March 26th, 1891 — Ireland

The change from midmorning yesterday to now was almost a complete reversal. He had been spinning out, and he'd known it, though he hadn't even known why. After Art had left, though, the letters started to arrive. First from Mr. Blanc — someone related to Macmillan, he still assumed, or the man himself — then from Macmillan's mother. They were scared, and that bolstered his spirits — he was scared, too, but he hadn't written frantic letters to anyone on their side trying to get things called off. So Macmillan was more worried about this than Ben was, and that was as it should be. Ben was the better dueler, and honor was on his side, and Macmillan should be scared. Nothing was going to happen — Ben had this in hand.

He'd talked to Aldous about the letter from Mrs. Macmillan, just to be sure, but his brother had told him the same thing that he'd already been thinking. Aldous hadn't even made an attempt to talk him out of it, which meant he had to go through with it. Aldous would have talked him out of it if there was any reason to call it off. If there had been a credible threat that he might be arrested, or an actual risk that he would die, Aldous would have wanted him to back out. He had his brother's blessing for this, though, and Aldous and Roman would back him up if anything went south. Valerian Macnair was going to be on hand to heal him if something happened. Everything was going to be fine, and the adrenaline of what he was about to do was carrying him through his preparation that morning with spirits high.

Well, the adrenaline and the small amount of cocaine he'd taken that morning as he shaved. Not enough to take him out of the moment, but just enough to leave him a little buzzed, to up his pain tolerance and sharpen his thoughts. He didn't use cocaine often, but he knew enough people who did that it hadn't been hard to find yesterday. And if ever there was a moment for it, this was it.

The sun wasn't up yet, but the sky was brightening. "Any minute now," Ben said to Art, chewing his thumbnail and pacing idly at the top of the hill.

  

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Arthur hadn't gone home last night. Or — he had gotten home from the casino long after Desdemona went to bed, and left bed before she woke up so that he could floo to Ireland before dawn and meet Ben on time. He left Desdemona a note saying he owed Ben a favor — not far off from the truth, except that it pared out all the illegal details. He wasn't sure he'd slept at all, and he arrived in Ireland exhausted but alert, smelling faintly of last night's cigars.

He didn't actually even like cigars — if he was going to do drugs then Art wanted to do drugs — but sometimes he smoked them when he was stuck at a card table and having an extremely frustrating evening, as he had last night. He was wishing he had one now, so that he had something to do with his hands. Instead he kept one hand shoved in the pocket of his coat and one on his wand, just in case Selwyn and Macmillan surprise them all and come out swinging.

"We might even be back in Scotland for breakfast," Art said, projecting a brightness he did not feel onto this scenario. He hated mornings. Maybe they'd be back in Scotland in time for Art to go back to sleep.

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Like Art and Ben, Elmer had also indulged in drugs the hours before the duel. First he’d drank wine, the it occurred to him that it wouldn’t help to duel intoxicated, so he’d sobered himself up with cold water and coffee. He’d chainsmoked. He’d read some of his favourite poetry, then figured it might be better he practiced so that was what he did. In spite of what everyone thought about him and his capabilities, he had been a bright student at Hogwarts, so he channeled that as he practiced. Some spells came to him more easily than others - the shield charms, mostly. Elmer hadn’t ever bothered mastering arrow throwing spells.

Finally, nearing dawn, Elmer got dressed - a pair of black pants that looked like leather from the outside, but were comfortable cotton from the inside; a shirt with dramatic sleeves, reminiscent of a Renaissance nobleman; a black cape. If he was going to die, he’d at least look good for the occasion. He kept getting these intrusive thoughts on what a pity it was that they wouldn’t have any photographers to capture the moment.

He apparated to the designated spot and it was with annoyance he realised Selwyn wasn’t there yet. He didn’t move towards the two men, even though they could very obviously see him on his own. He got out a cigarette and started smoking. The wind was blowing at his hair, which was both annoying and aesthetically pleasing, he assumed, from outside observers who didn’t want to kill him.

  

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Ben startled at the noise of apparition and whirled to face Macmillan. His hand went to his wand briefly, but he didn't draw it. There was only one person there, and it was definitely Macmillan, which was wrong. It wouldn't have been outside the realm of possibility for his second to come alone, if he'd decided to call it off, but Macmillan being here alone was inexplicable.

"Where's your second?" he called, then sniffed nervously. Was this some sort of a trick? They couldn't start without a second. There was a procedure to this, a structure that had to be adhered to. Unless Macmillan had some other, more insidious plans?

  

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Where was fucking Selwyn? Elmer might have noticed Reuben’s nervousness hadn’t it been for his own. Did Selwyn stand him up? That would take a huge blow to Elmer’s esteem. She knew that Selwyn didn’t want to do this, that he had been complaining over not finding the right outfit, but surely he wouldn’t leave him to his own devices? Not after the experiences they’d shared?

“He’s coming!” Elmer called towards Crouch. He better be. If only there was a way to instantly know where someone was.

“Want a cigarette?” He called out to the men and raised his cigarette case a bit.

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   Reuben Crouch

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Did he want a cigarette? The same rage that had propelled him to try and strangle Macmillan in the street two weeks ago began building in his chest again. They weren't friends, and this wasn't some casual affair. This was his sister's honor. This was her entire fucking life, and Macmillan didn't give a shit. He was about to smoke a cigarette.

"Art," Ben muttered, shoulders tensed. Please do something about this guy, before I fucking murder him. Selwyn had better show up soon, because if Macmillan kept this up Ben wasn't confident he could hold off and wait for the duel to actually start.

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   Elmer Macmillan

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If it hadn't been for the whole saying he would fuck November thing, Art probably would have taken Macmillan up on the cigarette. "Just breathe through it," Art suggested, "I'm sure Selwyn will be here in a minute." Hopefully.

"No, we're good," Art shouted at Macmillan, trying to inject as much dismissiveness into his tone as possible.

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   Elmer Macmillan

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Elmer’s gesture had actually been done in good faith. A deep part of him had thought that they might smoke together, bond over the shared experience and maybe call this off, like it happened in the feel good novels.

“Alright!” Elmer called out to Pettigrew. He lit another cigarette and smoked it for a bit, before asking: “Are you here long?”

  

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If it was not enough that he had his own drama with one Charles Macmillan, Valerian had somehow gotten roped into playing healer for another Macmillan - and Reuben Crouch. He should have asked for more than just a bottle of firewhiskey; the location proved difficult to get to through magical means, and he had altogether given up trying to figure out a more efficient way to get to the site than by foot after flooing into the nearby town.

By the time he reached the field he was sweating through his robes and had a look of objective unamusement on his face.

"Glad to see nobody's died yet," he said, and glanced around; they were still missing one. His eyes went to to Macmillan first. Last nigtht he'd dreamt that one Macmillan's second had bowed out and had been replaced with none other than Charles Macmillan. With the absence of Macmillan's second it still seemed like a possibility, though he doubted the two brothers would have come separately if that were the case.

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   Elmer Macmillan

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When they'd said this place was accessible by floo, Emrys had envisioned that he would arrive through the fireplace and then walk outside to a courtyard where the duel was going to take place, or meet some shady coachman or something. He had not imagined that he might have to come through the floo and then walk. Merlin's beard, did people still walk places? Presumably he might have apparated if he'd ever been to this place before, but he hadn't and the idea of getting splinched before this duel started was entirely unappealing.

He was, unsurprisingly, the last to arrive, but that was of little consequence. This wasn't his duel; he didn't care about this woman's honor. To be honest, he'd already forgotten her name. Mrs. Someone, nee Crouch, presumably.

Despite the fact that he was late, he approached the hilltop casually. Tempers were hot enough, he imagined, without his adding any additional anxiety to the air.

"Macmillan," he greeted simply. "Not too late to call it off."

  

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Elmer perked up and then disappointment settled as it turned out it was Valerian Macnair. Right. The healer. Also a distant cousin of his, presumably.

Some minutes passed and finally Selwyn approached. Elmer breathed a sigh of relief. It hadn’t occurred to him that he was getting impatient until he swiftly threw the half finished cigarette on the ground.

“Mr. Crouch has already been waiting enough,” he said as he started walking up the hill. He was soon close enough to extend his arm in a handshake - that was what men presumably did before duels, right? It also occurred to him how much shorter Crouch was compared to him - and people were so certain he’d be the one to lose?

Good thing they weren’t using pistols, Elmer though, the height difference would have given Crouch an advantage.

  

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Everyone was here. Time to get it over with. Everything about Macmillan was frustrating him, from the way he sauntered to the stupid look on his face to the way he was dressed, and Ben made no move to shake the man's hand when it was offered.

"I don't want it called off," he muttered to Art. He knew the seconds would need to talk again before they started, and he was aware that Art might think, based on their conversation yesterday, that Ben would have preferred to settle this without spells if Macmillan was willing to agree. His opinion on the matter had entirely reversed by now, though, and he was starting to regret that they'd agreed to only first blood and not something more extreme. "I want to hurt him."

  

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Alright, Selwyn was here and now they could really get moving with this. "Alright," Art said, with a nod to Ben — he still wanted to call things off and go back to bed, where there was no risk of anyone dying, but they weren't here over his sister's honor, so. And to the extent that Art wanted to hurt people, he could understand wanting to hurt Macmillan. He had a very punchable face.

Art approached Selwyn. "Has anything changed on Macmillan's end?" he asked, more in an undertone than anything.

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"Is he less of an idiot, you mean?" Emrys asked, not bothering to match Pettigrew's volume. He didn't care if Macmillan heard him. He'd expressed these same sentiments to Macmillan on several occasions since this business of the duel had first been raised. "No, evidently not."

  

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Art laughed, unable to stop the bark of it before it tore out of him. He would like Selwyn under other circumstances, he thought. Actually, he did like Selwyn, because Selwyn had not insulted anyone's honor and actually had tried several times to get them out of this. "Then we're on, I guess," he said, "Same spells, first blood, nothing too crazy?"

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   Emrys Selwyn

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Emrys sighed, then shrugged. "I suppose," he agreed. Reuben Crouch was visible behind Pettigrew, pacing. Had he looked less likely to spontaneously combust, Emrys might have renewed his offer to pay his way out of this unpleasantness, but he sensed that it would make little difference and might only get Crouch riled up more.

"Let's hope it's over quickly, at least," he said with a frown, moving away from Pettigrew and towards the fifth man, presumably the healer.

"I hope you're good," he muttered.

  

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