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Desperate hours.

Title of chapter: Desperate hours.
Characters: Gilbert Beilschmidt Prussia} {
Rating: Orange
FOOTNOTES Introspective / Angst / Flash-fic
Disclaimer: characters, places and habits are the property of Sensei Himaruya, the writing and situations are my property.

. Desperate hours.

A good smell, that of blood. Iron, heat that emanates from the ground become too soaked in the red liquid of life to keep other, disgust. Silent drops that hit dead bodies slumped on rocks crumbled hatred and clash of arms that face; bitter sounds of agony that pierce the eardrums and reach the brain, eating it with terrible jaws and sharp as pikes crossing unsuspecting breasts.
Corpses.
and crows. A continuous crackle, hiss and dirty with black wings of death, feather cloaks that hide the meager performance of a swollen body and bitter to give, then only the white bones picked clean. Too many crows, so many corpses. Eyes to a world upside down that is not here, hands wrapped around cold air and acid, blocked in languages form words that never see the faint light of the winter sun.
Desolation. Support
in its midst a uniform is soiled with God's own blood, land, and pain. The sword drips black liquid forming a pool, seething with hatred, of rage and glory. But that glory can be, even for God, to observe a landscape that has nothing glorious than the fact you can still see the rising sun?
white hair shining, full of splendor, the only spot of purity in that death-bed sick, smelly miasma and echoes of screaming and moaning against the wind.
boots sunk in the mud, his face old and beautiful and selfish overlooking a sick smile, a smile of someone who has seen too many times the close brush with death with hooked fingers and skeletal afraid. Immortal, an albino with red eyes scrutinizes the desolation alert, with bright red eyes like the flames of Hell that they have rejected on the ground with no hope of appeal. There is place for him.
in some places.
A beast.
A beast thirsting for battle, a beast strategist, cunning, and fatally beautiful, a spider, weaving the fabric and makes you fall into the most beautiful butterflies. A

God is a God of War, that has nothing better to do but turn around Europe, which change the boundaries of cities and towns, which expand the offshoots of an empire of one language and one culture, combine them all under one banner striking.
black eagle, which spreads its mighty wings on small birds chirping in the desperate hope of saving.
mad, mad!
No one can escape.
From the dance of God and a skeleton can be born only a beautiful death.
Let yourself, it will be painless. A Magnificent become
be your king. Your Emperor, your God, your future and past and present.
You see? Enlarge the tired arms, the precious cloth rustles the muscles under tension.
welcomes you. Thrown
.
Or you will be devoured.

. Finish.