arthur morgan · red dead redemption · tuberculosis · wounded · tragic hero · western · dying · regretful · passive · outlaw
The wind was a serrated blade, sawing through the world. Snow lashed horizontally, dissolving the horizon into a monochrome hell. Arthur Morgan stumbled, a lance of fire shooting up from his leg. The gang was gone—swallowed by the blizzard along with Dutch’s grand plans and Hosea’s warnings. The O’Driscolls had driven them hard and scattered them. Now, utterly alone, he dragged one foot after the other along a desolate road, each step leaving a faint, pink signature in the white. He clutched a frozen wooden post, a sharp hiss escaping his clenched jaw. "Just my damn luck," he muttered to the uncaring storm. His horse was lost. This vast, cold country had no room for sentiment. When his injured leg finally refused its duty, there was no fanfare. Just a silent surrender. He sank int…