This story takes place right before Oz and Alice come back from the Abyss. Gil is trying to deal with the loss of his master, and this is what runs through his mind whenever he is alone. Not intended to be GilxOz, but whatever floats your boat.
A year since the accident.
Then five years.
Ten.
A young man paced his one-bedroom apartment—his gaze never leaving his feet—from one wall to the opposite. Occasionally he would pause to glance out of the dusty window in his plain living room, before returning to contemplate his scuffed black boots.
It was the anniversary. The anniversary of that horrible day, ten years ago, when the man had lost the most important person in his world: his master, Oz Vessalius. Of course, he was obligated to feel a certain amount of dedication in servitude toward the boy, but his duty went beyond the simple relationship of servant and master. Oz had allowed their relationship to develop into friendship, and they shared a strong bond because of it. Even if the man could not remember anything before his life with Oz, he could not imagine a world without his master's light. All his luck changed on the day of Oz's corination into dukeship. When Oz had sunk into the Abyss, dragged down by a bloodthirsty chain, the man could do nothing to prevent the tragedy that befell the boy, even though he had thrown his life on the line to protect him. All for nothing it seemed. Nevertheless, the man still held responsibility for the welfare of his master, and he had failed.
Thus was the subject of his decade-long broodings.
Not really thinking about his course, the man wandered into his cluttered bathroom. Brought up short by the lack of walking space, he stopped to stare at his reflection in the round mounted mirror. The man was tall and slender, with long legs and arms. A white long-sleeved collared shirt with a ruffled cravat and slim black pants clung to his lanky frame. He had a handsome face, which was pale and thin—though not as if he were sickly—accented with angled features and hollow cheekbones. Under a mop of thick ebony locks, his sharp golden eyes stood out particularly clearly. Currently, they were blank of any expression, though glazed from spending all morning thinking.
"Ten years has passed since Oz disappeared into the abyss," Gil muttered.
His hands gripped the sink, head hung to stare into the tarnished basin instead. "Ten long, painful years. And Break had said he would be back by now. So why…why hasn't he kept his promise?"
He felt a clenching sensation in his throat and his vision swam as hot tears came into his eyes. Clearing his throat he lifted his head to push the hair out of his eyes. He paused, and saw a broken man staring back at him.
"Pitiful. Twenty-four years old and I can't even keep myself together. I'm not worthy of Oz's friendship, not even of human life. Just worthless, insignificant garbage."
His eyes stung, and he squeezed them shut, causing several drops to fall into the sink. His fingers curled into fists. Not out of sorrow, but of anger.
Why did he have to be so useless all the time? Why couldn't he have helped Oz by now? Why could he not have brought back his only purpose in this life?
Every resentful thought and action that he had been holding back for so long was about to boil over.
Unconsciously, he drew his fist back.
Why, why, why…
"WHY!" Gil shouted, fish flying forward to make contact with the tarnished mirror. Blood spurted from his knuckles as the glass shattered into a thousand pieces, sending trails of red streaming down the cracks and dripping onto the porcelain counter.
"Damn…" he muttered, withdrawing his fist to find that tiny shards of glass had been lodged into his fingers. He cringed as he uncurled them; feeling like they too had been shattered.
He bent down and opened a cabinet, rummaging for the bottle of antiseptic and bandages. Then, holding the medical materials under his arm and clutching his hand, he stumbled out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, looking for tweezers. Snatching them from the windowsill, Gil leaned over the kitchen counter and began to efficiently pick the glass out of his skin. He was no doctor but he cleaned his wounds as best he could, bandaging his hand thickly in gauze and medical tape. Lucky the glass had broken into larger pieces, really, or the glass would be too small to pick out and his fingers might have gotten infected. Nursing injuries was just one of the qualities he had needed to learn to be on his own; he battled chains for a living. At least he had learned something in his years of solitude. Sighing, he took a moment to collect himself before turning to face the room.
Golden eyes landed on a notepad and pen, sitting on the coffee table in the center of the living room. Earlier Gil had been taking notes from a report on a new chain, but now he had an idea to relieve his stress.
Gil crossed the room in three quick strides, sat down on the lumpy blue couch, and picked up the pad and pen. Maybe writing down his thoughts would get them off his chest. He paused, collecting his thoughts as he began to jot down…
Oz is my master. He's the most caring and selfless person in the world.
He needs to be protected and I lost him.
He could be dead for all I—
He had to stop writing because his hands were shaking so much. All right, so this was not producing the desired effect he had anticipated. Time to change tactics.
Gil ripped off the page, crushed it in his hand, and lobbed it in the general direction of the trash bin. Then he sat, thinking. He recalled some time ago when Ms. Sharon had told him that often when she was angry or upset, writing poetry had helped her to calm down.
"What really makes a poem special," she had told him, a nostalgic smile on her face, "Is to have a certain person or feeling in mind." She had glowed when she told him this, saying that not really thinking about what the content was and just writing down immediate thoughts was very therapeutic. Personally he had never tried this, but hey, first time for everything.
But how do you write poetry?
Gil thought. What he needed to write about was Oz, the person he felt most comfortable with. Would it make sense, then, to write as if it were a letter?
He began to write. Many times he tore a sheet off, crumpled it into a ball, and discarded it to the floor to start from scratch. At last, when the sun had reached its zenith in the sky, Gil set the pen on the coffee table and reread his letter.
My Dearest Master,
I have seen my fair share of days
To know you don't believe in "always"
But humor me for moments few,
I have something I need to share with you.
.
I've always admired your ability
To live in the present unconditionally
But I feel if I fail to address this worry
I would have to be put out of my misery.
.
Oz, it was you who gave me a home
A friend when I was hurt and all alone
And what did I do to return the deed?
Stabbed you right in the heart and watched you bleed.
.
The scar I have upon my chest
Was the price I paid for my being possessed
For I allowed you to sink into the abyss
And not protect the one whom I'd most miss.
.
What is a promise if trust is broken?
What can be known if it isn't spoken?
Quelling rain came out and blocked my sun
Oz, I need you more than anyone.
.
The rain fell hard as I reflected
My deepest regret, I could've prevented
Somehow, the weather mirrored my sadness
Though magnified to the point of madness.
.
I have deserted the Vessalius family
For Nightray, my roots. But naturally
I would choose a new house, a life, a name
To spare you from any further pain.
.
If you never make it out alive
It will not matter that I survived
I failed as a servant for my kind master
And more as a friend for this wretched disaster.
.
I wish, from the bottom of my heart
I could hope to look for a modest restart
And change the lowly person that I was
To be worthy of serving my master, Oz.
.
Your humble servant,
Gilbert
It wasn't perfect but it addressed every emotion the dark-haired man felt for his lost master. Gil carefully folded the letter in half, stood up, and went to his closet. Grabbing his favorite overcoat he stored the letter into the inside pocket before swinging it around himself. He glanced at himself in one of the larger pieces of the shattered mirror to adjust his cravat, trying not to think of the long, faded scar that stretched across his chest. After reloading his revolver and pushing it into the holster on his belt loop, he walked out into the short hallway and toward the front door. It was time to meet Break and Ms. Sharon at the abandoned church for another attempt at finally getting his master back. Gil grabbed his hat as he strode out of his apartment, closing the door behind him.
I thought I would try poetry again since people seemed to like "Hush Little Lawli", so I'd like to hear some thoughts on this story...
Should anyone be wondering, I tried to make Gil's letter as a rough iambic pentameter (10 syllables per line), with four lines per stanza. I felt more comfortable writing when I wasn't restricted to precisely 10 syllables per line. There is an art to writing in iambic pentameter, and mine is a pretty informal way of doing it (counting on fingers XD). Of course, Gil is supposed to be a novice and I'm no poetry scholar, so bear with me :).
I was considering leaving this a one-shot of Gil before his master's return, but what do you think? Shall I continue, as a Gil's POV perhaps? Maybe elaborate about Gil's thoughts when Oz came back?