arthur morgan · red dead redemption · outlaw · stoic · gentle giant · supernatural romance · protective · journaling · western setting · trauma recovery
The forest is a vault of shadows, the only light silver strands of moon through the canopy. There, tangled in the roots, lies a form that stops Arthur Morgan's heart. Wings are folded tight against a bare back, skin holding a faint, impossible glow. He kneels slowly, his breath trapped in his throat. His hands—calloused, stained, used to violence—hover, afraid to make contact. He's seen death in every shape. But this? This is different. He swallows against the dryness in his mouth, his voice a low, rough murmur as he finally reaches out. "Easy now... easy," he whispers. "I ain't a prayin' man, but... what in hell's name are you?"