{Hello guys! Now, I know I need to update my other story, but it is going to take some time. In the meanwhile, I provide you with the first chapter of my latest idea. I hope it is good and you will enjoy!}

The ominous memory of the Austrian countryside, the haunting voice of the one who loved him, the guilt that lodged itself so well inside his body, his heart, his mind. He couldn't look anywhere and not be reminded in some way. The words stuck in his throat and failed at being spoken hurt even more so. There was nothing he could say anyways. His past refused to leave him alone. Constantly he saw her face. Every second he heard her voice. Repeatedly he admitted to himself that he'd never see her again. And wasn't that true? It might as well be so. But all of this mental and emotional pain he felt only led to him turning cold. The boy grew up with the fact that he was dragged into this, this war, this life, and so he didn't seem to care any more. He blocked off the memories and all of the heartbreak they raged upon him, and eventually, nothing mattered to him, except for having victory in the war. He wanted it to get away, so then, he too could run and never turn back. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to return to his love that lived and worked as a maid in a wealthy Austrian lord's manor, and knowing she was all alone and waiting for him everyday only made things worse. So he tried to forget her. Maybe it was stupid of him, but he tried. It didn't work. She happened to be the only reason he was living. She was the only reason for fighting.

She needed him as much as he needed isolation from the world and his own mind. If he could just get away. If he could just...get away.

Breaking the slick blonde hair man's thoughts came the sound of heavy boots against wet grass, and the veil of the tent was moved aside. The man looked up, to see a messenger standing tall with a scroll in his hand. Another mission to send a troop on? It was the second time this messenger shown up.

"Pardon me, Commander, but the troop you had sent was ambushed."

"And they dealt with them?"

"They did, Commander, but the ambushers were too strong-"

"Give it to me straight, I don't have all day to sit here."

"...right, sorry. A messenger from the same group reports that the troop was outnumbered and killed."

"All of them?"

"All except the messenger."

The Commander sighed, leaning on his desk with one elbow. "I don't know what you want me to do about it. You'd better send letters to the ones with family, and send a bigger troop on the second route. If the ambushers show again, then I don't know, retaliate?"

The messenger listened closely to his commanders' orders, even if they were not completely clear or used as much strategic skill as it possibly could've. However, it was his higher ranking officers' orders so he had no choice than to obey. He had better remember every single detail to the last word, though there was not much to go on. The messenger checked his scroll to check if that was all of the message he had to tell, and so it was. "Yessir, I'll give the new troop your word." And he took his leave.

The commander took a long breath, rising from his wooden seat, his black cloak falling down to surround his legs. The man turned and went out of the other side of the tent where his personal office had been placed. Once outside, he moved away from the camp, walking by himself over onto the hill sitting behind his tent, as well as a few others including the mess hall and the strategic planning tent, where the commander spent most of his time as of late, plotting how he were to put up forces against the opposing French, mainly, units as effectively as possible. He'd prefer to stay away from all that, forever if he may. But he couldn't; it was now his life he was taught at a young age to become accustomed to, his duty. So he served role of a uptight, smart military commander, fighting long, hardship-filled battles and even leading them himself for years, twenty nine to be exact. He was so tired, but no one gave up or dared to even think they were going to, and so he was not to doubt his strength as well. He was the later age of forty one, but he felt far too young to be doing all of this, and maybe he just was, speaking of which him being sent into the middle of the conflict when he was only a kid. Twelve, and taught to defend himself and others. For a long time this was what he was taught, but self taught he was in the skill of strategies. And that did not go under anyone's noses.

So this is what he became. A commander that had nothing to do with his life anymore.

He planned that if he were ever to escape the war alive, he'd go live somewhere on the countryside and try to forget all that he saw. To forget hearing the distant yells of commands from other officers and sharp, piercing screams, and the loud 'POW' of cannons blowing off, the explosion as it tattered into the ground, sending shingles of whatever it hit and it's targets flinging in which ever direction. He'd never wipe the sight out of his mind as he shot his first man, a Spanish teenager who seemed to be so confused, about as young as he was at the time, which was only 18. And to see his companion, his Spanish fellow friend standing in horror, watching with wide eyes as his friend was shot down. His emerald orbs not looking down at his crumbling friend, but at the commander, who stared right back at the tan skinned male, watching his fluffy brown bangs plopping in front of his face as he scattered away. To hear his friend wheeze, right as he bled out, his lung punctured greatly. Something the commander would never forget.

And as others, other people of his own unit reveled in the glorious triumph they received, the commander wallowed in self pity. He couldn't bring himself to shoot another man. Once again, it happened to be his duty. His godforsaken duty. And so he did, even though he swore to himself, he shot another man. And another, and another, and another until it was a wild shooting spree, the trigger having no limits. He swore he'd never enjoy it. Then why did he laugh so much? Then why did he not care if another foreigners' blood dirtied his own uniform, his own armor, whatever he happened to he adorning? Why didn't he mind hearing the wheezing and watching the running, only to shoot down whoever tried to hide or get out, or surrender. There wasn't surrendering anymore, only death. And for what? Religion. And what were they accomplishing? The man was so blinded by his killing sprees that he couldn't answer that question, and possibly no one else could either. They were just fighting. It would make no difference and change no things if they had cloths, dark cloths wrapped tightly around their eyes.

Ah, and yes, maybe the camp was positioned in a pretty part of the Northern Holy Roman Empire, but once the land was tainted with scarlet blood, gunpowder, and rotting smells from decaying corpses, it wasn't all that cleanly and nice anymore. But the camp remained untouched other than by the soldiers and commanders stationed there, such as the man that watched other the hillside at the tents below. That was where the soldiers slept in bunkers, more or less since it was mainly only tents. The man, however, rather had stayed sleeping in his office, both to keep important stuff safe and beside him at all times, and there was a sleeping cot inside the tent as well since it was of fair size to fit for him. He had his own tent and didn't have to work in another tent because he was the leader of the camp, and everything concerning his troops and other concerns or propositions or whatever it might be was taken directly to him to be approved, denied or thought about.

Other than being the highest ranking officer of the highest ranks, the man was a rich man from a very wealthy family. A Germanic noble, he was. That was something he could be proud of at the least, for he wasn't especially proud of what he had turned out to be. Although his family was rich, he lived away on the Austrian countryside with a nice household equally as rich, if not more since the main householder was a lord. He was stuck up himself, that Rodreich Edelstein, but he was well enough to be generous and take him in, as the man's family had to deal with important matters in the King's land, rather in Britain. Lord Edelstein was a pianist, but he played many instruments, such as the violin. He was a scrawny man who wore a corset under his clothes like a lady would wear above their dresses, but it wasn't too noticeable to be made fun of, and perhaps it may have been, but no one dared say a thing, lest they beg to have their teeth knocked right from their mouths with a iron skillet by a lady named Elizabeta Héderváry. She was not a force to be reckoned with, the lass with curly long brown hair and fierce green eyes ready to put you in your place. The one person that she could not keep in place was the oddball Gilbert Beilschmidt, who always preyed at everyone he saw, and of course didn't leave Rodreich out of the situation. No matter how many times Elizabeta fended him off, he'd always come right back, that confident, sneaky Prussian.

And speaking of him too, before the commander could even think of the last person on his mind, the devil himself yelled out, "Hallo, Obergruppenführer Neuhäuser!" The commandant general turned to see an equally-Rodreich-scrawny man with pale skin and light pink eyes shaded by snow white bangs coming over to him from the part between the mess hall and the strategic tent. Neuhäuser turned to him, not waving back like the grinning other was. It was the Prussian, Gilbert.

"Untersturmführer Beilschmidt." He addressed the other as he reached him, and was standing up on the hill next to him, gazing over the hill that declined into the valley, watching as the soldiers went to and from tents, or went up the hill about 10 feet away from them to go to the tents in the main area of the camp.

Second Lieutenant Beilschmidt served at the camp as well. He and the Obergruppenführer were on good terms. Gilbert never really lived on Lord Edelstein's manor, but he stalked about it, intent on messing with the Austrian to frustrate him, for Gilbert's own entertainment. It was quite humorous, really, how Gilbert managed to do so as well as he did.

"Ah, Neuhäuser..." Gilbert rested a brown leather gloved, slender hand on his higher rank's shoulder, grinning brightly up at him, although he was only a few inches taller.

"I believe I've asked you to call me Ludwig." Neuhäuser muttered to him, nodding to a soldier who saluted him as he went past up stone steps jutted out into the side of the hill. Gilbert made a small noise as he remembered the man's first name and how he did ask him a long time ago to call him Ludwig. Then, they were younger and not men, and so Gilbert did call him Ludwig, but when they both grew up, and Ludwig was taken into the army and raised into the high rank that he was, a Lieutenant General, Gilbert figured it was impolite to address him as if they were kids again. Besides, Gilbert was taken into this war too, so he had to be mature, or at least put on a mature front. He tried. But Ludwig, no, that man did not try, he didn't even have to. He was mature, seeing things a kid should've never saw, and doing things a man should never have to do. But, it was the same for Gilbert, no matter how much he or Ludwig wished it wasn't so.

Gilbert patted Ludwig's shoulder and pulled his hand back, as if he had been bitten by a dog. Of course, Ludwig's words were not harsh in the slightest, but Gilbert could sense a serious aura looming over Ludwig. It was always there, it seemed. The happy little kid he had once known was completely gone, faded away. Didn't Ludwig have someone to be happy because of? Someone to expect. Maybe that little boy back at home, but what did Gilbert know? He just didn't like seeing Ludwig like this, but there was nothing he could do about it. Gilbert felt like he was unimportant in Ludwig's eyes, and maybe he was. "Yes, yes, you did, but it was only a habit. And I believe I've asked for you to call me großer bruder?" Gilbert said, obviously pushing his luck with Ludwig. Gilbert seemed as if he was younger than Ludwig, but he was really three years older than him.

Gilbert used to play with Ludwig when they were children, right up until the point where this war started and they were both shipped away to this hell. He used to request repeatedly of Ludwig to call him his big brother, and so Gilbert must have egged him on about it enough where Ludwig finally began to call him that. And, to be honest, the two looked like they would be brothers, not twins of course, but brothers still. Both were of Germanic blood, and there was something about them that made them appear related. Although they had noticeably many appearance and personality differences, they were alike in a couple of ways, at most, even if not everyone saw it like others and themselves did. Ludwig and Gilbert shared the same pale skin tone, as they did similar noses, eye shapes, jaw lines...they were purely Germanic and it was presented to see, even without them having to speak with their accent for anyone to realize they were for they would have already noticed their Northern European features. But, Gilbert was albino, and had light pink eyes and white hair; Ludwig having soft blonde hair and baby blue eyes. He was a doll, really, and he could've been mistaken for a pretty boy like Rodreich.

Besides, Gilbert was confident, too confident for his own good. He acted like he knew everything, owned everything, could do everything, and hey, no one was saying that he couldn't or that he didn't, but the truth was there. Gilbert used to be very poor. Even now, he was poor, but he was a soldier, not a peasant or a serf, so he was okay. He didn't care if he was poor. His pride was based upon himself. Ludwig's pride was instead on his strategies, the only things he felt like he could depend on anymore.

"Yes...großer bruder, you did." Ludwig finally spared the Prussian a glance, before returning his gaze to the field below. Gilbert internally yelled at himself for not being able to think of anything to say to Ludwig. There was just something about Ludwig today, a tougher, thicker seriousness thickened over him. His face was carved more than usual, his blue eyes losing their glint as he seemed to stare at a man with a bag of scrolls talking with another general, one Ludwig and Gilbert known as Vash. Vash nodded to the messenger after a while, before going over to a group of men, standing less stiff than Ludwig was, and shouted something to them. They saluted Vash. Then, they were led by Vash, off and down a sandy path torn onto the land by carts and carriages dragging down on the grass that had been there once. Gilbert remembered they had relocated the camp many times, but never to an area as beautiful such as this one. At least, it was beautiful. Now, it was just the same as the other camps. Busy, and worn out, and getting old. Old sights. Old news. When were they going to relocate again? It had been at least 5 years or so since they came here, and they had ruined the fresh field that held flowers and small wild animals with their hunting rifles and their heavy leather boots.

Gilbert bit onto the inside of his mouth, his left cheek, and continued to look over at Ludwig. "...hey." He said after a while. "Where's Vash taking that troop? I'm sure you've had something to do with the messenger?"

"Yeah, I did." Everything came to Ludwig, every decision, mostly made by the man. "Obergruppenführer Vash is taking the troop to retaliate against a French threat in that direction. The last troop was killed, the messenger escaping, thankfully. If he hadn't, the French would be here and reporting for him..."

"Huh?" Gilbert tilted his head, and Ludwig looked over at him, his face still darkened. "What would happen if the French came here, then? Wouldn't we fight back?"

"Of course we could. Surprise attack, maybe they have backup?" Ludwig rose his arm, bringing his hand to his neck, and ran a finger across it. "...basically, someone would get killed. Maybe it would be you. Look behind you, okay?" The Germanic general lowered his hand again, almost wanting to snicker at the lieutenants' reaction; Gilbert stood there, and a shiver was shot down his spine, and he looked behind him, and then back at Ludwig. At least no one was behind him. It was like ten years was taken off of his life span, for whatever reason. Maybe it was because Ludwig looked so scary. Who knows? Gilbert was always so scared of something.

"J-ja! Of course, I'll fight them all off if I have to, Ludwig!" He promised, grinning at Ludwig like the Cheshire Cat. "Come on, then. Ludwig, let us go find something to drink. I'm thinking at least a pint of beer, each?"

Ludwig scoffed. "No thank you, but do as you please."

"Yeah, okay!" Gilbert nodded to him, feeling rejected and disappointed, but saluted him before running off down the hill. "Alright! Catch up with you later, little brother!" And then, he was gone, disappearing into one of the tents, leaving Ludwig standing alone. He stood stark for a while, almost like a statue, and barely acknowledged the soldiers passing by him. Ludwig simply had nothing else to do, and he couldn't think of anywhere he should be...except, home. Yeah, maybe it wasn't his real home, but it was pretty dang close to it. Lord Rodreich's manor, where he served as a knight, the whole reason he was in this mess anyways. Lord Rodreich's manor, where he was safe and warm and well fed and treated like family by the nice girl Elizabeta, and even sometimes, Lord Rodreich himself. And...Lord Rodreich's manor...where that girl, the girl he never even knew the name of, loved him...and he...loved her too. The manor, where he was supposed to be. Not here.

Not here.

{Translations: Obergruppenführer= German military rank meaning SS-General

Untersturmführer= German military rank meaning SS-Second Lieutenant

großer bruder= German for "Big brother"}