Tʜᴇ Pᴀᴛʜ Tᴏ Hɪɢʜɢᴀᴛᴇs

Bᴜᴛ Nᴏᴛ Tʜᴇ Sᴀᴍᴇ

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 49

Something wasn't right about any of it.

Something was wrong.

That nagging feeling was what brought you out the room, step by step the rain grew distant, muffled by the inner walls of the hallway.

You weren't sure if Reich would know what was wrong with the Empire, but there was a chance he did. You just had to know, you needed to. It was eating away at your brain, through the despondency of alienation, there was a desire that had grown.

You had sat there, for an hour after, watching in silence as German Empire drank the rest of his whiskey through his wooden straw. Clumps of tissue oozing with red hot blood— sticky with lumps and lined with dribbles of puss. He bled out for an hour straight. Then it all halted. The blood cooled and hardened to his skin. He had excused himself to the bathroom so he could wash it off. As soon as he stepped out— you bolted.

Sickened to your core and curious as a cat— you wandered down the halls. Glancing down every corridor to ensure Reich wasn't there too. Even if he knew virtually nothing, it was at least something. You just had to know.

But it felt strange, you had a desire of knowledge. But no desire in the slightest to speak with Reich. You couldn't lie to yourself anymore, you were afraid to speak with him. You were afraid he would get angry again. And all the little strings that still connected you to Reich would snap— as delicate as they were, and you would ruin what you had left.

But there was nothing else you had to do.

If not to speak to him, you would merely pace in circles— endless days to endless months to endless years of pacing and pacing. There was nothing else to do. You could run, but you didn't feel like your feet could carry you. You could speak, but you didn't feel like your throat could move. You could stare into nothing, but you didn't feel like you could keep your mind. You had to fix the mistake you made, it was you who chose this, now you would try and fix it.

And that had to count for something.

You rounded the corner that led to the kitchen with a slight jog. There were voices coming from the sitting room, though you knew none of them were who you were looking for. But just in case, you stopped in the doorway anyway.

Britain, France and Russian Empire were seated together on the sofa, laughing about something, cards over the table, but it seemed like they were done playing.

Britain noticed you immediately, his royal blue complexion shone across the way, his eyes sparkly as he smiled all pretty like in your direction. It made you feel all the more conscious of how shitty you felt. "Ah (𝚈/𝙽), how are you on this fine day?" The Brit called. 

The wind rumbled outside the window. The rain pelted. You looked out at the icy expanse of blue and grey. What tiny rays of sun that had begun to break through had been snuffed out— the sky falling. "It's raining." You replied. Russian Empire snorted aloud.

"And I was being sarcastic." Britain smiled back, rolling his eyes a little. The Frenchman beside him perked up and brought a hand to smack the king upside the top of his head, drawing the tiniest of curses from the man. "Britain stop beeng British for deux séconds and bé pulite for oncé."

Britain rubbed the back of his head, shooting France a harsh look. "Says you snail eater." Russian Empire snorted louder.

France jutted a finger at the king, poking into his chest, eyes mad with rage. "I'm going to launch zis fist at yur nethair region if you call me zat again."