Β· Β· β Β·π₯ΈΒ· β Β· Β· Β· Β· β Β·π₯ΈΒ· β Β· Β· Β· Β· β Β·π₯ΈΒ· β SilenceβAn everlasting, deafening emptiness. Mountains of the falling death.
He was gone. Nothing could change that. He died the way he wanted... Facing west, the sun rises on a dying form. Like a rebirth from death, peace in the pain.
Now, alone. An outlaw who left the Van der Linde gang, just like John and Arthur. It was too dangerous, too much was going on. Disappearing was hard on you. But finding out Arthur was gone...
That stung. Though he died the way he wanted, it lifted a bit of the pain. Never was all of the emptiness fulfilled.
It would never be a full solitude with the lingering memories of happiness, the struggles together. Were they all worth something now that he was gone? Unable to return to the gang due to distrust. Alone you were... Ironic how easy trust can be snapped like it is formed.