Seven months.
He wouldn't be able to walk for seven months, and even after that he would need some kind of crutch. It honestly frustrated Gilbert to be put in such a feeble state, but for now he was just happy to be home. He remembered why he had been so eager.
Elizabeta, the nurse that took care of his grandfather and his house, had written him a letter expressing her concern for his grandfather's health. He hadn't been so bad when Gilbert and his little brother Ludwig had left, but this past winter had been harsh and he'd had a cough for years that was only getting worse. Once they had gone through hell just to get him into the small house, and set him up in a wheelchair that had an extended place for his leg to rest on, Elizabeta didn't waste time asking if he wanted to rest, and pushed him down the hall to his grandfather's room to see him.
His grandfather was an unbelievably strong man, even in his declining years, but he was quiet. He frowned most of the time, and was very strict, but Gilbert held his grandfather's approval above all else. Ludwig took after him more than Gilbert did, both in appearance and personality, but his grandfather always considered him first, although sometimes he wondered if it was simply because he was older. He had spent nearly his whole life trying to earn his praise; even though he had mostly accepted that his grandfather would always be more proud of his younger brother, but with everything that had happened to Ludwig in the past month…
Elizabeta gently placed him beside the bed and walked around to the other side, and then softly called for him to wake up.
"Herr Beilschmidt,"
"No, if he's sleeping—"
But his grandfather had already opened his eyes. They didn't open sleepily, but instead fixed themselves on Gilbert with impeccable accuracy.
"Gilbert?" he asked, his voice was hoarse, but somehow still firm. "You're home?"
He smiled and nodded at him. "I'm home."
"Why?" he frowned, those heavy brows lowering.
Feeling a little disappointed that he wasn't just happy to see him, he smiled wryly. "When I heard about your condition, I got shot as soon as I could so they'd send me home."
His grandfather frowned even deeper, the old lines in his face detailing his annoyance. "What?"
"He's joking," Elizabeta interjected quietly. "But I told you we got the letter last week. Gilbert was accidently shot by another German soldier."
There was a tense moment of silence.
"You were shot, by a German?" he asked slowly and Gilbert's head tipped forward.
For some reason, his words carried an indescribable amount of shame.
"He couldn't see me very well through the smoke," he muttered.
His grandfather's eyes moved from his own to his white hair, and then he grunted critically. "Does Ludwig know?"
Gilbert's whole body stiffened, making him wince a little. "No, I haven't written to him yet,"
"Have you heard from him?"
"Uh," he swallowed dryly.
The last time he had heard from him, his younger brother had been, to put it bluntly, deserting. His brother was not a coward, nor was he a traitor. The soldiers in his unit had turned on him, making him look to be some kind of spy. There wouldn't have been a trial, not for that. So, Gilbert didn't think of him as a deserter, but he knew he might be the only one. Yet, Ludwig had somehow managed to escape to Sweden, and for now, as far as Gilbert knew, he was safe.
"He's safe; they sent him north. There's not a lot going on there." he muttered.
His grandfather grunted again and closed his eyes.
Gilbert had been ignoring his pain up until then, but then he sighed heavily and it all seemed to overwhelm him.
Elizabeta noticed, and after getting his grandfather set to go back to sleep, she took him and wheeled him out of the room. He stared at the familiar hallway as they headed down to his bedroom, which was off to the left, absently taking note of the small dents that had been made when he and Ludwig would wrestle inside until his grandfather would send them out. That felt like a long time ago. Maybe it was.
Entering his room, he felt a strange rush of emotion, and found himself having to bite his cheeks to keep from crying. It didn't help that Elizabeta noticed that, too.
"Your grandfather loves you," she told him, those kind, green eyes trying to capture his, though he made every effort to avoid them.
He didn't speak. He wasn't going to argue that, but, that didn't mean he completely believed it either. She sighed a little, but helped him into his bed without saying much more. After that she told him she would make dinner and bring it to him when it was ready. He thanked her in a mumble and the door shut.
Gilbert had known Elizabeta for years. She was kind and honest, but he knew she was as lethal as she was beautiful. He had also learned very quickly that she wouldn't stand for any of his advances. According to a confession he had heard only once, she was actually married. She had been forced to sell her wedding ring, and her husband had stayed behind when she left, although she never told him why. She was a Hungarian, and spoke German easily enough, although her accent was identifiable when she was more relaxed. She also had a distinct motherly vibe to her, which both German men grumbled about, but which both men also found impossible to disobey. Still, she was hardly overbearing, and was always very respectful to his grandfather. With that in mind, he didn't get as upset when she would hit him or scold him anymore.
Concluding his thoughts on Elizabeta, he let out a heavy breath and reached for his journal. The old, worn book felt almost heavy with ink, since there wasn't a day that he didn't record something in it. However, he couldn't recall if he had written anything since he'd been shot, so he opened it to the most recent pages and began to look them over. What he saw gave him a strange sickly feeling deep in his stomach.
The first few entries were messy and scribbled, and he could only make out a few words, such as 'home' and 'Ludwig'. After that, all the entries were the same.
'I'm coming home.'
Gilbert slid the pen out of its holder at the back and marked the date. He simply wrote that he had come home. It was honestly all he could bring himself to say. He could write more later, but for the moment he felt sleep creeping up on him, and allowed it to seize him.
As he slept, he dreamed about Sweden. Ludwig was there now, his little brother. He had been injured, shot in the leg. He might have chuckled at that bitter irony. Ludwig was smart, he'd be alright, but the knowledge that he might never see him again weighted heavy on him. He was his brother after all; they were supposed to have been together through this whole thing. Everything had just gone wrong.
When he awoke, he thought about his return from Sweden. Despite the way he usually stuck out in a crowd, Gilbert knew how to move around without being seen if he had to. Yet, when he returned, no one was impressed. He remembered them gasping when he walked into the tent, and one crying out that he was a ghost.
"Oh, no, wait. It's just the albino." he said and they laughed.
It was then he realized he didn't want to be there. He hadn't wanted to come back. No matter where he was, Gilbert felt he didn't really belong. He didn't belong on the battlefield with the others, and he didn't belong back home. He felt as though he had been born out of place.
Still, as he followed his memories, he recalled the following battle, but only pieces. He remember the thick smoke and dust, and the sudden pain to match the sound of a bullet splitting the air. Amidst the confusion and panic and pain, he vaguely thought that others had run to him, but as soon as someone put pressure on his leg to stop the bleeding, he blacked out. After that there was nothing until he awoke in the medical tent.
He felt that strange sickness in his stomach again, and a sudden flash of gory faces crossed his eyes. He squeezed them shut, but they didn't vanish for a few seconds more. Although he was not a strange to the horrors of battle, for some reason his hands were shaking, and when Elizabeta came back with dinner, he was hardly able to eat.