Work Text:
In warfare, Death wasn’t slow. It watched, just out of view, then pounced.
A hole through the neck. A shot in the leg. It took you whole, just like that.
So why was Reinhard dying in parts?
First, his dexterity; a teacup shattered in disobedient fingers.
Next, his independence. Emil, that sweet boy, attached to him like crutches (shackles).
Finally, his spirit.
Most stars imploded, but Reinhard flickered like a lightbulb. One that would not (could not) be replaced.
He clasped the feverishly hot metal of the locket, one with his bed.
“You yourself will become a source of light.”