By Zephyria 
White snow piled softly atop the fence that separated the inside from the outside. The dawn sky was thick with a pervasive gray mist.
Viscount Shefften, the lord of the estate, checked the time and raised a hand. He was the referee of this ridiculous and pathetic duel.
Amidst the silence, the pistols, devoid of any warmth, were aimed precisely at their opponents.
As the wind blew, the gaunt branches of the trees rubbed against one another.
Winter in London was, as always, dreadfully fickle and heartless.
Blue eyes staring at the blackened muzzle of the gun slowly moved slightly upward. The figure of the man standing opposite came into view. A face as sharp and exquisite as a sculpture. However, those coldly chilled eyes held neither emotion nor memory.
A laugh, unable to be contained, leaked through the gaps of the lips.
At the sound of laughter so ill-suited to the situation, a look of blatant displeasure clouded the face of the man standing afar. Nowhere in that appearance could one find a trace of someone who had once sung of clumsy affections.
I admit it.
The wicked passion had grown cold, and the heart that whispered of eternity had shattered into pieces, leaving not a single trace behind.
I could not accept that the moment the memories ended, the feeling of brilliance had also come to an end.
I had acted superior and mocked love, but ironically, the one who believed in those feelings the most was I, who had claimed I would never believe.
Yes.
In that way, I was deceived by corroded time and deceptive emotions. And the only person who foolishly clung to those ruins was also just one person.
The wind blew again. Dazzling platinum hair became disheveled, but he could no longer hope for the touch that once tenderly tidied it. Not the heavy, solemn whispers, nor even the voice that healed the soul.
The man slowly closed his eyes. The wings of a pitch-black crow descended, and his tightly closed eyelids trembled slightly.
A little more time passed.
When his eyes opened again, they bore a complete lack of emotion, just like his opponent. An irrepressible elegance and nobility enveloped him.
Vanitas vanitatum et Omnia vanitas.
Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.
Keeping his back straight, he gazed at the man who stood at a distance, aiming a gun at him. Strength tightened in the hand gripping the trigger. Following the wind, the snow piled upon the trees scattered.
It was the moment he completely let go of the string he had held onto for so long.