P: Paradise
It was February, February 25th of 1947.
It was cold, terribly cold. It was dark, terrifyingly dark. Hope had long been lost in most of Europe since the Second World War. Hope had left the German brothers long before that.
Gil had been stuck in Russia, and now alone he was fighting his way home through mountains of snow, howling and biting wind, and stinging, killing cold. His arm was broken and a few of his ribs were as well. Russia had been all too happy to break the albino.
Yet Gil refused to be broken. His bones could break, his skin could tear, his teeth could crack, but his spirit would never break. That was why he fought through the snow, why he braved the wind, and scowled at the cold. He would not be killed. He would not be broken. Not by Ivan, not by war, and certainly not by the cold and unhospitable weather.
He had not seen his brother in over a year nor had he been home to his country in over a year. He had just broken free from Ivan's home. He plowed through the snow leaving miles behind him and the hell he had left.
He kept going. He was tired and sore; hunger gnawed his stomach and weakened his limbs. Cold stung his eyes and chilled his blood.
Miles started to mean nothing, he felt no farther from Russia and no closer to his land or his brothers. He felt like he was walking on a treadmill, expending all that energy to go nowhere.
He stepped and his knee gave out and he fell to the snow with a groan. He looked at his hands, they were cracked and bleeding, but the blood had frozen. His toes, he could no longer feel. His leather boots were soaked. His shirt and navy blue jacket had long since stopped offering any warmth, same with his pants. Nothing was warm.
Nothing was comforting. He was in total despair.
With a choked sob he closed his eyes, and he remembered a moment he had in Ivan's 'care'.
The tall Russian male stood over him; his large body blocked the doorway of the cell and blotted out the light that streamed from the hall. His hellish purple eyes burned with a fiendish gleam, his long pipe flashed in the air and collided with Gil's side. He grunted but he refused to scream. He would not give Ivan that satisfaction. The pipe rose and fell again, cracking his shoulder blade. Gil bit his lip so hard it bled, but he was silent. A sob caught in his chest, but he uttered no sound. Ivan's foot met his hip and he felt the policy bone splinter from the unnatural force Ivan had. Stars danced in his eyes, and a blinding whiteness crept into his vision. The pain, the pain…it was all he felt. All he knew. How long did Ivan stand there? How many times did that pipe rise and fall? He knew not. How many times was his clothes jerked off, and his thin and malnourished and abused body shoved to the wall and abused in a whole new way? How many bite marks decorated his neck? How many nail marks were gouged into his once mucked torso? He did not know, he would never know. He did not want to know. Gil would not scream, but when Ivan left the pipe behind for a more personal abuse, Gil lost his strength, and he howled and cried in pain. He shrieked and sobbed. Everything hurt. Everything was dark. But then he was on the floor, the pain still there, but now Ivan was standing over him again. The man smirked "Oh little fool, fight all you want, but you will scream. My little pet, you will always fail at what you fight for the most."
Gil found tears frozen to his face when he came back to the present. He looked at the black winter sky and roared like a wounded bear. He howled like an angry wolf, he howled the reveal the wind, he roared to declare he would not be felled. He stood back up, his broken bones screaming in protest, and his wasted body swayed weakly. Body weak but mind strong, he fought on again. No, he would prove Ivan wrong.
He would fight to get home like he had never fought before. He would not fail.
His resolved was admirable but the cold and his wounds had a way of weakening it. Now a second time, his traitor body failed him, and again he fell.
He lurched from the snow, and coughed hard. He kept coughing, so hard he could no breath, he hit his knees, his chest searing in pain. He coughed, and blood dotted the snow.
No. No. No.
He got up again and he moved only another twenty feet before he fell and third and final time. It was so cold. It was so dark…Where was he?
He suddenly heard the TV; he heard the three dogs running on the floor to sit at the door, and then bark excitedly when their master entered. He heard heavy footsteps and a lumbering blonde leaned over the couch "You didn't make dinner I suppose?" he asked with a smile in his voice.
It was so bright. So warm. Ludwig was here. He smiled. He had made it home. He had found the place he was most happy. He had beaten Ivan, he had fought and made it home, he did not fail.
With that thought, he died. He died on the fringe of Germany, in the snow, a short ten miles from home.
He died moments before Ludwig reached him with his three dogs. Ludwig kneeled in the snow and tears leapt to his eyes. He wrapped his jacket around Gil and pulled the far too thin albino into his arms.
"Gil?" he asked with a trembling voice
The wind howled, but otherwise in was silent. Dead silent.
"Gilbert?" he asked again, this time with more of a begging note in his voice.
Still nothing but the winter wind answered Ludwig. The sun was just starting to rise when Ludwig howled, a single broken, despaired howl.
His brother was dead. The albino who had always protected him and guided him was gone. His only family was dead. He was alone.
After a good hour of being motionless in the snow, save for the tremors from his sobs, Ludwig grew clam.
He looked at the sun and a surge of pain gripped his heart, for he knew this was a sunrise Gil would never see. But he did realize with a bittersweet attitude that this moment had half good.
Ludwig vaguely knew what happened to Gil, but what he knew was horrendous. He knew that when his brother came back, he wouldn't be the same. He knew his brother, and he knew Gil would never be quite as happy, quite as strong, quite as fearless. Ludwig knew, Gil would hate himself for what happened.
Ludwig did not know why his brother was smiling though, for Gil's lips were forever set in that pleased smile from his last thought. But Ludwig had to guess Gil had come to terms with his fate. Or Gil had at least had a painless death. The longer he thought about it, he realized Gil's pain was over.
All pain is suffered in life, and Gil was finally free of pain. Gil could finally see Old Fritz again.
He stood and held Gil in his arms. his three dogs rose from the snow and started to follow their master home.
Ludwig was still upset and deeply wounded, his heart was broken. Yet he smiled a small and weak smile.
His brother, his strong warrior, faithful protector, and fearless guardian had found peace. Gil would forever live in paradise.
Hey look at that, another Gil death! Sorry…but hey it's February! It's the time for Gilbert-dissolution death fics!
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