Prologue
Author's Note: Hey! I apologize for the interruption; you can go ahead and scroll down and begin if you want to. I just want to say sorry for such a short beginning. This originally was just a vent draft, but I guess I developed an idea for a multi-chaptered fanfiction, haha. The actual chapters will be much, much longer. Also to point out, Al wrote this!
Was there meaning to this life?
That lone query had been enveloped in a constant time under silks and strings of ignorance. It idly sat, and rot itself together into one balled mass of vibrant, sticky red goop. It waited for Gilbert, its owner, to place itself into the caring grip of his thin, hollow palm, to unravel what had been hidden so long.
Nonetheless, he didn't.
He was anxietic of the answer that the statement blurred itself in between. The reason for his ignorance being for the terrible truth of their certain effects, railing into the crashing, disgusting outcome of either acceptance, or isolation. Gilbert left it to wither and disappear, though it didn't. It increased volume and density, filling the empty ditch pivoting into his heart organ with bleeding pain and fear. It had been only now, when the foolish man lay alone on the gravely earth to shake Death's boney extendment, bleeding his oxygen and memories out to stain the textbooks of generations, he would comprehend the answer.
The limp soldiers plucked in uniforms and red, nor his own brother advancing elsewhere would advise him and revolve company to his indigestive death. Gilbert's abdominal region rid of iron stench, and pillowed into himself like a giant black hole, flushing out brownish red tears of his operating vascular. Alas, the only thing he could stare at was the deceased corpses, with their varietied, hollow oculuses open and dry, with crimson lapping at their lips and limbs often ripped to shreds and lofting the pebbles and pavement with their waterfall of fluid.
It wasn't his land he would be staring at when he would go to slumber.
It would be their dead optics.
To think he had metamorphisized these previous lives for them to lie here next to their direct killer. It was punishment, wasn't it? He'd never see anyone ever again but those disgusting, morphed along corpses. The Prussian would have to wait. Rodriech, Eliziveta, Ludwig, and Feliciano would never be caught at the glimpse of his blistered red iris, and he'd never be able to feel their warmth under the either agitating scolds, to the happiness that would illuminate from their red flushing cheeks.
Would he see Ludwig, though?
It hurt to enravel to the bottommost delusion of his death bed that he would second guess this preposterous question; but was it so far-fetched in all reality? Ludwig; the one he depended in with the punctured and shredded soul that had been squeezed out of his pulse and touch over all the eons he participated in combats. Alas, the brother was clashing off the border of his own temporary location. It hurt to conceive him partaking the same morbid, twisted fate as Gilbert felt in every fiber around the punctured area. Everything else was numb. Numb, and wet.
Gilbert weakly rung his extremity to the attachment that dangled loosely over his esophagus, silently hugging the jet cross in between their dry latch. The albino refused to release his muscles from the stress and agony that urged him to hibernation until the accessory had been completely hidden under his knuckles, still observing into the corneas of a lifeless other. He strived to fit his knuckles over it, edging them over and pushing to commemorate everyone that he would loose in a matter of this day. Gilbest knashed his maroon hued inscisors together, the crimson intertwining and curling around his free elbow. At last, he succeeded, the corners attaining a needle like feature to the fragile skin.
He finally dropped it, and slowly pulled his cranium back.
With his red eyes open.