, Arthur was astounded that the Murfree Brood hadn't already lifted off of her. A golden crown, intricately carved with curling vines and baroque leaves to a level of detail Arthur thought impossible. The crown came to a pointed tip in the center, and a perfectly cut red gemstone shone in place there. Arthur had stolen a lot of things in his time, priceless heirlooms and jewelry, but the item in Summer's hands could have easily bought the mayor's house in Saint Denis.

"The people after me wanted this Relic for their own gains, but I brought it here to keep it out of their hands. I'm the only one who can open and close the vault it was protected in, so I emptied it and ran. Now, the people I helped desperately need this Relic, but I can't return without raising suspicion. My family would be in danger, and I would be hunted all over again."

Arthur considered the priceless artifact in front of him, listening to the sound of sizzling meat as he considered the offer. To be fair, he'd taken plenty of risks knowing less than what Summer had told him, and she wasn't asking him to kill or rob anyone like most folks he wound up assisting. On the other side, these people that were after Summer sounded like serious business, in line with the Pinkertons that had dogged Dutch's gang since Blackwater. But helping her meant he could breath again, and would likely live another ten years or so barring a fight going wrong.

"Alright, I'll do it." He said with a weak cough. "But I need you to do something for me too." Summer winced as he said it, setting the Relic down and turning the steaks as she nodded for him to continue.

"Break John Marston out of the state pen, and you got yourself a deal. I owe that kid more than he's gotten, and he deserves a clean break. One of my friends, Sadie Adler, is at a tavern in Saint Denis planning his rescue. Help her out, get that boy and his family out of here, and I'll deliver your Relic." Arthur looked at Summer with bloodshot eyes that had already seen far too much death. "Hell, if I find anyone out there named Rose, I'll give them a hand on principle. You protect my family, and I'll do the same for yours."

Summer stared back at him for a long time, those silver pools reflecting everything he saw in himself as she considered his offer. It was not something he made lightly, promises such as this. But living with a terminal illness and watching Dutch slowly turn into some kind of sociopath had changed Arthur's outlook. Absolving debts, protecting travelers, giving money to the needy; he'd found his honor in the twilight of his life. If she needed him to keep hold of his guns, to keep killing for the sake of protecting people, it was something he'd do willingly if she returned the favor.

"Alright, you've got a deal."

"Great!" Summer cheered with a smile. "Now that the heavy stuff's out of the way, how about some dinner?" Arthur nodded and shuffled up into a seated position, even as Summer speared his steak onto a hunting knife and tossed it his way handle first. Even with TB ruining his breathing and his blood flow, Arthur still managed to snatch the food out of the air. He smirked and bit into it, savoring the rich flavor that ran across his tongue. The meat was juicy and tender, yet had the character and bite of the seasonings Summer had rubbed into it. Even with the weight of death on his chest, the steak brought a sense of calm to him. The troubles of the past few months seemed to wash away, and a content smile spread across Arthur's flushed face. It didn't solve all of his problems, but for a moment they didn't seem so serious. Dutch Van der Linde and his 'plan' could wait, at least until he figured out how to help Summer.

The two shared stories as the night wore on, Arthur offering far more than Summer. When she told him that she was some kind of hunter, the gunslinger told her the story of how he had killed the great white alligator in the swamp north of Saint Denis. He even included the story of how he had run into it while Dutch prepared to attack Angelo Bronte's estate. Summer gasped and laughed with true fervor, honestly enjoying the tales of a rugged outlaw as the two ate their dinner. Despite the rigors of storytelling with lungs perforated by TB, Arthur enjoyed himself as well. When a coughing fit did take him, Summer sat quietly and allowed it to pass, never once smothering him with pity or getting irritated with him. The tales carried them deep into the night, and Arthur was the first to yawn.

"So," Arthur took another bite and chewed a moment. "When are we heading to, ah, Vacuo?" The words came slowly to him, and Arthur blinked in confusion. This wasn't just drowsiness; his mind was muddled, much in the way that a night of drinking would do. Summer took another bite and wiped her mouth with her wrist, before smiling sheepishly.

"I kinda slipped a potent narcotic into your steak. It'll slow your breathing, and should help with the pain. I can't get you there while you're coughing up blood." His vision swam even as she said it, and Arthur's brow rose in surprise even as his eyelids became heavy. Potent indeed. The steak fell from his numb fingers and Arthur's head fell forward, his chin hitting his chest as it became too much effort to hold his head up. He'd barely noticed it, and already it was a chore just to focus on his dinner guest.

"Well that's not...fair..." Arthur barely got any more out before the darkness crept in, enveloping him in its warm embrace.

Warmth was the last thing Arthur remembered, and it was the first thing he recognized. Warmth, and a million gritty things digging into his back beneath his shirt. The cowboy groaned wearily and opened his eyes slowly, only to shut them with a hiss as bright sunlight stabbed into his retinas. He was lying on the ground for the most part, judging by the soft dirt around him and the fact he was outside. His right foot was up in the air, lodged in something, and it felt like he was being dragged.

I told her to get me there, but I figured she'd be a little more gentle. Arthur though groggily. How his hat had stayed on, he had no idea. Since it was an inevitable pain to deal with, Arthur forced himself to open his eyes. He squinted into the sun, and its blinding light kick started the headache that he knew he'd be suffering after the events of the previous night. His chest didn't ache like it had the past few days, but he could still feel the discomfort of TB weighing him down.

"Summer?" Arthur called, his dry throat mutilating the name as it passed his parched lips. No one answered, and the ground continued to slowly slide up his back unabated. It was a familiar feeling, but his mind was foggy. Each thought and consideration felt like a round ball of marble, coated in oil for good measure. He just couldn't get a grip on where his mind was going.

For it is in redemption, we achieve immortality...

The words came to his mind unbidden, though it was not his voice that spoke them. It was Summer's, and echoed as if from far away.

Through this, we are bound to our honor, an endless quest to help those in need...

She had said those words, but not in a conversation he could recall. Where had he heard them? How long had he been out?

Burdened by guilt and strengthened by faith, I release your soul, and by my hand... absolve thee.

Something within his chest stirred. Not the TB, or a strange heart flutter, but deeper within. It felt as if a furnace had been lit within his heart, but it was a good heat. A strong, comforting fire, like it was holding back a blizzard. The surge of energy gave Arthur enough motivation to look around, his hand coming up to keep his hat on.

"Holy shit..." Arthur breathed out, and immediately began pulling at his boot.

He was nowhere near Lemoyne or New Hanover, that was for damn sure. Coarse sand fell from his arms as he worked, and all around him there were great expanses of the stuff. An arid desert expanded in all directions that he could see, though behind him a trail snaked through the sand from where his horse had dragged him for miles, it seemed. Speaking of which...

"Hey! Whoa, boy!" Arthur called, not unkindly. Famine tossed his head and snorted, turning to look back at him and stopping. The animal was dirty as hell, his black coat covered in dirt and dust. Famine rumbled irritably, as if to say 'get up already!' Arthur finally had the chance to untangle his alligator skin boot from the stirrup, and did so quickly. He had far more energy and ease doing it than he had in the past few weeks, making him wonder once again what weird spell Summer had said over him. Arthur clambered to his feet and looked down at his hands, noting for the first time a faint light covering them. It was as if he were encased in some kind of film, and it receded as he continued to stare.

"What in the hell?" The cowboy muttered, absolutely lost in more ways than one. Here he was, in the middle of the desert, no idea in hell where here was, and he glowed. What the hell had Summer put in that steak?!

Arthur removed his vest and dusted himself off as best he could before putting it back on, knowing full well how aggravating sand could be on long trips. It was coarse and got everywhere, and would rub you raw if you ever did any hard riding. On top of that, he'd have to make sure that Famine's saddle was clear of the irritating stuff, or the horse would get sores. Sores lead to infections, which lead to dead horses. The cowboy heaved a heavy sigh and looked at the saddle, wondering if all of his gear was still in order. The bolt action rifle and pump shotgun were still strapped firmly in place, and his bow sat on the rear in its usual spot. A piece of paper with his name on it caught his eye as it poked out of the saddlebag, however. Arthur reached up and removed it, finding the paper tied to a small package. Separating the two, Arthur unfolded it and read the note first.

Dear Arthur,

I hope you wake up quickly. The ruins I use to come to Lemoyne are pretty far out, and I wouldn't want you to get lost in Vacuo's desert. I don't have much paper, but I left you my scroll. There are some videos on it that should explain things, and you need to get used to our technology. Just stretch it out like you were reading a rolled up piece of paper, and the device will recognize you. Don't lose it; I want it back one day!

Be careful out there, Arthur. I know you are a good man, but the world you find yourself in is not the one you have known your whole life. If you are not cautious, you may not return. I will honor my promise to you and help this John Marston, but after that I fear I must leave. I'll be staying in Canada for a few months, and hopefully you will be done with your task. Return the Relic to a man named Ozpin, and he will help you come back home. But see a doctor first! I may have activated your Aura, but you still need treatment. There's some lien in your saddlebags, it should cover a visit to the clinic.

See you soon,

Summer.

P.S. If you meet my family, do not tell them I am alive. It would put too much on Ruby and Yang, and I don't want my husband to kill himself trying to find me.

Arthur folded up the letter and opened the package, wondering what the hell he had gotten into. A strange metallic device dropped into his hand, as long as a pen and a little thicker than he would expect from most metals. Putting his thumbs on the two metal tabs, he pulled it gently like Summer had said, and to his surprise the little device expanded. When it did, a transparent screen extended between the two tabs, and a picture of Summer appeared. Then it moved.

"Hey Arthur!"

"WHOA!" The cowboy exclaimed, dropping the device in the sand and stepping back. As it fell, the scroll powered off and closed back into its compact form, decidedly not trying to bewitch him as he first assumed. Carefully, Arthur nudged it with his foot, but it remained inert nonetheless. Taking a few settling breaths and muttering about technology, Arthur knelt down and picked it up, then opened it again. The portrait of Summer appeared again, and he was less startled this time when it spoke.

"Hey Arthur!" The miniature woman waved. He almost waved back, if she hadn't started talking again. "I can't hear you, but I recorded this message for when you woke up. If you're not Arthur, please put my scroll back and help my friend. He needs to find a doctor soon." Summer took a breath and smiled again, and Arthur would have considered it pretty if he weren't so totally lost.

"This scroll is a way to communicate with people, but I can only teach you the basics. Keep it with you at all times, and be careful. Carrying around a dead woman's scroll doesn't exactly paint a good picture." Summer winced sheepishly. "Still, you have more need of it than I do. Just don't delete any of my pictures, please."

Figuring that he could watch the message – never thought he'd use that phrase – and ride at the same time, Arthur climbed into the saddle and gave Famine a light squeeze. The horse snorted and set off at a comfortable trot, seeming glad to finally have some direction. With nothing better to do, Arthur pointed him away from the sun, and they set off.

"I know you probably feel a lot better, but you still need to see a doctor. I activated your Aura, the embodiment of your soul, but the bacteria that caused all that damage is still in your lungs. Some antibiotics will clear it up, but you can't just buy them from the store. Now, about your Aura..." Summer shrugged in the image. "You must have a million questions about that, but is pretty much a way to use the power of your soul to defend yourself. Right now, you probably feel better than you have in years, and that's because your Aura has been healing your lungs. It can also increase your strength and do some pretty crazy things, but you will need a Hunstman to help you out with that. After you find a doctor, seek out a Huntsman at Shade Academy. They should be able to offer some basic lessons, although I wouldn't recommend attending. You'd spend half your life in a classroom." Arthur flexed his arms and clenched his fists, agreeing that he indeed felt better than he had in years. There was still the general sense of wrongness in his chest, and he coughed a little, but this Aura stuff was pretty handy. Played hell with what he knew of the world, but useful besides. While Summer paused for a breath, Arthur dug into his saddlebag and removed a large glass bottle. Pulling the cork free with his teeth, Arthur upended it and drank greedily. Hopefully the bourbon would burn away all this craziness.

"Anyway, be careful out there. Unlike here, almost everyone has Aura, and they use it to fight the Creatures of Grimm. If you see any solid black animals with bone plates, stay away from them. They are evil beings, and will attack you without provocation. They are the reason we use Aura to defend ourselves." Now that sounded even more outlandish. Seriously, monsters? What a bunch of cow shit.

"I have a few more videos on here, but I need to get to work sending you to Remnant. Be careful, Arthur Morgan, and come back safely. Also, don't freak out too much when you see the moon. Send me a letter or something when you come back, and we can share stories. See ya later!" The image froze on her wide smile, eyes closed in a cheerful grin as she waved. Arthur snorted and closed the scroll, still unfamiliar with the strange device. It would take some getting used to, that was for sure. Arthur emptied the last of the bourbon with a sigh and tossed the bottle away, hoping the buzz would help him process all this insane shit his newest and strangest friend had foisted upon him. He'd watch the scroll videos in a few moments. After all, he had time. How big could this desert be?

A/N: Arthur was such a fantastic character. If you've made it this far, I've already spoiled Red Dead Redemption 2 for you, and if you ignored the summary to reach this point it's your own damn fault. I'll try to hold true to Arthur's character, but it's hard to play what if for every scenario and still remain accurate (Z!). If he appears too OOC, let me know.