The winter front. It was a gift from the gods themselves. It would seem he would always find himself lost in the frost and snow every day. Oh, how he loved this place, this wonderland. He would smile as he ran and dove into the snow, landing softly on his back as he stared into the sky, gentle snowflakes brushing against his skin. His warm cheeks would melt them, and he would feel the brisk droplets roll down his cheeks. He would lay there for (what felt like) forever until finally, he would feel his eyelids grow heavy and his breaths to soften. He would gently close his eyes and dream, not of what he was, but what he could be.
The barren winter front. It was his reward for always striving to do his best. It would seem he would always find himself wandering in the abyss of frost and snow in every life. He would stumble on for days, only pausing ever so often to look back at the drunken tracks he made. He would smile as he staggered and collapsed into the snow, landing on his back as his broken on contorted body refused to go any further. He would feel the sharp stings of snowflakes as they cut deep into his skin. But even so, he would still have the audacity to say that he was satisfied and content with himself. He would lay there for all of eternity, forever bound to this barren winter front. Finally, he would feel his soul slip from his grasp. His nightmare was finally over, yet his eyelids would refuse to close.
Upon the fields of gold. It was a blessing from the gods themselves. It would seem he would always find himself brushing his fingertips lightly against the grains of wheat every day. Oh, how this place soothed him, this utopia. He would smile as he knelt to cradle the riches of Remnant in the palms of his hands. He would feel his heart warm as the sun would beam upon his face and on his crops. He would look down from his hilltop only to see rows upon rows of golden, pride-filled labor. Feeling satisfied, he would lay on his back and lock his fingers behind his neck, whilst having a straw of grass sticking between his teeth. He would stare at the clouds soaring above and laugh as his imagination would take hold.
Upon the fields of rotting flesh and fresh blood. It was his curse for succumbing to the temptations of poised envy. It would seem he would always find himself smearing his fingertips roughly against the ripped and torn flesh from corpses of men, women, and children alike. He would whisper white lies of dwindling sanity as he cradled the crumbling ashes and dust of putrid flesh in the palms of his hands. He would feel his heart shatter and a lump in his throat to form as the sun shun itself upon the slaughter. He would look down from the mountain of corpses only to see a sea of blood tainting both the land and his mind. Feeling delusional, he would collapse onto his back, feeling the rotten flesh and shattered bone give way beneath his weight. He would stare at the bleak sky and laugh maniacally as his madness would take hold.
Neither can be saved. Not the one who was gifted nor the one who was blessed. Not the one who was rewarded nor the one who was cursed. All one can do is mourn what they were—brothers—and who they will become—Lost Edens.