text: Nightfall. Before heading to the location—Daniel ended up giving you space after all—you stopped to speak with the proprietor of the hotel you're staying out to rent another night. The proprietor, a man with a large gut and tendency to rest his palms on the sides of it, took your money with gratitude, likely due to the fact that you didn't question his "late extension policy" and the added fee along with it. Some battles are better not fought, and a vast majority have to do with service. A few hours and nearly as many cups of coffee later, you find yourself at a small tavern on the outskirts of the city.
  
  The tavern, Stormshelter, is still within the Westhaven walls. Safe from outsiders. However, it's a different story for residents of Westhaven who bring a danger of their own. Here, lawmen don't patrol. Goldwater Knights don't stomp their nine-man formations through the streets. Bums and thugs of questionable character hang around alleys or rest near shops and stores, daring rivals to try anything. Not a typical place for the bard to perform. But he has a gig, and you do not (at least officially). That ends that discussion. Various performers, joke-tellers, jugglers, singers started the night. Opening acts are rarely good, and these are no different.
  
  The bard backstage in preparation, you sit alone at the bar. It's lined against the side wall, allowing the stage to be the main focus of the room. You don't mind the layout as it allows you to nurse a whiskey while being mostly out of sight. The tavern's patrons are loud, voicing both their approval or disapproval of the performer, just the sort of crowd you'd imagine for this side of the city. As you're ordering a double, a finger taps on your shoulder.
  
  You turn to find Daniel, still dressed in the garb from earlier, next to a woman. There's no denying her beauty. Athletic frame, still with curves in the right areas. She's wearing a black flowing dress, a small hat holding her brown curls in place. And suddenly you know why he asked you to come. A set up.
  
  "Here's the gunslinger I told you about," Daniel says, all but pushing the woman in front of you.
  
  "Yeah you stumbled on something alright," you mumble to yourself. But holding good manners as expected of a gunslinger, you add, "Pleasure to meet you...?"
  
  "Anne," she smiles.
  
  "Pleasure to meet you, Anne."
  
  "We've got a table in the center. Front row," she says. "Join us there?"
  
  You nod and tip the brim of your hat, savoring the precious few seconds that the barkeep is taking to pour your double shot of whiskey. Once the glass lands in front of you, the liberty that solitude brings will vanish, swept under the rug for a night of polite questioning and feigned interest. You're starting to wish you didn't agree to come.
  
  As the bartender slaps a glass down in front of you, he adds, "Anything for the lady?"
  
  You glance toward the table Anne mentioned and find it absent of glasses. "Martini," you answer, a safe choice. The bartender nods and raps his knuckles on the bar top in acknowledgment. You wait for the man to mix the cocktail, scanning the crowd in the meantime. They're as ragged as they are rowdy, poor souls seeking entertainment as distraction from their shitty lives, a purpose that booze, smokes, and harder stuff fills. You wouldn't be surprised in the least if the rooms upstairs are filled with guests taking an opium-induced nap. The crowd's clothes are dirty, likely their only pair. You continue your scan, finding more of the same. Dirt. Rags. And finally—
  
  —gunslinger. He's dressed in black from head to toe, a dark poncho draping from his neck down to his mid thigh. It covers his pistol, but you know without a doubt he carries iron on the hip. He smokes a cigar from one corner of his mouth, spilling a constant stream of smoke from the left side of his face, which is shrouded by the brim of his hat. The man in black, the gunslinger sits casually at a table by himself, one leg stretched out in front of him. He turns towards you, noticing your gaze—
  
  —and the martini." The bartender places the glass on the bar top, pulling your attention away from the man in black. You dig into your pocket and throw a few dollars on the bar top, turning back towards the gunslinger. He's gone. The chair is empty. There's no sign at the table that a man just sat there, each chair neatly placed underneath. Before you can investigate further, Anne waves you down. Suppressing a sigh, you sip at the whiskey and savor the taste, the burn on your lips, the rush of pleasure with each taste. As quick as it appears, the feeling is gone. Until the next sip. And the one after it. And so on.
  
  Anne thanks you for the martini as you sit. She starts the conversation with typical questions, where you're from, how you know the bard, etc. It's a choreographed dance. Knowing where she's leading you, you can let go of the reins and let your answers flow freely from your tongue, throwing in a few polite questions of your own. As you discuss the latest political news from the east, Daniel is introduced. The crowd claps as the stage curtains are drawn to reveal the bard.
  
  He's alone on the stage, sitting on a single bar stool. He works the crowd, not starting his music until they quiet completely, desperate to hear what he has in store for them. And what he plays is a masterpiece. The lute becomes an extension of the room's emotion; the crowd is transfixed by it, each crescendo mirrored on their faces. Anne appears on the verge of tears. They well up in her eyes like small waterskins about to burst. You find yourself affected as well, surprisingly, hypnotized by the notes. That's what you tell yourself later when reflecting on the scene that's about to play out, distracted by the music and girl: that's why you didn't see the dagger until it was too late.
  
  Your ears pick it up before your eyes, a high-pitched whine against the fast rhythm from the lute. Before your mind can register, causing action from your body, it lands squarely in the bard's chest, the impact throwing him over backward in a sudden crash of wrong notes. The crowd, no stranger to ill-happenings in this part of the city, moves almost as fast as you do, taking cover underneath tables in a roar. Madness ensues. The inside of the tavern turns into a hectic mess of bodies scrambling for cover, half of the patrons choosing to run for the door.
  
  "Stay here," you instruct Anne, not that you expected her to follow you anyway. Sometimes people in high stress situations need to be reminded what to do. The revolver appearing in your palm, you make for the stage, ready to rain death upon any enemies who would dare make themselves known. If the crowd notices the gun in your hand, they don't act like it; on the way, several shoulders run into you, despite your table at the front of the room. Reaching the stage, you swing your way on top with one hand.
  
  You find the bard lying on the stage, the hilt of the dagger sticking from his chest like a flag claiming territory for a king. Next to him, the bar stool lies overturned, and beside that, the bard's lute, chipped and fractured, a deep crack running down the neck. The very instrument that held the attention of tens of people, holding their emotions with each perfectly-tuned string, lies broken and absent of all sound, fallen by a simple dagger. Power is a strange thing, is it not. Small sporadic movement still appears at the bard's chest. Still breathing, yet.
  
  Amongst the chaos, a single figure remains motionless. The man in black. He stands at the doorway, the crowd parting around him like a great stone planted firmly in a riverbed. His face is shrouded in shadow, but you get the sinking feeling he's smiling. Goddam smiling at your friend bleeding out in front of you. A hand grabs your shoulder, a musician's hand. Daniel. He tries to say something, the words themselves not forming properly on his tongue. Whatever he's saying, you nod your understanding. No sense in trying to ask a dying man to explain himself.
  
  The man in black tips his hat toward the stage as if politely greeting a stranger on the street, turning to leave after the act is complete. If there's any hope of following him, you'll have to leave now. The bard will bleed out either way; you've witnessed enough wounds to know a fatal one when you see it. You'll have to leave your oldest friend slowly bleeding out alone, but perhaps revenge can bring comfort to a dying man. It can calm a man greater than any hearth, bring more pleasure than any woman of the night. Time is short. Your prey is fleeting.
  
  > hunt the man in black
  Two options presented themselves, and yet there was never really an option in the matter. You carry the iron on your hip, accruing a skill set that brings destruction rather than healing. The bard will understand. He seems to sense your intention, perhaps it's displayed on your face, a mix of rage and confusion caused by the internal struggle to wrap your mind around the sudden assassination and your inability to stop it. He did warn you, did he not? In your paranoia you thought it was a set up, a lure to help you move on. He'll understand. Either way, it won't be an issue for too much longer. Mere seconds away.
  
  His hand falls from your shoulder. As you leave, you don't offer an explanation or words of farewell. None are needed. The bard knows your intent. He sees bloodlust, a single focus point grasped onto, one that will result in more death. You sprint from the stage, knocking over a few of the slower tavern patrons along the way. You exchange the tavern light for darkness; the moon hides beneath a cloud layer tonight, the sky continuing its constant drizzle.
  
  The street is abuzz with drunken citizens, some from Stormshelter, others from different watering holes. The news of the assassination is already spreading. They're gathering in the streets like citizens waiting for a parade to march through with no apparent regard for danger, perhaps realizing that a single dagger thrown in the night is the result of a targeted death, not a wide-spread killing spree for God knows why.
  
  Movement. Shadow. You sprint down the street, revolver placed back in its holster, exchanged for speed. Like a moth to the flame, the darkness draws you in. Even if you wanted, which you don't, you doubt you could turn back now. It's not only for the sake of your dying—likely dead now—friend. There's an indescribable allure to the darkness you chase. You desire it, long for it. You don't have to be kept waiting long.
  
  He's waiting for you down an alleyway, a lone silhouette of a man placed against the dark of night, the corner of his hat and poncho sharp. The man in black. You enter the alley. It's a long and narrow corridor, like most alleys are, lined with heaps of trash and reinforced doors that all remain shut and locked. No rat scurries. No crow scavenges. The alley is void of life, save for two gunslingers and the smell of death.
  
  "'slinger," the man in black speaks, remaining twenty paces away. He doesn't acknowledge your full title, and you know the reason for it.
  
  "You? Why?" you utter in a breath ragged from smoke. No further clarification is needed.
  
  The man in black shrugs. "You should be able to figure that out yourself. Father doesn't quite enjoy those who turn their back on the family. A lesson had to be taught. The woman, oh what's her name—Anna... Anne would have followed suit, but judging by your conversation that would have been doing you a favor."
  
  "I'm out. Father disowned me."
  
  The man in black laughs. It's an off-putting tone, the kind of laughter that's born of cruelty. "No one's truly ever out. And the way I hear it, you were never officially disowned. Father was content to put up with your disobedience, but times have changed. Father's calling everyone home."
  
  "You're fucking crazy if you think I'd return. Especially after what you've just done."
  
  "I was hoping you'd say that." Through the shadow, you see a hand appear at his side. The man in black postures for a gunfight.
  
  Your own hand matches. In the distance, a church bell tolls midnight.
  
  > Midnight duel
  The bell finishes its toll, the sound hanging heavy in the air. It highlights the sudden silence; not even the city streets in its drunken stupor dare interrupt the duel. Two men stand against one another, death but a single pull of the trigger away. They carry iron on their hip and deal in lead. Tonight, one of them dies.
  
  Overhead, the sky parts its constant layer of clouds, allowing pure moonlight to shine down in the alley. Soft lunar light showers you in a blue shade, the man in black remains as his name suggests. Your hand rests unmoving, fingers spread out and relaxed. Your opponent does the same. It's as if you're facing your shadow, the gunslinger a black silhouette in perfect dueling posture, just how Father taught you both.
  
  High noon, a sacred time for a gunslinger. You find yourself at the very antithesis of the holy hour, a blasphemy as sincere as there ever were. The moon above mocks you. A slight mist of rain holds in the air, remnants of the drizzle from seconds before.
  
  "They said you were the best," the man in black speaks, his hand unwavering at his side. "But you abandoned the family before I got to witness it for myself. I've been longing for this day."
  
  I've been longing for this day.
  
  You passed the trials at a younger age than any before. Your waist held the size of a boy, but the iron you carried on your hip was of a man. A boy from nowhere, a past full of secrets and mystery. Father welcomed you into the family. Father recognized your disposition with the six-shooter. If there was another family before your adoption, they have long since been forgotten.
  
  Father, the old sorcerer, liked to welcome them in young. Families are built and sustained from young boys and girls, are they not?
  
  "The day is here. The day is your last," you answer, reaching in your pocket for a smoke. The movement of your hand doesn't cause a single flinch from the gunslinger in front of you. Damn. He's good.
  
  Damn. He's good. The thought was on all of their minds. Father's daughter was taken by a renounced Goldwater. Goldwater Knights, the only warriors who could resist the iron. It wasn't by strength of body or intricate spell weaving, although that played a part. It was their armor, unbreakable as a mountain, sturdy as an ancient oak. The former Goldie holed himself up in an underground fortress, spending every last coin of his Goldwater earnings on mercenaries and defensemen—and the Goldwater knights are anything but aptly titled.
  
  A band of eight, you rode into the tunnel's entrance. It eventually led to the main gate, the underground road wide enough for the entire posse to ride side-by-side. Eight was the extent of your number at the time. God knows how many the family's grown since.
  
  Father himself could not be trusted to ride. Bloodlust took over, leaving the sorcerer unreliable. A roadside inn massacred was the final straw, bodies slung over chairs like a heavy coat after a long day's work. Nothing pulls a family together like a father stricken with sorrow, tears first running dry before turning to blood. It was your idea to chain him up. It was for his own good. Eight of you rode in. Two rode out. Two fell in love.
  
  Smoke trails up from the corner of your mouth, clouding briefly at the brim of your hat before finally disappearing into the night air. Each drag sends a blinding orange ring glow at the end of the cigarette, the color rudely infringing on the cold and dark of the alley.
  
  "I'll carry your iron on my hip in memory," the man in black promises, the previous slights abandoned. He doesn't call you a gunslinger, no. But he promises life immortalized through the act, the highest tribute to one who deals in lead. He quotes Father. "Rare is the man who carries two. 'A man's attention is best held by a single focus.'"
  
  A man's attention is best held by a single focus.
  
  That was the extent of Father's warning. Your youthful mind, distracted with newly-found pleasures of the flesh, didn't grasp his words fully. His words fell on deaf ears and a mind with a wavering focus, often filling itself with thoughts of ecstasy rather than dealing in lead, focusing more on her hips than the iron upon your own.
  
  A meeting place was established between the lovers, a secret location before setting out on your own. Father was right that a single focus is better. You made your choice. Midnight by the pine tree. Your traveling pack filled with equipment for the road, placed upon the back of one of many horses that would eventually die in your service. Midnight you arrive at the pine, the one you've shared many nights underneath. Your love did not greet you. Instead, a letter. Attention is best held by a single focus. Seemed Father gave his daughter the same warning. She made her choice. And now, instead of two emerging on the road, one did.
  
  "Rare is the man who thinks for himself," you counter. "There's only one way this ends."
  
  "Straight down to business, then. The night is still young."
  
  You stare at your opponent. He stands opposite of you, shoulders slightly angled as they should be. Smaller target that way. The edges of his poncho are sharp angles in the night, jagged shadows, sinister and silent. His gun rests easily on his hip, hanging at perfect arm length. To draw is as effortless as scratching his leg. Moonlight shines from above, nothing more than a shy thin crescent, appearing as if it would be more comfortable behind a layer of clouds.
  
  You slow your breath. The exhale sends another stream of smoke from the corner of your lips. Your hand is steady by your side, ready to react to the slightest movement from the man in black. You mirror each other. In another lifetime you might've been as brothers, a pair of gunslingers on the road. In another lifetime a lot of things might've been different. You might've had a family, sons and daughters who grow up idolizing their Daddy. Father might've been called the name by more than organizational means, a union between you and his daughter bringing new meaning to the title. You might've been happy.
  
  But that is not this lifetime. All that's good is taken from you. Whatever you grasp onto slips through your fingers like sand through an hourglass. That's what the man in black does not understand. He speaks as if he cares about Father and the family. At the very least, he cares about reputation and legend. Foolish thoughts. Caring gets you killed. You, with an apathetic disposition, now truly have nothing left to lose. Your shoulders are unburdened by the weight of others. Nothing rides on your ability or inability to shoot first. With no family, no love, and now no friends, you're unchained. Free.
  
  Your hand explodes into motion. The man in black might've blinked, but with his dying breath he knows that's not the case. One moment your hand is casual next to your hip, the next holding a smoking gun pointed forward. Two streams of smoke rise into the night. The shadow opposite of you is now long, lying on the ground like the setting sunlight casted long against a pine tree.
  
  You don't check on the man. You don't carry his revolver in memory. He'll soon be forgotten to the world, just another man bleeding out in the alley of a questionable part of the city. Unchained, free, you exit the alley wishing that, like the man you just shot, you could be forgotten to the world. In another lifetime, perhaps. In this one you deal in lead.
  
  The End