The leaden sky rippled in the brisk, cool breeze. The same dreary sprinkling had been going steady throughout the night. A gradual lightening of the world hinted towards dawn, but such was difficult to determine with the sun behind the pale gray veil. The quiet, still courtyard seemed more somber than an empty church. Winter had arrived early, cutting short the festive nature of the autumn season.
Marcellos Umberto Vencentio stood upon the damp flagstones, a chill slyly creeping under the collar of his coat to curl down the back of his neck. He shivered, flexing his fingers and marveling at the intricate beauty of his frosted breath. He wore his finest shirt, sown with the emblem of his house in bold red upon the ivory cloth. His hand held onto his hat, preventing the wind from carrying off his favorite feather. His other grasped the hilt of his sword, firm and steady, as always a man should.
He gazed about him as the wind tore off the last crumbling brown leaves from the trees one by one. He listened to the skittish calls of unseen birds and the drips upon the many shallow puddles. He knew there would always be another storm, but for now, the world was filled with trepidation. The first feeble rays of sunlight shown through the roofs and gables, like the pale phantoms of a fairer day. "Yes," thought Marcellos, "What a glorious morning to meet God."
His small, wistful smile became a line of grim determination as he detected the booted footsteps of another man. Without turning, he knew who this interloper was that intruded upon his rare moment of peace. Alberto... damn his bones. Marcellos sighed; chastising himself for becoming upset at the arrival of the very man he asked to meet him. All of his anger, hatred, and bitter loathing would come to a head soon; he needed to keep his mind as tranquil as he could.
"Buon giorno, Marcellos," the newcomer said in a quiet voice.
"Hardly," Marcellos replied as cordially as he could. This was a formal occasion, and needed to be done with a respectful amount of decorum.
"This chill is like to hasten me to an early grave. Perhaps we should reconvene on ano..."
"No!" Marcellos cried. "I'll not listen to any attempts to delay. You think I should go home, and take time to consider what I am doing. That if I only muse on it for a time I should naturally come to the realization that this is folly. You speak in vain then, for I shall not be deterred from this course, no matter where it might bring me in the end."
"It would taste a lie to claim I do not wish your death Marcellos. But I am old, as are you. This is not the way. Let us part, and live what days remain to us with as much solace as our rusted, scarred hearts can gather."
At that Marcellos turned to face the man, a scowl upon his noble, wrinkled visage. He gazed at he who had so many years dominated his thoughts. A handsome man, he was forced to admit. His face bore the proud lines of a long life, marred by two gnarled, prominent scars. Marcellos reflected on the days he gave the man those scars, and how different he had looked ever after.
The man wore a simple, morose outfit of blacks and greys. No frills or such as was popular with the youth of the times. Indeed, he evoked an almost morbid feeling, like some sort of well-dressed reaper. His sword was the thing Marcellos recognized best, having seen it in action untold times over the decades.
Marcellos drew his own blade, gazing at the man whose life so intertwined with his. He wondered yet again what Giselle had seen in him. Why she would turn from him into this wretch's arms. He asked himself that every day. Had for over twenty years without fail. He suspected he would never know, but for the pain that question caused, and the thousand other injuries, insults, and hatreds between himself and the man before him, he was going to end it all today.
"No," Marcellos whispered. "This is the way. The only way it should be done."
With that he lunged forward, the wicked point of his sword aimed for the heart. Alberto drew his own and parried in one fluid motion, the muscle memory carved into the flesh so deeply he could not have stopped himself if he tried. The men fell into their stances, each knowing a single mistake would cost their lives. Marcellos felt the familiar rush. The exhilarating intoxication that could only be found on the doorstep of death.
