Inspiration: "Blaze of Glory" by Bon Jovi
Setting: Alternate Reality (Western)
Characters: Sigrun, Mikkel
Relationships: Sigrun & Mikkel, Mikkel & Reynir
Warnings: Blood and injury, character death
Other tags: Gunslinger!Sigrun, Unintentional misgendering, Deal with the devil, Yes somehow Trond ended up as the literal devil, I don't know okay, Actually I detest Westerns what am I even doing
The first time he met her, it was when she was dragged into his surgery with a gunshot wound to the chest.
It had been a bad time for their town, a gang of outlaws ruling the streets with no word of law to put them in their place. Mikkel had not been surprised when he'd heard the gunshots, and by the time his doors had burst open he had his hands washed and his instruments already laid out.
What did surprise him was to hear that the outlaw leader was not in need of treatment—nor would he ever be again.
"Never seen him before in my life," the barman confessed as he handed over the stranger's gun. "Rode into town like he owned it, exchanged a few words with the Big Boss, and next thing they're facing down in the street. Never even gave anyone his name."
"Yes, thank you," Mikkel returned; he had an unconscious person bleeding on the table, and no time to exchange gossip. Thankfully the gawkers took the hint and left.
Only when he began removing the bloody clothing did he realize his new patient was not a "he" at all.
She surprised him, that time: first by not dying on the table, then by surviving the night, and finally by returning to full alertness after several days of bedridden delirium. The first words she spoke after waking and taking in her surroundings were as mysterious as she was:
"Guess it wasn't him."
Mikkel didn't ask. Besides, the words themselves and the language she'd spoken them in told him far more about her than the sentence they formed.
Eventually, he learned her name: Sigrun Eide. Wandering gunslinger, no home or family to speak of.
"Not anymore," were her only words on the matter.
His name, he'd said, was Old Trond. She'd noticed him before and she knew he'd noticed her, but they'd never spoken—not until now, when she was slumped up against the wall of an alley with blood streaming from her nose. With no family, no trade skills, and no property but the clothes on her back, the only way for her to eat was to steal. This time, she'd been caught.
If she'd been a little older, they'd have thrown her straight in jail rather than dunking her head in a water barrel and dealing a few punches as a warning. Then again, if she'd chosen to remain a girl she might have got off Scot-free—but the price of a girl earning her keep was a higher one than she was willing to pay.
"You don't have to live like this, you know." The shadow opposite her seemed to have materialized out of nothing. He spoke her native tongue perfectly.
"What's it to you?" Sigrun asked in the same language, wiping the blood from her nose as she gathered her legs underneath her, ignoring the pain from her bruised ribs—or maybe even busted ribs, it was hard to tell at this point. He didn't seem to have it in for her, but she still wasn't about to be a sitting duck, just in case.
"You'd clean up fair," he continued, as if he hadn't heard her at all. "'Stunning beauty' might be a bit too generous, but you'll be a handsome woman indeed. A strong arm, a good aim, and no fear to speak of… you could make a fine wife for some lucky man, if you cared to play the part."
"Don't want to," she replied, shrugging one shoulder—though she was still leaning against the wall for support, she was on her feet now and felt better for it.
He chuckled, and she knew right then that he'd known what her answer would be before he'd even asked the question. "Then what do you want?"
Sigrun was brought up short.
The second time, she came in on her own two feet, cradling her torn and bleeding arm against her chest and followed by a lanky redhead who was constantly wringing his hands.
"Kid walked into a saloon had no business being in a saloon," she explained through gritted teeth as she pushed up her sleeve. "What did he think would happen when he's got knife magnet written all over him?"
Mikkel ended up giving Reynir, as the young man turned out to be called, a place in his own house. Mikkel's English was good enough to pass for native and Sigrun's draw quick enough that nobody cared about her accent, but the streets were no place for a foreigner who spoke not a word of the local language and had never picked up a gun in his life. Reynir actually did turn out to be a decent assistant, once he stopped trying to help so much.
"You are aware that killing him is not going to bring them back."
"I'm not stupid."
"If you sincerely want to convince me of that, try learning how to read."
In the light of day, he was nothing more than an ordinary old man—a mean old man with glasses and a gray beard and spots all over his bald head, but the gun at his hip and the knife on his belt told a different story entirely.
"You weren't willing to pay the price of safety," he continued. "Will you pay this one?"
In answer, Sigrun held out her hand.
He saw her again, on and off, once every year or once every three. He never knew from one visit to the next whether she would be spending her time dragging him and Reynir out for a drink or flat on her back while she healed from her latest showdown.
"How long do you intend to live like this?" he asked once, while he was dressing a wound on her shoulder—an arrow, this time. "Do you really want to reach old age and be left with nothing but scars?"
"I'm not going to get old," was the only answer she gave. Mikkel said nothing more.
She had everything she needed—a gun, a horse and tack, clothes that actually fit, enough money for a meal and a room if she happened to be in a town. Everything she needed—but no more.
Mikkel had implied, once, that her physical needs might not be the only important thing. Unmarriageable was unmarriageable, but what about family, friends? She only shook her head.
"Tried it once," she confessed as she shrugged back into her shirt. "Didn't work out."
At some point, Mikkel figured out what she was and who she was answering to.
He didn't ask her about the price she had payed or whether what she'd gotten in return had been worth it, any more than he volunteered information on his own dealings with the Old Man. That was his burden, and his alone, just as she was carrying hers. Their paths crossed and crossed again, but each of them was still completely alone.
"Reynir," he said one day. "Can I give you some advice?"
Reynir nodded, and finished washing the blood from his hands, and moved to sit in front of him. The way he cocked his head made him look like nothing so much as an eager puppy.
"I hear there are some nice plots of land up for sale," he started, "and you've earned enough to make a decent investment. Settle down. Marry a nice girl. Go raise some sheep."
Don't become like us.
"You don't want me here?" Reynir looked hurt.
"Reynir." Mikkel placed his hands on the youth's shoulders with an exasperated sigh. "You have been very helpful, but you need to live your own life. I was doing just fine before you arrived; I assure you I can manage without you again."
"To go down fighting. That's what I want."
"Then I can assure you that you will live long enough to take your revenge—but no longer."
A year passed, then two, three, five, and Sigrun still hadn't returned.
By that time Reynir was gone, having taken his advice to heart; the last Mikkel had heard of him he'd taken a wife—Native girl—and started a family. Good for him. He still sent the occasional letter, but rarely came into town anymore.
As for Sigrun… Mikkel was pretty sure he knew what had happened to her.
He could imagine her all too well, out in the badlands or the open prairie or even the packed dirt of some forgotten town's main road, staring up at the open sky with unseeing eyes. Her gun would be lying on the ground next to her hand, and the red stain on her shirt would be matched by the one on the man across from her.
"Somewhere out there there's a bullet with my name on it. Can't disappoint it now, can I?"
Would she have passed with a smile on her face, or a blank look of empty despair?
Once, she had claimed she would never grow old, and Mikkel had believed her. What he hadn't told her was that he wouldn't see old age either, if for an entirely different reason.
Some were cursed to leave this world far before their time, others to linger long after, and watch. Sometimes, their paths crossed.
Mikkel blew out the lantern before pulling up his covers with a sigh, knowing all the while that he would not sleep.
A/N: I remember mentioning once that I have a hard time seeing Sigrun's life as tragic because she's putting herself in danger for a meaningful cause (keeping her village safe) and is in exactly the place she wants to be, but there are certainly some tragic elements to it - namely, that she's a thrill-seeker who's likely to die young. Take away the "meaningful" part, and... well, this is what comes out.