It's painful. It's cold. Even with the fire spreading curtains and carpets, it's cold. Maybe it's the scarlet dripping, tissue drawings melting, life slipping away. It hurts, it hurts so much, but so much, feel your fingertips freezing, the sound of the wrong running from your ears, and the blade ripping through the raw skin. Everything is so out of place, and they know it's the end.
They were murdered.
By their own brother.
The same who, years ago, was running the confines of the garden, palms dirty and screaming into a big smile "Ernest, Claude! Come see what I found!"; Showed, with all the joy in the world, a white flower, a newborn lily. So innocent and pure, not an ounce of malice or lie fell on his lips, and barely seemed to taint those hands with blood, to leave such words from his throat. His thoughts screamed all the time "is not true, that's not true!" and with a little helping hand, those words became true and were transformed into "this is your end, cut their heads!"
I didn't make it! It can't be!
But he did. And could watch the whole scene; died in a matter of seconds, but seemed like an eternity for his body to hit the floor. If could wish for something, would not have seen it. The last face he saw was so much like him, but at the same time so different. The blond hair that grew quickly, the stubborn, nobility; eyes- yes, these sapphires, so alike and different- they were so pure, it belonged to his brother, did not deserve to live with those people so sinful. They were perfect, as those who had not. But, oh god, why they were so dirty now? That was not Elliot. It was not. Elliot would never kill anyone, much less take away his own life. And he did both. You could see the weariness of his eyelids death of smiles and dreams. The sword should not be drawn, the ashes could not have been created by him, there should not be a monster behind him.
And it was both fault.
If I hadn't shown him the place. If I hadn't created that destination. If I hadn't allowed that damned servant to appear here since the beginning. If I hadn't lied. If I hadn't the urge to kill. It's all my fault.
Now it's in the blood, this desire. Blood seeping from his pale body, blood flowing in his veins, blood dripping from the sword. That was the end for both the living and dead- the wrong had mastered him.
"Ernest, where babies come from?"
"Is this a gift for me?"
"I don't like the people there, children are afraid of me. Why are they afraid of me? "
"Claude, lead me to this place?"
Do not shed a tear for them, much less pray, or something related. Just put the sword back into place, making Humpty Dumpty disappear. He notes, but does not see, for a moment, the flames swallow the crime, before it disappeared into the shadows. It's cold, even with the heat of his anger, that prized honor for so many years, burning. It is painful, see your little brother, Elliot Nightray, leave the room as someone else. Not like the queen of hearts, not like the headhunter, not as a common murderer. Like a soul without a path, dead.
It hurts to see your little brother dead.