Guess what, I'm not dead. However school started up again so expect the updating crisis to be even worse, sorry. Technically, it starts in five hours, because I'm an absolute idiot not getting enough sleep.

It's also a pain when I write down the entire plot thing in a notebook and then leave the notebook somewhere and then have no clue what's going on. Fortunately, that doesn't happen often...(yeah, right.)

And I screwed up, I accidentally posted a planning chapter for 28 and never posted the finished piece, and that was there for three whole months and I didn't realize despite people telling me so in the reviews. Gah I'm so embarassed #.#

Review! :D

Gilbert had been expecting a bad situation ever since the sunlight went gray, and his expectations had drastically increased when the somewhat familiar-looking boy soldier had died at his feet.

But even with that sort of preparation, he couldn't believe the desolation on the other side of the door. With the dead bodies laying around like logs of wood, there was definitely a lot of blood.

He took a moment to distance himself from the surroundings, leaning against the door frame with his eyes closed. None of this is real, his mind chanted, and he decided he may as well go for it. It's all only an illusion. Sooner or later, this flippant dismissal of all the dead would undoubtedly return to haunt him. Fixing his eyes above the carnage and the floors that were damp and sticky, he picked his way down the halls. There was the distant sound of fighting.

But the young soldier that had run into save him...there was a certain familiar cast to his face. The blue eyes crazed with impending death, the thick brows, hair that seemed to drop from golden to black when sweaty (or bloody, if that's what it was)...A pit opened up in his stomach when the realization hit him. That wasn't...Peter, was it? The king's bastard son, the one Arthur refused to let inherit the throne because of some technicality of his 'd ended up practically raised by five tutors. And now he was dead.

Even as he tried to convince himself otherwise, the usually smiling features of Peter floated like a ghost before him. It's him. Shit, Arthur won't be happy about this, and neither will the tutors.

None of this is real, he chattered to himself.

Gilbert rounded a corner and paused. Here, there was a veritable pile of dead invaders, their unfamiliar armor designs giving their heritage away. And there was a small group of dead fighters. Just five to take out at least twenty? he asked himself, and was about to pass it by when a certain insignia pulled his attention to the corpses. "Is that...?" For the first time in a while, his mind was completely focused on one thing; the faded chips of color on the hilt of the sword of what appeared to be the leader of the smaller group. He knew that crest, knew it like the back of his hand. The black, red, and yellow stripes seemed to glare at him, driving the point home.

"Luddy?"

It was no use, of course; he was already dead. This sack of meat that used to be his brother was strangely lightweight and pale in death. "Hey, wake up." Gilbert shook his shoulder. His fingers were tacky with drying (and still warm) blood, the knees of his pants soaking it up as well. "Hey, you can't..." His voice broke, and he felt light tears on his face. "Ludwig..."

It's not real, he whispered.

The grisly battle sounds weren't coming from that far away, and that's what snapped him out of his daze. I love you, little brother. I wish I had the chance to say goodbye. Gilbert pushed to his feet, ungraciously using Peter's old sword as a crutch (it never occurred to him to take Ludwig's) and headed off towards the noise.

The source of it was found in short order. A group of fighters were staving off another wave of invaders. He recognized quite a few members of the guard. The captain of the guard was there as well, practically standing on the King to make sure he was safe. The ruler in question was looking mightily displeased with these accommodations, and had a look about him that said he wanted nothing more than to snatch a sword and join in. A few assorted others joined them, and then there she was, the goddess he remembered her as.

Clad in lightweight armor, she was brandishing a sword in one hand, brown hair flying as she turned and shoved her weapon through the throat of an invader that tried to sneak past her. Elizaveta.

Her emerald eyes met his, and she hesitated for a fraction of a second before beckoning him over with a tilt of her head.

In times like these, there was no space for grudges.