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"THEY WERE FLAWED CREATIONS!... IMPURE BEINGS!!"
"Oh but Albedo, if the world was perfect, the two of us wouldn't have to be in this situation," Aether replied, caressing Albedo in one hand, and the other caressing the blood-tainted blade piercing him.
The world wasn't perfect, but if only it was.
If only it was.
And only when the last bit of artificially formed life had flickered and extinguished from Albedos eyes, did Aether finally take the sword from within his heart. The blood resulting pooled to the snow, slowly creeping its' way further from the source like a last cry of desperation. The blade had landed ever-so accurately, lodging itself into the crevices of the homunculus' still beating heart.
A part of him was regretful. Why was it that, in the dusted corners of his being, he has wished the blade to miss? To hope that it would instead slash the air, or perhaps the emblem on Albedos uniform?
But the crimson liquid was so stark, so real. The way it stained the snow, dying the crystals dark. The colour of it reminiscent on Aethers sword, serving as a cold reminder from Celestia of how harshly they were torn apart.