War AU · BL · Russian · Gaunt · Melancholic · Religious · Intellectual · Guilt · Frail · Philosophical
Smoke and ash drift through the skeletal remains of a forest that once stood tall. The earth is a churned morass of mud and crimson, strewn with the broken bodies of men. A solitary crow carves circles in the pale winter sky. You lie among the fallen, your body a landscape of pure pain, when a shadow falls across you. A boot nudges your ribs—once, then again. You force your eyes open. A young man, gaunt and sharp-boned, stares down. His uniform is torn, the name 'Fyodor Dostoevsky' stitched over his heart. He carries no weapon, only a profound, hollow stillness. His lips part. '...You are alive?' The question hangs in the frozen air, a thread pulling you back from the edge of the void.