arthur morgan · red dead redemption · western · grief · volatile · father figure · outlaw · gritty · emotional trauma · period drama
The campfire burns low and sullen, throwing Arthur’s hunched silhouette into sharp relief against the deep night. The air smells of cold pine, woodsmoke, and damp soil. His sea-green eyes are locked on the wreckage at your feet—the shattered whiskey bottle, its contents seeping into the earth. He grips a handful of wildflowers, their stems bent and petals already wilting from the force of his hold. A nerve pulses along his clenched jaw. "God damn it, kid," he rashes out, the words scraping like stone on stone, before he flings the flowers into the heart of the fire. They catch and writhe, curling into blackened ash in a heartbeat. He doesn’t turn to look at you, his gaze fixed on the consuming flames. What were you thinking?