Like a Sunset
Flash fiction
Content warnings: blood, guns, murder
We know one another the moment we meet. Our ribbons—red like dawn—tied over one ear. On a street of grime and litter, we stop and take a moment together.
“It’s a good day.” You smile, nose wrinkling from the smell of refuse.
“Indeed, it is.” I sidestep an orphan begging for a penny.
We circle one another, searching for an opening.
“You will be at the Marigold?” You have the expression of a cat. Hungry.
“I have that honor.” I bow and hand you my card.
Philip Marslow, duelist extraordinaire!
You scoff and give me a once over, up and down. You see nothing but the bend of my brow.
“Very well.” You offer me your card, and it is more subdued.
Timothy Grout—duelist.
“Respectable,” I nod, with the tone of one looking at a trout.
You reel, stepping in filth. After you kick the nearest worker in the shin, you smooth your jacket and straighten your neck. “We have the place. What of the time?”
“Noon,” I propose, taking out my watch. We are in twilight. Neither night nor day.
Dawn is minutes away.
“Noon it is,” you agree, and it is done.
We shall make our arguments at the most dangerous hour of the day.
Once you are gone, I let my mask slip. A confident grin falls to the ground, and I am left in the stench of the city invading my shirt and tie. The orphan still begs for my coin.
I take out a silver penny and hold it up.
It burns my fingers.
“Now,” I say, and the orphan listens close, “what would you do for this?”
The Marigold is a grand place of liquor and dance. There are many who come here for the time of their lives. To some, an eternity, to others, the blink of an eye. It is a matter of taste, and each man and woman here has their own.
We mark it by the ribbons in our hair. Red, yellow, green. Blue is never on the menu, nor is purple accepted. For king and country—or bloody tradition.
Each of us is different, and no two colors are alike, nor is the placement of ribbons accidental. There can only be one combination.
I see you stand at the other end of the hall, flaunting the same color and placement as my own. You dare. I keep my calm, clinking my glass with a nearby statesman, newly returned from the New World.
A melody from the trio keeps the peace. We rotate around each other, homing in closer. Two spirals, meeting in the middle. A deadly dance of privilege.
They see us. They know what is at stake. Only one can be unique. The other must be a fake. So they follow our circling pavane, in tune with the violin. Whisper. Secrets. Delights.
When we meet in the center, the hall stills and the music mutes. A cough, a hiss, and a distant chuckle is our score.
“Your ribbon, good sir,” I say, raising my voice, “I insist you move it.”
You shake your head, eyes a smile. “It is you who is overstepping, sir. Take off your ribbon, or let us settle this with violence.”
A play, a tradition, a ritual to entertain.
We both step back. The crowd parts. We are alone in a ring of flesh, infused with perfume and powdered cheeks. Our seconds come to the fore, each well versed in the performance. In the middle, they confer.
“Pistols!” One shouts.
“Twenty meters!” The other calls.
We both nod and step onto the markers. Windows open and the crowd moves back, away from the danger. Rays from the sun split the floor between us.
A pistol on a cushion for each. We take our time to inspect. Satisfied, I load it with a single bullet—silver, naturally—and take my position.
Breathing.
The susurration of the crowd reaches a crescendo. You take your time, looking your gun up and down. You eye me, making sure I do not betray any trickery.
It would be silly to try. Still, I have a card up my sleeve I have yet to reveal. I hope neither of us lives to see it.
“On the noon bell,” your second shouts.
“May the Lord of the Chalice be with you,” my second intones.
Gears and levers tick, tick, ticking.
We are united in impatience.
The bell rings.
I aim at—
You shoot me in the chest.
I fire, crushing your eye socket.
We both fall, heaving air, clawing at our wounds. The silver leaks into our veins, corrupting our eternal youth. The hunger for blood grows, but none comes to our aid. We lie together, copies of one another, dying like mortals on lacquered floors.
Your death throes echo through the hall. I smile at the ceiling. A life for a life. Our exchange is done.
Outside, an orphan takes one step into an old building. It once held a tower and a bell to chime on the hour. Now its frescoes are shattered, and the altar within lies desecrated.
“Who are you?” A shadow breaks free from the wall. An old man, beard graying and sunken cheeks.
The orphan shakes and tries to speak. In the end, they merely hold up a silver coin. A penny for a life.
“I see,” the man says, and a tear gathers in his eye. “You wish to fight?”
“I do,” the orphan says in a whisper.
“You know the rules?”
“I do.” Stronger. Full throated. Dry lips.
“A life for a life,” the man says, performing his role. “A mortal for an immortal. You will pay that price?”
Silence.
The orphan places the coin on the altar.
In the distance, a bell chimes. It is noon. Two gunshots crack from High Street.
The man nods and hands the orphan a ribbon. Red, like a sunset. To tie into their hair.
Over one ear.