Through Time's Embrace

1. TTE: Fractured Memories

It was over… Or was it?

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The heat in John's body kept building, each heartbeat like a hammer pounding in his chest. He could feel the blood dribbling from his lips, taste it in his mouth. He kept his eyes on Edgar Ross, the bastard who’d caused all of this, standing there with his lawmen, looking like they were getting some kind of satisfaction from watching him fall apart.

John staggered, his legs shaking, barely holding him up. A cough hit him hard, blood splattering across his teeth, the taste of iron burning in his mouth. He tried to steady himself, but it was like his body just wasn’t listening anymore.
He dropped to his knees, the ground unforgiving under him. His arms gave out, and before he knew it, he was on his back, staring up at the sky, the world spinning. His head hit the dirt with a dull thud. His vision started to fade, everything blurring into darkness.

...

It was over.

...

Or was it?


“John!”


A sharp pain jolted through him like a lightning bolt, yanking him back from the brink. He gasped, his lungs screaming like he’d been underwater too long. The cold hit him next, slicing straight to the bone and making every inch of his body ache like hell.

He blinked hard, trying to clear the fog in his mind. Snow. Endless snow and ice stretched as far as he could see. His head spun, struggling to catch up with what his body was telling him. What the hell was going on? A second ago, he was on the ground, Ross standing over him with that damn smug look on his face. Now… this?

Was he dreaming? Dying? Maybe both? Or worse—was this some kind of cruel afterlife?

He looked down at his hands. He had gloves on, crusted with blood, and his fingers shook. His leg throbbed something fierce, blood soaking through the fabric. No, this wasn’t some hallucination. This felt real. Too real.

His eyes darted around again, scanning the icy wasteland, and then it hit him. He knew this place. He’d been here before. But how?
“Son of a bitch.” His voice barely rose above a whisper, his throat tight with disbelief.

This was the mountains. The goddamn mountains.

How the hell had he gone back to the past?


John’s breath was shallow, his vision blurred as the cold wind cut through him, gnawing at his bones. He barely registered the faint voices calling out to him, too distant to make sense of. His body ached—his leg, his head, everything.


“Marston, you hear me?!"

That voice!

No mistaking it. Dammit.

Arthur.

John’s heart jumped, his chest tightening as his breath came out in short, ragged gasps. His hands, raw and numb from the cold, clung desperately to the ledge beneath him. This couldn’t be real. He was supposed to be dead. Hell, Arthur was supposed to be dead.

“Here! On the ledge!” His mouth moved before he realized it, and he didn’t even know he had yelled until he felt his teeth clamp shut tightly against the cold.

What the hell was happening? He barely had the strength to hold on, his fingers losing their grip with every passing second. Yet that voice—the damn familiar rasp of Arthur Morgan—was like a knife in his gut. It couldn’t be him. Shouldn’t be him. Not after everything.
How was he here? Back in this frozen hellhole? Back in this time?

His mind reeled, the biting cold gnawing at his senses. He’d seen death, stared it in the face, felt the finality of it. And now? And now… now he was clinging to a ledge, hearing voices he shouldn’t be hearing.


“That’s John! We’re coming!”
Javier’s voice echoed from above, distant but clear. John pulled in a breath, shivering against the cold.


“He’s down here.” Javier’s voice echoed from above.

“That’s quite a scratch you got there.”

John’s vision blurred, the world spinning with the wind and snow. And then he saw him. Arthur. Standing there. Real, alive, as solid as the earth beneath him, coat pulled tight against the storm, hat low over his eyes, just like he remembered.

Alive? It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be.

But there he was.

John’s chest heaved as he tried to make sense of it, a pounding headache threatening to split his skull. His words came out before he could stop them, the same words he’d said all those years ago.

“Never thought I’d say this, but… it’s good to see you again, Arthur Morgan.”

John caught a faint smirk tugging at Arthur's lips before he jumped down, landing effortlessly on the snow-covered ground. Arthur stepped forward, his heavy boots crunching through the snow as he closed the distance, crouching down in front of John. His eyes dropped to John’s face, scanning it with that same sharp look John had known so well.

“You don’t look so good.” Arthur’s eyes locked on him, and for a second, everything felt too still. Too strange. It wasn’t possible. Arthur had died. He’d seen it with his own eyes.

John blinked, confusion blurring his thoughts. Those words... It sounded like something Arthur had said before. Something from a lifetime ago. Was it really him?

“I don’t feel so good either.” John managed, his voice slurring slightly as the world around him spun faster. His chest tightened as if every breath was a struggle, and his vision began to swim.

Arthur’s gloved hand came to rest on his forehead, warm and grounding against the cold that had seeped into John’s skin.
“You’re looking pale, John. How do you feel?” Arthur asked, his face drawing closer.

John opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come. His head was spinning too fast, his body too weak to respond. His vision wavered, everything melting into a haze. The cold, the snow, Arthur’s voice—it all mixed together, blurring reality.

“Dizzy?” Arthur asked, his face full of concern. John couldn’t bring himself to nod, couldn’t bring himself to do anything. It felt like he was sinking.

“Something’s wrong...” John muttered, his words barely making sense as the world tilted.

Arthur’s hand on his forehead was the only thing holding him to reality, but even that warmth felt distant. His head throbbed, a sharp, gnawing pain that made his eyes flutter closed for a moment.

Suddenly, the snow around him was too much. Too cold. Too heavy. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He couldn’t stay awake.

Everything turned black.


When John came to, his head felt like it was split in two. The cold was still biting at him, but it felt distant now, muffled, like he was trapped in some half-dreamed nightmare. He blinked, groaning as the snow and storm began to clear in his mind. The first thing he saw was Arthur—hunched over, both hands on his knees, struggling for breath as if the wind itself was trying to tear him apart.

The sight tore at John’s chest. A flash of panic hit him, and he pushed through the haze in his mind, forcing his body to move despite the weakness. His voice came out strained, desperate.

"Arthur," he croaked, reaching for him, though he barely had the strength to lift his arm.

“Arthur, come on!” John’s voice cracked, desperate, pleading.

Arthur barely glanced at him, his face pale, his eyes distant. He waved a hand weakly, dismissing him. "You go."

John’s heart clenched at the finality in Arthur’s voice. He couldn't—he wouldn't—let go of him now. “Keep pushing, Arthur. Please.”

Arthur slowly straightened, each movement slow, deliberate, as if it took all his strength just to stay on his feet. He coughed, and John watched, horrified, as blood dripped from Arthur's mouth and splattered on the ground. No. No, he refused to believe it. Not Arthur. Not like this.

Arthur wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing, then looked at John with those tired eyes. "No… I think I've pushed all I can."

John’s throat tightened. Every part of him screamed to fight, to make Arthur fight too, but the look in Arthur's eyes—the acceptance, the resignation—was something John had never seen before. His world was slipping away, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"Come on." John gripped his left shoulder harder, his voice barely more than a whisper, as though he could will Arthur to keep going. But Arthur shook his head, refusing.

"You go." he said, his voice a rasp.

John stepped a little closer, his desperation growing. "We ain't got time for this. Not now."

Arthur’s lips twitched into a smile—one that cut through John like a blade. It was a smile that said a man had accepted his fate, had nothing left to fight for. A smile that knew it was too late. Arthur tipped his hat with one hand, the gesture somehow making him look even more tired, more broken.

"We ain't both gonna make it."

"Go…" Arthur’s voice was steady, but there was a finality to it that John couldn’t accept. No. He wouldn’t.
Arthur stepped closer to him, his movements slow and deliberate. "Now. I’ll hold 'em off."

Then, with a weary sigh, Arthur placed the hat on John’s head, his hand briefly resting on John’s uninjured shoulder. John felt the weight of it, the finality in the gesture, and despite everything, he refused to let the tears that threatened to fall. The sting in his chest only grew, but he swallowed it down, pushing back the ache that threatened to break him.

Arthur’s voice softened, almost a whisper. "It would mean a lot to me… please."

John refused to look at Arthur. His gaze shifted to the mist, to the darkening sky on the mountain. The words stuck in his throat, but he couldn’t avoid it. He slowly turned back to Arthur, who was now removing his satchel, his movements slower than usual.

"There ain’t no more time for talk," said Arthur.

John adjusted Arthur’s hat, which was a bit too big for him. As Arthur handed him the satchel, John hesitated but then took it.

"Go." Arthur's voice was firm, final.

John stood there, frozen. His feet wouldn’t move, and his heart beat too hard. "Arthur…"

Arthur’s frown deepened, stubbornness set in his eyes as he looked back. "Go to your family."

"Arthur!" John’s voice cracked, the desperation clear in his plea.

"Get the hell out of here and be a goddamn man."

John’s chest tightened, his voice faltering as the words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t find the right ones, so he blurted out the first thing that came to him. "You’re my brother…” It didn’t feel right anymore. He knew it, and Arthur knew it. John’s heart pounded in his chest as he realized the truth of it—Arthur was so much more than a brother.

Arthur looked back at him, his face hardening as he began to climb the rocks, his movements slow, worn. "I know..." The words were simple, but they carried more weight than they should have. John could feel the unspoken understanding pass between them—no need to say it aloud. It was as if Arthur was answering the deeper truth of John's words. "I know." he repeated, and this time, as if saying everything that neither of them could put into words.

And then, just as the weight of Arthur’s unspoken words lingered in the air, the world shifted. John gasped as he shot upright, his body immediately protesting the movement. The pain from his wounds hit him like a wave, and he groaned, collapsing back onto the stretcher. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the pounding ache in his chest and shoulder.His breathing was heavy, ragged. The dream—or whatever that had been—still clung to him, the memories of Arthur's words clear in his mind.

His breath came heavy and ragged, as if the effort of breathing itself was too much to bear. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the pounding ache that filled him—from the gaping wound in his side to the jagged pain in his leg. But even beneath the physical hurt, something else clung to him, stubborn and insistent. The dream—or whatever it had been—still haunted him. Arthur's words echoed in his mind, too real to dismiss.

It felt real. Too real.

John turned his head to the side, staring at the wall, trying to focus on something, anything, to push the memories away. But the sharp pain in his leg spread, a gnawing reminder that this wasn’t a dream. It was real. And it wasn’t the first time he’d had to live through this hell.

Arthur was gone. And here he was again—back in this goddamn mess. Why?

A frustrated sigh slipped from his lips as he ran a hand over his face, scrubbing at the exhaustion weighing on him. The questions that had filled his head ever since his death, the uncertainty of why he was sent back—it all roared to life again. It didn’t matter. He’d figure it out later, right?

For now, he just needed to get through the day.

He lay stiffly on the stretcher, the dull ache of his wounds pulsing in time with his heartbeat. They’d saved him—somehow—but it felt more like a temporary patch than anything permanent. His eyes scanned the room, but there was no sign that anyone else had lived through what he had. No knowing glances, no shared look of recognition from someone who had walked through hell and back. There was no one here who truly understood.

He was alone.

A ragged breath rattled through him as the cold Colter air seeped through the cracks in the walls, biting at his exposed skin. Alone. He’d have to face this alone, then. Was that really how it had to be?

No. No, it would never be fine. He’d seen too much.

He had watched the gang fall apart, piece by piece—watched Dutch's mind unravel, watched the ones he loved die. He’d hunted down the four, chasing hollow revenge. He’d seen Arthur break, had held him in his arms as life slipped away from him, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of the man he had once stood beside.

Why was he sent back?

The question gnawed at him, louder than the throb of his wounds. To fix something? Was it to stop the inevitable? Was it his own death? The gang’s destruction? To stop Dutch from losing his mind again and ruining everything? What was he supposed to do?

The questions circled endlessly in his head, each one more painful than the last, like a torment of its own. The ache behind his eyes throbbed, and the pain from his wounds only made it worse.

Abigail. Her face, her voice—it had all been so distant when she visited him. He couldn’t meet her gaze for long, couldn’t find the words to bridge the gap between them. The silence had been unbearable. She was Abigail Roberts—but not his Abigail. Not the one from his timeline, the one who had stood beside him through everything, even as they grew more distant, even as she accepted that his heart was never truly hers.

She looked the same. She felt the same—but somehow, she wasn’t the woman he had known. The distance between them was almost comforting in a strange way, like a weight lifted from his chest that he didn’t have to carry anymore. It should have hurt more, but it didn’t. If anything, there was a release in it.

Maybe it wasn’t about fixing things with her—not in the way he thought. Maybe this was his chance to be something different, something better—not with Abigail, not romantically, but with Jack.

Jack.

That boy deserved more than he ever got. John’s heart twisted as he thought of his son. Maybe this was the second chance he had been given—to be the father Jack needed, to make up for the time he had lost. He could fix something—he had to.

Before his death, John had tried—finally—to be the father his son needed. But time had run out before he could prove it. Now, with this second chance, he would start earlier. He would be better. This time, he’d do it right.

If he was sent back, it wasn’t by accident. There had to be a reason. Whether it was to save the gang, save himself, or save Jack, he would figure it out. He had to. He couldn’t afford to fail this time.