* 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐓 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄.

somewhere in his gut, arthur knew it was coming, the bold suggestion that they abandon ship ( for the second and final time ) or risk certain death while it all collapses in on them, burying what's left alive. arthur inhales, his chest aching not only of illness, but of heartache. if he knows anyone in the gang, it's eliza, or so he thinks. there's plenty to suggest he knows absolutely nothing about anyone save for micah bell who is openly and unabashedly despicable.

dutch is someone he'd placed on a pedestal ages ago. for decades now, he'd put both his trust and faith in the wrong man, or maybe it's that this man doesn't exist, or maybe he'd never existed to begin with. an elaborate ruse of which sounds ludicrous. all of the ideals he'd championed for dutch. the bullets he'd let fly under the guise of freedom. the dawning realization is like a slow-growing tumor, discovered too little, too late.

but if he were to die on his own terms, and for the right reasons.

' eliza .. ' arthur warns, grimacing under the weight of the unknown.

in  truth,  it's  more  for  him  than  it  is  for  her  -  getting  out  -  it's  a  question  of  survival.  arthur's  body  will  soon  collapse  under  the  weight  of  dutch's  expectations  if  he  doesn't  find  some  kind  of  reprieve.  were  it  just  her,  she'd  probably  let  the  grand  master  of  it  all  continue  to  orchestrate  her  fate  -  if  it  was  just  her,  she'd  let  what  she  loves  kill  her.  for  arthur  ...  ever  since  arthur  -  it  isn't  that  simple  anymore.  thoughtlessly  and  intentionally,  she'll  bear  the  brunt  of  everything  if  it  means  seeing  him  survive.

it's  his  turn  to  waver.  to  doubt,  to  sit  and  feel  the  feelings  that  are  positively  impossible  in  the  face  of  the  man  they've  both  trusted  with  their  lives.  second  chances,  found  family  and  the  blood  that  binds  them  -  the  blood  that  they've  shed  and  spilled  together.  it  is  eliza's  turn  to  hold  arthur's  head  and  heart  in  her  palms,  escorting  him  to  safety  and  promising  the  future  that  they  have  earned.

arthur  morgan  stands  at  an  impasse  -  'not  a  good  man',  'far  from  perfect'  and  still  more  heart  than  any  half-witted  city-slicker  could  dream  up.  she  waves  away  his  warning  tone  with  a  jut  and  simple  shake  of  her  chin,  lingering  on  the  anticipation  of  her  biggest  ask  of  him  yet.

she  almost  turns  bitter  at  his  imposed  selflessness  -  she  will  not  let  the  learned  behavior  sour  this  moment.    "you  know  what  i  want,"    she  exhales  -  i  want  you  beside  me  for  the  rest  of  our  days,  no  matter  where  we  go  or  what  we  do,  so  says  the  eyes  that  have  watched  him  give  and  give  and  give,  till  it  finally  took  a  physical  toll  by  the  devil's  hand.  it  stings  to  believe  it.  (if  she  lets  that  reality  sink  in,  she'll  be  physically  sick.)    "i  will  not  leave  you  behind."

he does not show his face. not to people that hire him, not to friends, not to anyone, even when they ask. even when they're nice to him, the lone mandalorian remains concealed — subverted behind heavy black cloth tucked over his nose. he remains that way even here, even now, seated across from a rather desperate woman who seems to grip the surface of the wooden table between them like she might slide off if she lets go. the fire in her eyes is unlike anything din has ever seen (caustic, frantic, like she's just witnessed hell and come crawling out of it with the last ounce of life she has left). i don't know their names, she tells him solidly, and din is about to speak up and ask more when she cuts him off — i know where they were headed next. what they looked like. what they smelled like. din gives a steady nod. it's all i've got, she finalizes, setting a pouch of coins upon the table, and din, squinting beneath his wide-brimmed hat, gives the bag a nod, until...

— i want to go with you. it's the last thing he's expecting to hear when she finishes her words, when she stares him down across the table and crushes his gaze with her own. there are plenty of things he wants to say in response, but he stops himself. he stops himself at the cusp of confession, lets his shoulders lean back into the wood curve of his chair, and stares at her, heavy.

she  is  blinded  by  rage,  all  sense  and  rationalizations  absconded  by  the  perilous  desire  for  revenge.  so  much  so  that  eliza  barely  pays  any  mind  to  the  shell  of  a  human  that  sits  before  her,  privy  to  her  story  only  for  the  coin  that  it  may  earn  him;  she  disarms  any  thought  of  who  he  is,  why  he  hides  his  identity  and  just  why  he's  willing  to  take  on  such  a  loose  cannon  as  herself  -  it  doesn't  matter.

"no,"    eliza  parries  evenly,  heeding  great  effort  and  care  to  keep  her  tone  as  even  as  possible  -  she  is  undeterred  by  his  easy  denial  of  her  wishes,  all  the  more  determined  to  get  what  she  wants.  if  he  won't  give  it  to  her,  she'll  find  someone  who  will  -  her  own  safety  be  damned.    "no,"    she  repeats,  leaning  in  toward  his  gravelly,  conservative  tone,    "i  kill  them.  i  want  them  t'know  that  it  was  me."    there's  little  to  be  questioned  with  on  the  front  of  vengeance.  her  frustration  builds  and  she  visibly  tenses,  her  fingernails  digging  into  her  palms  as  she  tries  to  find  some  semblance  of  composure  -  the  images  of  her  slaughtered  family  still  flash  behind  her  eyes  every  time  she  blinks.