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Charles has never given much thought to the idea of spirits or even a life aht might come after the one he is currently enduring. He wants to believe, so dearly wants to, that the departed are waiting on the other side of a thin veil that’s only visible to the dead and dying. Charles imagines it is thin and fine, nearly translucent and shimmering like the morning sun on still water. The idea of this veil, this boundary to be crossed comes to him during a particularly ugly fight in the filthy bowels of Saint Denis. A right hook that Charles is too slow to avoid sends him stumbling, vision whiting out and he feels himself falling backward, both into the past and onto the ground below.
Or, perhaps it isn’t the past he tumbles into, not exactly. Charles is standing somewhere he has never been, but he doesn’t feel afraid. His cuts and scrapes no longer sting. The meadow is thick with wildflowers that cover the rolling hills and Charles watches them dance and sway in the gentle breeze.
“What you got yourself into this time, Charles?”The drawl is rough, full of life and there is no trace of that horrible wheeze that haunts Charles’ waking hours. “Looks like one hell of a mess. And for what? A few dollar bills that don’t fill that hole, no matter how many bottles you pick up? And you was always on me for bein’ too risky.” The last few words are playful and sharp as finely honed knives. If Charles could bleed in this place, he would be soaking the ground beneath his feet, that voice cuts him so deeply.
Charles turns in circles, trying to find that familiar, lazy stance, the hat pulled low over a sun-tanned face. Hands gripping a gun-belt with the nonchalance of a truly dangerous predator, but so tender and uncertain when they brush Charless’ hair back from his face. When they did, once. Long ago. Because Arthur is gone; has been dead for longer than Charles wants to think on. A lifetime. Each moment an eternity and the time in front of Charles is a howling, empty wilderness. Charles knows that where he is now is not real, that he’ll come to in a puddle of piss and blood, alone again. But he continues searching, stepping carefully through the tall grasses, calling out, unable to stop himself from chasing what can’t be caught.
“Where are you?! Don’t-don’t do this. Don’t hide from me. Don’t…do this to me again, please,” a huff of laughter, so close to Charles’ ear that he jerks backward, hand rising to touch the shell of his ear.
“I ain’t hidin’ from you, Charlie. I’m right here. Always have been. But, you know that, don’t you?” Arthur’s voice drops low, soothing and soft. Like kisses in the dark of night, with only horses and the stars to see them. Soft like a brush of hands as they pass each other by. Charles’ hands have forgotten that softness; all they know now is how to split skin and break bone. The caresses and feather-light touches on pale skin are a thing of the past.
“I don’t understand…” Charles has to work at swallowing down his desperation. He feels that Arthur will vanish completely if Charles doesn’t find him soon, though he has no reason to think this. He has no idea how this place works, really. Or if it’s even real at all.
The disembodied voice is behind him again, constantly twisting and turning, like it’s blown around by the warm breeze, “Sure you do. You was always the clever one of the two of us. I’m everywhere for you and that’s the problem, isn’t it?”
Charles closes his eyes and sighs. Arthur, or, perhaps it’s more accurate to say Arthur’s ghost, is right. Charles sees the other man in the tumbling water of the Dakota, in the swaying trees of Big Valley. He hears Arthur’s laughter in the call of an elk or the low rumble of a bison’s call. There isn’t an inch of the world that doesn’t have some piece of Arthur Morgan embedded in it.
“Yeah, I figured so. You know that ain’t an accident, right?” Arthur sounds….sad, if Charles had to put a word to the tone of his voice. Tired, worn and lonely, an echo of the carnivorous emptiness Charles has carried within himself for years.
“What do you mean?” Charles whispers, his fingers twitching, longing to reach out and cup the side of Arthur’s face. To touch his hair, the scar on his chin, any bit of him Charles can reach.
“You’re not the only one nursin’ a broken heart Charlie. I gotta watch you….wait for you.” Arthur’s voice cracks, full to the brim of the heartbreak of their last moments together. Of Charles pulling Arthur close for one last hug, wincing at how frail and sickly Arthur had become, brushing a tear away before Arthur noticed it. The mention of waiting, the idea that Arthur might exist somewhere and is waiting for Charles to join him, it’s the lifeline Charles didn’t know he’d been looking for.
Charles opens his eyes and whimpers when he sees nothing but the empty land in front of him, “How do I get to you, Arthur? Tell me, please. Tell me how to find you.”
A gust of wind and the sharp scent of pine needles, mingled with leather and Arthur’s favorite cigarettes and words carried along with it, “You’ll find me when it’s time, Darlin’. Not before. I’ll be here waitin’ for you, though.”
Charles raises his eyes to the cloudless sky, desperation clawing its way up his throat, “I just have to…die, right? That’s it? End it and then–”
Arthur tuts, sounding weary yet again, “It’s gotta end the way it’s meant to, Charlies. You got things that need doin’ first, before we can be together again.”
“I don’t–I don’t want those things. I don’t want anything that isn’t…that isn’t you, Arthur,” Charles whispers. The clear brilliance of the day feels like a mockery. Like something being dangled just out of reach. Everything, the only thing Charles ever truly wanted, being kept just out of reach.
“You feel that way now, but there’s happiness for you and it ain’t far away. When it’s time, we’ll find each other, I promise you that. Until then, you know where to look for me.”
Before Charles can open his mouth to reply, the ground beneath his feet pitches and heaves like a living thing. The first sensations to break through the thick, murky recesses of wherever Charles had been are ones of pain. Brilliant and shocking in their clarity. The feeling of wet cobblestones on Charles’ cheek follows next. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know it’s Saint Denis around him; in fact, opening his eyes is the last thing Charles wants to do. He curls in on himself, hsi blunt and broken fingernails digging into the flesh of his bare arms. It’s in that position, in a puddle of rain and Lord knows what, that Charles hears it:
Find me.