Thorn

The day stood upon the precipice of a storm. Gloomy skies overshadowed all, and it is hard to tell at what hour we met upon the cliff. I arrived first. There was an old stump I made a chair of, and sitting there I gazed out at the grey sky and the shadowed tossing of the water below. My hand never left my pistol.

The wind was cold and wailing there upon the cliff, and I was deafened to his approach.

“So you’ve come,” I heard him shout behind me.

I cursed myself, drawing my cannon and spinning around. I loved the sea too much; I shouldn’t have let my eyes wander.

He smiled at me, his thin mustache stretching on his lip.

“So you’ve come to kill me?” he asked, eyeing the pistol.

“If needs must,” I said.

“Why don’t you put that thing away, and we’ll talk?”

Easing my weapon back into my belt, I scowled at him.

“I should shoot you down now, like the dog you are.”

He seemed bemused at my words, his grin only growing.

“I own these lands,” he reminded me. Walking up to my side, he gazed up into the stormy heaven. “This is my garden. If I choose to pluck one of my flowers, who’s to say I shouldn’t?”

“You may take what is yours,” I said. “But a rose has thorns.”

“And I have gloves,” he answered quickly. “I do not need to speak to you,” his voice grew harsher. “I will have my pleasure in my rose.”

“It would be better,” I said, “to smell a rose, but not to pluck it. Let the young flower bloom.”

“You are old,” he said, “but are you blind? This is no bud we’re talking about.”

I nodded.

“It would be better,” I repeated, “but if you do, if you pluck this rose, what will you do with it. The path behind you is strewn with flowers you’ve taken and then trodden underfoot.”

“It is my path, my garden, my flowers. Do not question me anymore.”

I drew my pistol.

“Would you die for a rose?” he smirked.

“Would you?” I asked.

“You have no right to challenge me.”

“No right to challenge you, no right to defend my family—without any rights, a man might do things that aren’t right.”

He sneered. I think he was about to laugh.

But before he could, smoke exploded from my gun, and the Marquis was thrown backward; stumbling, he fell to the ground. With weary steps, I walked over to him. He lay motionless upon the path, a great blotch of red staining his shirt like a carnation over his heart.

Putting my arms under his neck and knees, I carried his limp form over to my seat by the cliff. Standing there, I looked out over the tossing, frothing ocean and wondered still whether the storm would ever come. It seemed to be lost out there, dark upon the horizon.

I threw the corpse into the bubbling tide below, certain that the sea would accept my gift.