Through out his years as a nation, as a soldier who fought on the front lines but never died, as a concorer who had used his power to spread his influence, and finally as an ex-nation in possesion of human feelings, Gilbert had formed a sort of philosophy. It was what kept most of the insanity away. A long time ago, a human had told him it, during the time when he wasn't used to killing. He could no longer remember the face nor the name of the soldier, but his words and his voice had remained. At the time, it was nothing more than a sick, dark, joke. But it morphed and became his tool to keep off most of the insanity. And on nights where his nightmeres haunted him, the screams of victims would eco in his ears amd his eyes could only see the dark crimson stains on hhis hand's, he repeated it like a mantra. Over and Over again as he rode out the hallucinations.
It's not my fault; I don't need to feel guilty.
And after his mind had calmed and the black edge of nothing called to him, he could swear he would here it. Just before he slipped into unconsiousness the old mans voice would trickle into his mind.
Morals were made for the polititians.