but your love was unmoved

Hey y’all!

I’ve been mulling this over in my head for the better part of a month now. With everything going on in this fandom as of late, being placed on a blocklist for god knows what, and just generally being burnt out, for lack of a better word, I’ve decided to step away from the RDR fandom. I’m not sure if this is permanent or just temporary, but what I do know is that I won’t be posting any more fics, at least not on this blog.

This blog will become a neutral main, nothing big or major being posted; possibly some random reblogs and whatever. I’ll still have my archive blog as an RDR sideblog, as well as my other sideblog based around my newer obsessions.

Your humming continues as you close your eyes to further delve into the depths of your imagination, the world around you disappearing into nothing but a mumble of waves crashing over the rocks, the feeling of scanty and uneven grass lay beneath your skirt, your hand running across the blades of green that tickle at your fingers. The air is a mixture of warm and cool, and it would be far more enjoyable had the humidity not been so heavy as it was. It wasn’t perfect.

Finally, the cover of the book falls closed on your thumb as you exhale softly, humming a gentle tune that you’d heard not long before; your mother singing softly in the kitchen just days before her blood splattered across the wallpaper, the tone that of a bright and blooming rose. It was quite a pleasant sight, to say the very least. The red was a comforting reminder of what more was to be seen; rose petals and gardens filled to the brim with bright flowers and the scent of lavender that your soap smelled of. If the smell of the flower matched your soap, you didn’t know, but you could surely hope.

“Out amongst the flowers sweet,” you sing tenderly, your humming ceasing as your voice begins, just as softly as the wind. No more than a quiet whisper and barely audible outside of your own ears, you were lost in a daydream of what you wished and yearned for. Roses; petals as red as your mother’s blood, and lavender; petals as purple as deep as a darkening bruise.

“Lingers pretty Marguerite,” you croon, your imagination completely overtaking your brain to lose all sense of self and surroundings. The scatty grass and dirt beneath you is replaced by lush gardens, a flourish of lavender around you as the scent hits your nostrils. They smell of your soap from home, the sweet yet barely-there aroma is comforting amongst the warm sun that beats down on your head, your hair growing hot from the brightness. Perfection.

Unfortunately however, you are not in a flourishing field of flowers, no roses and lavenders surround you, and the blood-red tint that you oh-so wish to see is never present, as usual. You hum continuously, desperate to get a sense of relief for the memories of that beautiful red. Perfect. As all things should be; just perfect.

“Sowing with her hands so white,” your eyes open reluctantly, and you smile ever so slightly at the vision before you. The skull is quite the beautiful shade of white, but it isn’t nearly enough. Your smile turns to a scowl as you take it in further; it’s more a tone of yellow or cream, and you kick the decomposing corpse into the river that runs just across from you, the noise loud and deafening. Your smile returns as you notice the white that comes from the water as it rushes across the rocks and flows downstream. It truly is a perfect white, and though it is absolutely perfect, it cannot compare to the rose-red of mother’s blood that you so desperately yearn to see again.

“Future blossoms, fair and bright,” your eyes close once again. Nothing around you quite carries the red nor purple that you obsess over, thus meaning that nothing is worth seeing. Your voice unknowingly grows louder as your anger rushes through you; why should it be so difficult to find that perfect red? Most roses you’d come across in the past weeks haven’t compared to that crimson. The only sense of stability you had was your slowly blooming garden back home, but the few roses that had grown were either too orange or too pink. You need that perfect bright red. Nothing less than perfect would do.

“And the sun beams lovingly,” you sing, your voice louder than you’d noticed, and the book falls from your hand, long discarded from your mind anyway. Your imagination is desperate to find that sense of warmth that you feel so vividly in your perfect world, though the sun never quite matched up to that warm and bright star. It had to be perfect.

“Kiss sweet Marguerite for me,” your voice dies down as you realise that no, your visions of your perfect world are just that. Visions. Your imagination, creating a false sense of home in your mind that did not exist. You still hope, you still yearn for that perfect place made just for you, as you squeeze your eyes shut, desperate for that moment of perfection, though you know it is fleeting, and always will be.

You do not hear the sound of boots on the dirt, nor the spurs that jingle as a figure slowly approaches your seated form. The rushing water of the Dakota river drown out the quiet noise of the dirt and gravel, and your mind searching for a memory you wish you possessed, yet never did (nor could), causes your senses to dull.

“Kiss my little lady sweet,” you lilt, your voice realigning gentle and steady though your hands tremble as you clench and unclench your fists; a futile attempt to feel the roses beneath your fingers. The prick of the thorns that causes that perfect red to match its perfect petals is but a dream, and you know this. Still, you cannot stop your mind obsessing over the perfection that settles in your head.

“Blue-eyed gentle Marguerite,” you sing, your mind wandering to a perfect blue. The way it would resemble the ocean, the lapis tone that matched the glittering gem. Or perhaps it would be closer to a bright sky on a clear day, a light and fluttery sky blue that seemed bright from the clear yellow sun. Maybe even a warmer tone, like that of a cornflower in a field of lush green grass. Either way, it would be uniform, a simple tone, and thus, it would be perfect.

A man clears his throat from beside you, and you desperately keep your eyes shut, hoping to hear the soft sound of your mother’s voice from the kitchen of your home instead. “Y’have a lovely voice, ma’am,” you hear. You’re almost startled by the compliment. It had been exactly one year, seven months and sixteen days since you’d heard one of those. The last was from your mother, ever so appreciative of your love for perfections. How interesting that she was the very one who was perfect, both on the inside and out.

You cautiously open your eyes, your lashes fluttering as you blink a few times before finally gazing up at the man who stands beside you. He is rough and ragged, but somehow his gaze is kind. His shirt, you notice, is somehow a perfect black. Shadowy and dark, it perfectly resembles the black ink that coated the metal of your old calligraphy pen; possibly still sitting back at your home, along with the decaying corpse of your dear old mother and the once perfect red splatter of her blood that still stains the wallpaper, though now had only darkened to an ugly and imperfect brown. It simply would not do. “Well, thank you sir. May I say, your shirt is just perfect.”

He crouches slightly to take a seat on the log that you were leant against. “Perfect?” he questions curiously, looking down at his chest, then his arms. His black hat is far from perfect, however. The leather has lightened due to the sun, it’s scraped and scratched, and the rope that adorns the band is frayed from old age and continuous use. It somehow doesn’t bother you, though. While heavily imperfect, it is from time; possibly a hand-me-down from a relative or friend. It carries memories and love and care, and therefore, is perfect in its own regard.

“Yes, perfect. There are no stains nor spots, no loose threads, and the colour is simply as perfect as black could be. Inky as the night, dark as shadows... Perfect,” you say, unknowingly whispering the last line as it carries so much more meaning to you than possibly anyone else. The man only hums in what is possibly mock understanding, clearing his throat before his gaze settles on the flowing river. It’s then that you peer up at his face. Also far from perfect; scars and wrinkles litter his skin, discolouration from copious amounts of time in the sun decorate his cheeks along with freckles and messy stubble.

His eyes are also imperfect. They closely resemble a deep oceanic blue, but it also match with an emerald green. Flecks of gold and hazel pepper around his pupil as well. It’s an odd mixture, surely one you haven’t seen before, and maybe months ago you’d have seen them as just that. Imperfect. But now, you realise the beauty that they hold; the pain that lays behind them, the brightness they emit. Perhaps this is what that perfect blue is; imperfect, yet perfect all the same.

“You got a name, Miss?” he asks, his eyes not moving from the rushing water that flows just a few feet from you. His tone is deep and his accent drawls as he speaks; imperfect. But again, somehow perfect in its own way. The way he sounds suits him, oddly enough. As do each and every other imperfect part of him, and while you’d normally had already killed the man for cursing your eyes with such obvious imperfections, you cannot help being taken with him. His imperfections come together in a harmonious melody that dances around in an air of grace, that it becomes perfect. How strange.

You hum softly. “(Name) (Surname),” you say, craning your neck to look at him. “And yours, sir?” You notice how his eyes narrow slightly, and how the crows feet that border them crinkle in yet another imperfection. Somehow it makes him more attractive. Odd, for a specimen carrying so many clear imperfect qualities, he seems... overall perfect, in a rugged and tough way.

He nods, though he stays silent. Your question goes unanswered, and you note yet another imperfect way about him. Rude. Somehow it adds to his enigmatic nature, and you try to suppress your tuts of annoyance. You want to be cross with this man, but you simply cannot bring yourself to do so. With how imperfect he appears on the outside, you begin to wonder if it carries to his insides. Would his blood be that perfect rose red, just as your mother’s was as it splattered across the wallpaper? Would his tanned skin bruise that lovely purple, just like that of a perfect lavender? Would his skull be that perfect stark white, just as Marguerite’s hands from the song your mother sang the morn of her death? You’re endlessly curious to find out more about him.

Moments pass in silence as you hum again, your eyes fluttering shut as you envision the mixes of blue, green and gold, and how maybe that is the perfect blue; not the lapis or cornflower you’d previously thought. You wonder if this man is like your mother, with perfect blood that matched that of a perfect rose. How would it look decorating the wallpaper? You hope it would be, though that perfection is still fleeting. You learnt that the hard way, when your mother’s perfect rose red ichor stained into a murky brown. How would his heart look? How would it taste? Perhaps a beautiful array of bright red, and bright blue, and the purples of his veins that were rushing with the bright rose crimson. Perhaps sweet, a heart of gold, they say. Well, those are the best. It was as if the kindness added a sugar coating atop it.

“Ma’am, I’m going to ask you once,” the man begins, pulling your attention to him. “You’re gonna need to stand up for me.” His tone is stern, commanding and authoritative. It is again, imperfect. A gentle and soft voice is what is perfect; which is why you only spoke in whispers. It did not disturb the nature around you, only accompanying it. His (possibly?) perfect blue-green-golden irises bore into your own, and his gaze is threatening. You’re confused; just moments ago he was kind; the first living soul to compliment you. The only compliments you garnered anymore were from the ghosts that lingered around your near perfect home. It would be perfect, had it not been for the ugly brown stains on the cream wallpaper that now only served as reminders of how fleeting perfection is.

“Have I done something, sir?” you question, your voice a soft and tender whisper. You notice how his eyes seem to soften in confusion. Confusion over what, however, you don’t know. His hand runs across his messy stubble before adjusting his scraped up hat that sits atop his head. You get a glimpse of his hair; blonde, possibly from the sun, as his facial hair was a darker brown. Again, another imperfection. Though somehow, it played as another reason of his perfect imperfections. It fit with his appearance — an outdoorsman, clearly, who was rough and tumble (if the gun in his holster wasn’t enough to tell, the rifles on his horse’s saddle nearby would).

How could a woman as soft and gentle as you, humming and singing tenderly alone by the river, commit such awful crimes? Arthur was far past confusion; perhaps he had the wrong person, though he knows it was your face that was drawn on that bounty poster, and it was your name that was carrying a price — a hefty one at that. Your crimes were so heinous that they warranted a two thousand dollar bounty; murder, dismemberment, cannibalism. How on earth could you carry such crimes on your shoulders? He shakes his head as he simply hands you the poster.

Your eyes drag across the paper, your expression monotonous as you read out each charge. Somehow you remain calm; it’s all just so strange to him. Even he, who had seen what he thought was the worst of the worst, cringed at the descriptions of those awful deeds. You look back up at him with innocent eyes, but your answer draws all oxygen from his lungs like a sharp kick to his sternum. “Yes, that’s me. Is there a problem?”

Arthur blinks rapidly for a moment as he processes this new information. “So... you did those things?” he speaks slowly. He isn’t sure if his voice has quieted due to fear or confusion. You nod softly, your gaze innocent as if you held no remorse for what you’d done. “You don’t feel bad or anything?” he’s quite shocked when you silently shake your head, your eyes holding a softness that burned into his very soul. You looked so pure, so innocent and kind and sweet... yet you were admittedly a crazed killer who murdered her mother, tore apart her corpse and ate her heart. It was so very strange.

He’s so dazed in his thoughts that he hasn’t noticed you move until you’re shoving him to the ground, surprisingly stronger than you look, as you hold a sharpened knife to his chest. You bear a small smile, your eyes somehow still sweet and kind as you look down at him. “I wonder...” you hum as you drag the blade down his shirt, cutting the fabric so it falls open. “Are you perfect inside? Mother was perfect; her blood looked like rose petals. It was quite beautiful.”

Arthur’s mouth runs dry as he freezes in fear and confusion, yet again. “I would say you are perfect, sir. You may look imperfect outside, but I now realise that your imperfections come together to create perfection. I’m quite curious to see if it’s the same inside.” You tone is quiet and gentle as you slowly slice down his chest, and his blood pours out. “Oh my!” you grin, as if you were a child who’d just gotten a chocolate bar. “You truly are perfect, sir. Look!” you hold up a finger that is wet with a crimson liquid. “Just like mother’s, it matches that of a rose! How beautiful. I wonder if you and mother are the same then... Do you think your heart is sweet? As if it were covered in sugar? Her’s was.”

It’s then that Arthur realises the gravity of the situation he’d fallen into, and he’s quick to shove you off of him. He fumbles for a moment before shooting his pistol. The bullet hits your chest, and you then see the blood that pours from yourself. A strangled cry escapes your lips as you wipe at it. Far from the perfect tone of a rose, it’s a tad closer to the ugly brown that stained your cream coloured wallpaper. Far from your mother’s perfect colour, and far from the perfect tone of this man. A life of perfection wasted on a self that was far from it. The tears that stream down your cheeks taste too salty to be just right; another imperfection. Before the man can shoot you dead, you grab your knife, the silver blade still stained with the perfect rose blood of the man covered in outer imperfections, and stab your heart, doubtfully sweet of sugar like your dear mother’s. How dare you live with such awful inner imperfections? It wasn’t deserved.

Arthur stares in shock. You surely were the most terrifying bounty he’d ever met. And here he was, thinking you were too innocent to be the one who had done all those terrible things. He huffs as he holsters his gun, and picks up your limp corpse, laying it on the rump of his steed before mounting and bringing you into the sheriff’s office. Still, his heart flutters in fear at what you’d said: he was perfect inside. Was his heart sweet? It wasn’t a thought that would quickly dissipate, that he knew.