aegiswinged started following you
Another one was gone, another soul lost because they had to give their lives. The Expedition had returned, leaving her to count who had returned, and who had not. It was not her job, she did this because she had to. Every night after her chores were finished, leaving the headquarters of Rosa spotless, anyone could find her in the “cafeteria”. Candlelight shined across paper, an inkwell settled not far away to the left while a quill scribbled words across. It was the only way she found she could express her emotions with the intention she wanted, the reader could impress their own emotions into the words instead of hearing her.
She sounded like she didn’t care, but in truth, she probably cared more than she should have. Every name, every face, every smile and good will would inevitably be written until she passed away. No one would write a letter for her.
Beside all of this work she had burdened herself with, a steaming cup filled the area around her with a sweet aroma of honey and tea. Every now and again she would pause, settling the quill in the inkwell, then take a drink. Twelve letters already written and drying, perhaps a few dozen more left to go. Azure irises drifted across the words already put down before she spoke, her tone soft and a little cracked from straying between lethargy and wakefulness.
“May I be of help to you?”
Even if he was small compared to everyone but her and Historia, Levi’s steps still could be heard in the immense silence.
he could never fucking relax after an expedition.
the stone walls closing back over him after days on open plains, the filthy air filling his lungs, the weight of all the eyes of all the people watching them as they march their way back into (dirty, caged) civilization. the world outside the walls was dangerous, was cruel, but at least out there he had room to breathe; at least out there he could move and react and fight. back here, back inside, there was nothing to distract from the deaths that hung over him, no wind to wash clean the smell of blood.
the adrenaline of outside took a long time to fade, and he was used to the result by now: a few days of cagey restlessness, of a sort of pressured despondency that threatened to crash over him at the transition from plains to walls. he fended it off as best he could. working. exercising. wandering the halls instead of sleeping, perching on the roof and looking up at the stars instead of dealing with the unhappy thoughts waiting for him in his empty room.
his steps were a staccato in the night, quiet but measured against the stone of hq. they took him towards the mess hall, as they often did -- there was food and tea in the kitchens, and it was late enough that few would be around. if he were any kind of normal functioning human, he’d be sleeping; if he had more self-control, he’d at least be taking care of some of the post-expedition paperwork stacked on his desk. but he couldn’t look at any more fucking reports right now; he didn’t feel like articulating their failures in clinical, soulless print on a fucking form.
he stopped only a few feet into the mess hall, heavy-lidded eyes taking in the candle glowing at one of the tables and the figure hunched over it. ah. he knew who she was, and he knew what she was doing -- and he didn’t fucking envy her for it, that was for sure. but hey, everyone had their own way of honoring the dead. his was to fight on for their sakes, so that their sacrifice would mean something. she had her letters.
could she help him? that was worth a laugh, though he didn’t give one. could she take away the paranoia that strung his nerves taut, that made him look for dangers that weren’t there? (except they could be, because they’d already proved that walls didn’t make them safer, that the world could end at any time, he’d always known that.) could she undo the deaths he’d seen, turn back time so that he could be faster, save more?
he could just walk away -- rudeness wouldn’t stop him, what the fuck did he care -- because a part of him wasn’t sure he felt like dealing with anyone else being nearby, much less talking to them. but another part of him observed, maybe wisely, that the whole isolation thing didn’t always go so fucking well.
her tea smelled good, at least.
“you can tell me if you made any more of that,” he said, a slight incline of his head indicating the cup in front of her as he stepped forward. she was one of the few people around here who made the shit they usually got as part of their provisions taste halfway decent.
