Requiem 3.3

Could it even be considered humane to put Ludwig through what he had? The training had been brutal, the hours long and the weights heavy, the heat blistering and the taskmaster merciless. Gilbert could remember the many nights that Ludwig would collapse into his bed in full uniform, drenched in sweat and too exhausted to even bathe.

How could he have possibly seen that as "good training"?

With time-skilled hands Gilbert tore off a strip of his shirt, tying it painfully tight at the junction of Ludwig's hip and thigh. He felt around in his uniform pockets before drawing out a foil-wrapped packet.

Ludwig smeared the hair out of his eyes, flinching as a cannon boomed overhead; his gaze fell upon the packet, and he frowned. "What's that?"

Gilbert tore the packet open with his teeth, throwing a grey cloud into the air. He spat out the wrapper, steadied Ludwig's leg, and shot him a grim look.

"Gunpowder."

Before he could object, Gilbert emptied the packet over Ludwig's wound, pressing his hands tight over the mess of blood and torn flesh to protect it from the rain. He quickly tied another scrap of cloth over the wound in a makeshift bandage, and felt Ludwig instantly tense beside him; he clapped a hand over Ludwig's mouth, just as he yelled in agony.

However, if Ludwig had ever had any complaints about his training, he'd never voiced them. He'd taken everything Gilbert had thrown at him, and had handled it in stride; he'd never once complained, asked for mercy, or given up.

And through that was exactly what Gilbert had been training him for, Ludwig's absolute refusal to quit—even when he was obviously pushed far past his limits—worried him.

All of this was on Gilbert's mind as he continued to doctor his brother.

"You have to be quiet," he hissed, looking into Ludwig's watery eyes fiercely. "You'll give away our position!"

Ludwig nodded, clenching his jaw and staying quiet even as tears spilled down his cheeks. Gilbert bit his lip—he couldn't let Ludwig go soft now, he'd definitely fail—and steeled himself, forcing the soldier back to the front of his mind.

"Quit crying." Gilbert grabbed Ludwig's forgotten rifle, and shoved it into his hands with a scowl. "Pull yourself together. We're in the middle of a war."

Ludwig swallowed, nodded, wiped his eyes; he gingerly pushed himself into a crouching position, steadying the rifle in his hands, and looked at Gilbert with an utterly miserable expression.

It's for his own good. "What're you looking at?" Gilbert stabbed the muzzle of his rifle into the air over the trench walls. "That's where the enemies are. Get up there, and fight!"

Ludwig bit his lip. "Yes, bruder." He turned to the wall, lifting his rifle shakily—somewhat satisfied, yet disgusted with himself, Gilbert turned away. He locked onto a Russian soldier trying to sneak across the border, and nailed him right behind the ear; as the dark crimson splashed into the air, Gilbert couldn't help but be reminded of his own brother's wound.

He'll be alright--

His thoughts were interrupted by a deafening boom, immediately followed by a sharp yelp, coming from mere feet away. Gilbert spun around, crimson eyes flying wide, grip on his rifle slackening; his gun fell to the ground, just as blood arched through the air.

"Ludwig!"

Gilbert bolted across the trench just as his brother hit the ground. He skidded to a stop and fell to his knees by Ludwig's body, scanning over him frantically—his uniform was torn in several places, and each tear revealed dark blood bubbling over the young nation's skin. Ludwig's eyes were closed, the top half of his face covered in a sheet of blood courtesy of the large gashes scored across his forehead; his chest rose and fell quickly with shallow breaths.

"Ludwig." Gilbert gently prodded his brother's shoulder, tapping his cheek lightly.

He got no response.

"Ludwig." The tapping got harder, the shoulder shakes more persistent.

Nothing.

"Bruder." Gilbert had resorted to slapping the other's cheek, yanking his shoulder around like a rag doll. "Ludwig!"

Gilbert continued his desperate attempts to rouse his brother.

The rain continued to pour.

And the war raged on.