Well— that is the question, isn’t it? In a world trampled to dust, stomped to ash beneath so many feet, there are precious few thousands left who can ask, What is the point, now? What is there left worth fighting for?
“It’s in your nature, I think,” he replies quietly, digging his shovel into the ground. There is much work to be done on a farm, even one as well-kept as Historia’s. New paddocks to raise, fences to mend, fields to plow; Reiner draws the back of his hand across is forehead, wicking sweat beneath the noonday sun.
( He did not give us many options. That is the world Eren left us — fight, or die. )
“How about you go inside, Mikasa?” He nods back towards the modest dwelling at the edge of the treeline, the shotgun-style house where he keeps to himself. Reiner leans against the shovel, feels the earth give way beneath his boots. “There’s a bed in there, and it’s a long journey home. You could use the rest.”
the sweat bleeds across her forehead, beneath dark tresses. they tickle skin as the move in the breeze. a pause in her work, axe still embedded in wood. it’s deep, like the wounds she received after years of service / after years of trauma. a part of her is unsure how those words even fell past lips. the admission of fatigue / how weak it makes her feel. 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠. her head tilts toward the dwelling, absent gaze and heavy heart.
𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅. 𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒆𝒆?
“ i’m not... tired. ” not physically. it’s the wounds that cannot be seen that cannot heal. calloused hands press to her face, moving the sweat across porcelain skin. finely carved.
“ we came to help historia, let’s do just that. ” another raise of her arms and tired muscles burn. a feeling she’s pushed through for years and would continue to.
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