Ribbon
He hadn't been truly interested in that war.
In fact, he had banned Gilbert's men from his country even before it started. He had enough of strives; the recent civil war had done him enough harm, had kept him away from his piano and fine music for long enough. His hands were battered and bruised from wielding a rifle, but it made no difference. The piano no longer was in a favorable condition; oldness and lack of care had made it dusted and forgotten, just like him.
He had tried to forget about his shattered economy, tried to forget how Elizabeth's words all those years ago had shaken him, listening to the false notes of his piano, amidst a dark room.
But later, Gilbert had given him no choice; and he joined, just for old times sake, seeing no sense in engaging his people in a strife with the nation.
It had been too late to detract himself from it at the time he saw the conflict's true gruesomeness, its cold cruelty and the indifference of its participants. And to think he had considered it yet another petty warfare, concerning the Pomerania.
No, the truth was far worse.
And now, he was staring at the tattered ribbon, at his feet. On cobblestones that no longer were bumpy, but smoothed out and even somewhat pleasant to walk on. Amusing, how technology went forward, whereas the humanity only went backwards.
Elizabeth used to wear a ribbon when they still were together.
And much like Elizabeth, the little girl, who had worn it, was gone.
Gone due to a sentence passed by Gilbert's men. A sentence that had just as little sense as the whole war had, and yet, it lead to death.
A sentence he, Roderich Edelstein, had signed himself.