wings.

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carrd.

————- Doesn’t bother him, huh? Somehow, he doesn’t really believe - perhaps because Falco is less difficult to read than he thinks he is, or perhaps because he once knew a child or two who used to blabber on with the exact same discourse. Reiner and Porco never realised how akin to each other their rivalry made them, all while stark differences made them both irreconciliable. And still, Falco is on another level. He doesn’t possess the pettiness and cruelty both Reiner and Porco were capable of displaying, back then. There is a gentleness to Falco that has no place on the training grounds, no place behind the barrel of a rifle. Yes, Falco will do his best. Yes, it might be enough. And yes, it will be a complete waste of a life, spent away on a chimera best burnt to the ground.

A light chuckle bubbles in his throat, and Marcel tosses away his crumbled and twisted blade of grass. “Of course! Especially the first couple of years, before they narrowed it down to the seven of us. Even with my own brother - he gave me a run for my money a couple of times.” Lips curl up with amusement, though there is nothing to laugh about. Brothers pitted against each other, friends going at each other’s throat; none of this, the life any child should have to bear. “Annie was the toughest. We weren’t too far off each other in skill, and I could out-perform her in tests of physical strength, but combat? She kicked my ass every single time.” 

A fist squeezes at his heart deep inside his chest. For a moment, the memory of Annie ebbs and flows at the shore of his mind and soul, both all too closely entangled. He has two years of lease left on life; how often does he find himself wishing he could give it all to the ones they left behind. What a ridiculously small compensation would that be, for all their mistakes. Marcel sighs, a hand rising to ruffle the unruly spikes of his own hair. “Well, I guess things got easier once they really set me up to inherit the Jaw.” A shrug accompanies his admission, amber hawkish gaze settling on a more thoughtful and gentle glint, as he gazes back at the anxious little boy by his side. 

“Reiner and Porco were a lot like you and Gabi, back then.” Confession comes almost ushered, almost as though he confides a secret in the youngling; it isn’t really one, but this old rivalry had become somewhat of a taboo subject over the years. Especially since they had returned from Paradis. But Falco is smart and considerate enough to read between the lines - of that, Marcel has no doubt. “Can I ask you something, Falco?” Marcel starts again, making his voice warm and amicable - trying to remember how to, at least. It was always easier with the children. “How come you want to be a Warrior? Colt has secure the Beast for himself already, so I assume there’s more to it than the Marleyan citizenship, right?” 

names  are  dear  to  a  man.          it  is  what  defines  their  identity,     the  very  core  of  their  being.          but  to  a  stranger,     your  name  is  but  a  meaningless  word     :          an  amalgamation  of  letters  that  mean  nothing.          or  maybe  you  are  another  person  to  them,     the  theodore  who  helps  at  the  butcher’s  down  the  street  instead  of  the  military  man  with  a  steely  gaze          [          that  is  not  theo  magath,     that  is  commander  magath          ]          or  the  nikolas  who  sweeps  chimneys  and  always  has  a  mint  in  his  pocket          [          not  the  nikolas  who  guards  the  fence  lining  the  hill  along  the  docks          ].          falco  knows  this.          even  children  know  to  avoid  the  ire  of  the  predator  that  is  an  adult.          

“          annie          ...          is  the  person  who  inherited  the  female  titan,     right     ?          ”          she  is  a  woman  with  a  face,     a  name,     a  history.          but  to  falco,     annie  is  the  pale  woman  who  knits  scarves  for  her  grandchildren  and  sells  dried  fruits  at  the  market  more  than  she  is  the  ghost  of  a  warrior  in  a  worn  and  tattered  picture.          that  is  why  it  tumbles  from  his  lips  as  if  it  is  not  entirely  foreign  to  him,     a  familiarity  to  the  syllables.          there  is  an  idea  of  who  annie  is,     a  faint  picture.          he  squints,     as  if  to  recall  the  intricacies  of  her.          pretending  is  the  least  he  can  do.          but  it  is,     ultimately,     a  show  and  nothing  more.

it  is  silly  to  mention  lost  history  to  a  boy  without  expecting  to  expand  further  upon  it.          falco,     ever  conscious  of  his  manners,     tries  not  to  seem  too  interested,     but  fidgets  as  though  suppressing  his  curiosity  is  like  forcing  down  a  pill.          “          really     ?          but  they  don’t  seem  to  fight  now         ...          do  they  still  not  like  each  other  much     ?          ”          he  places  himself  in  the  boots  of  marcel’s  brother,     a  boy  struggling  for  recognition  that  he  is  worthy.          it  is  an  alienating  experience,     the  perspective  of  an  ordinary  boy  amongst  the  talented.          his  friends  are  kind  in  their  encouragement     :          keep  your  head  up     !          don’t  be  too  hard  on  yourself     !          you  can  do  it     !          falco  is  grateful  for  them.          but  he  is  foolish  to  draw  a  line  from  porco  to  him.          he  is  not  porco,     who  is  strong  and  brave  and  certainly  determined.          falco  pulls  at  a  blade  of  grass  and  presses  it  between  his  fingers.

there  is  an  answer  to  this  question,     rehearsed  and  trimmed.          falco  recites  it  dutifully,     the  script  of  an  actor.          it  is  reflexive  to  shrink  into  himself,     to  shy  away  from  the  knife  of  suspicion  he  remembers  behind  those  words.          but  marcel  is  like  colt  in  his  sturdiness.          he  is  safe.          against  his  better  judgement,     falco  may  unfurl  his  wings  and  preen.           “          inheriting  a  titan  in  the  service  of  marley  would  be  an  honor         ...          um,     so  i’ve  wanted  to  be  a  warrior  since  i  was  very  little.          ”          the  lie  sits  on  his  tongue  and  hisses  in  his  ear.          he  doesn’t  like  remembering  that  colt  is  living  on  borrowed  time.          perhaps  a  little  part  of  the  child  hopes  that  his  brother  will  not  have  to  carry  the  burden  of  thirteen  years  upon  his  shoulders  if  he  inherits  the  armor.          they  must  repent  for  the  sins  of  those  before  them  with  blood.          but  marcel  wants  more,     presses  for  it  in  spite  of  the  warmth  in  his  chest.          it  pours  out  when  he  speaks  those  poison  laced  words.          falco  isn’t  sure  if  it’s  a  trick,     and  so  the  baton  is  passed  with  haste.

@flcos​ said:                   ❛  i believe that you’ll see a better day.  ❜

 Before the guilt comes the shame. All creatures are wired to look inward first, to see to it that the own body isn’t compromised, bleeding from any hidden wounds, before the damage to others is assessed. Bertholdt is no different. He is sick with the sour taste between his teeth, the fur that growing on his tongue. And there comes the sliver of golden light, violent like any other blade, to stab him in the eyes. 

Red-rimmed, watery, the warrior’s gaze cuts back. How tiny Falco looks, in his jacket, in the door. He doesn’t recall ever looking that tiny himself. He’s always been such a waste of space, expanding in every direction, taking up more room than he could justify. That’s the shame. Once again found lacking, found failing, in real time, every detail uncovered. Deterioration. The man you see in broad daylight, standing straight and well, not a shiver to his voice, now defaced by alcohol and bitters, in some darkened corner, where nobody can see. Where nobody would think to look. And yes, the shame of that burns through. It pounds in his head like the onset of a migraine. It is crawling up the back of his throat like bile, like an insect he can’t swallow down. A warrior, hopeless. A warrior, drunk. Bertholdt Huber, talking to ghosts, weeping and shaking, bleeding from the goddamn soul. How is a child supposed to understand this? 

That’s where guilt comes in. 

If he is reduced to something like this, if he, if this is what remains of a boy after he is chewed down to the marrow by war and hatred and pain, then what does Falco have to hope for? And should he hope at all? Bertholdt promised once, before he even knew the children, back when he only knew that there would be children, children who would come after them— He promised then to end this, to never send anybody else into this hell. And now he can’t even protect them from the hell that sits in his own head. Now they have to bear witness to the decay that follows.

It’s the touch on his arm that shocks him out of it. The smallest touch, just a child’s hand, a brush to his bicep. He sits upright just enough to kick the bottle aside, let it roll, jarring and loud, across the carpet floor. A little saint stands by the flayed invalid, still stainless. He lays his hand on him as if that could cure him, speaks the barest of comforts: this pain is not final. 

Bertholdt, half molten into the shadow of the room, claws at his face, to wipe the tears, to peel the mask off and leave only exposed flesh behind. He’s always fared better, when there is no skin between him and the world. “You should be on your way home,” He chokes out, every vowel pushing upward into his throat to press the air out of him. Before Falco’s quiet, far too seeing eyes, Bertholdt submits to an exorcism in reverse. All that filth and howling that’s been pouring out of him, he sucks it back into his body. He disappears it behind his clenched teeth. 

“Don’t— Don’t worry.” If it is worry. Maybe it’s just curiosity. Bertholdt doesn’t know what moves a child. Still, he takes Falco’s hand in his and lowers it, unhooks the lifeboat from the sinking ship. He tries to not slur when he speaks: “I’m fine, I’m fine. What do you need?” 

falco  sticks  his  nose  up  and  takes  in  short  puffs  of  the  cold.               alcohol  stinks  on  the  breath,          slurs  the  speech  and  flushes  the  cheeks.               the  child’s  ears  and  fingers  are  dyed  pink  with  the  chill,          and  perhaps  they  are  both  drunk  off  something  tonight          :          bertholdt  off  the  demons  that  plague  his  waking  moments  and  falco  off  the  comfort  of  home.               a  man  under  the  influence  is  a  man  you  must  fear.               it  hushes  your  conscience  and  morality  and  inhibitions,          rewards  foolishness.               even  the  quietest  of  men  grow  rowdy  with  a  glass  of  liquid  amber.               there  are  no  consequences  for  actions  made  in  haste,          including  the  audacious  movement  of  a  boy  in  soothing  a  man.

bertholdt  burns,          whether  with  rage  or  fever.               you  are  fire,          the  devil’s  flames,          you  punish  the  sinners.               the  child  jerks  away  and  remembers  himself,          remembers  his  insignificance.               they  stand  beside  one  another          :          the  giant  and  the  mouse.               he  will  eat  you  up,          like  you  are  but  the  scraps  of  meat  on  the  bone  of  an  animal.               you  must  hide.               there  is  a  primal,          shared  fear  of  all  things  large.               it  is  ingrained  in  the  being  of  life.               it  consumes  even  the  apex  predator  of  man,          who  hunts  and  kills  and  learns,          to  see  something  bigger  than  oneself.               and  so  falco  cowers  beneath  the  weight  of  the  man’s  gaze,          as  though  he  looks  to  prey  upon  him.               the  boy  pulls  inward  into  himself,          yanks  at  the  hem  of  his  jacket.               colt  has  long  since  outgrown  it,          a  well  worn  thing  the  family  stuffed  in  the  drawer  for  falco  to  reap  a  second  life  from.               it  is  barely  held  together  with  scraps  of  fabric  and  careful  needlework.               falco  shrinks  into  it  like  he  is  just  another  mismatched  stitch  along  its  rips.

“               o     -     oh,               ”               always  his  mother’s  child,          her  precious  boy,          who  sings  a  song  of  COMFORT  for  the  weary  traveler  to  hear.               the  alcohol  renders  bertholdt  deaf,          perhaps,          but  the  bird  chirps  and  calls  anyway.               his  impudence  goes  unpunished  here,          and  falco  will  not  complain.               he  was  lost  in  some  twisted  notion  that  he  could  be  of  any  help,          that  he  was  of  any  importance  to  a  man  on  borrowed  time.               he  must  not  make  that  mistake  again.              “               um,          that’s  right               ...               vice  commander  braun  asked  me  to  fetch  you,          sir.               said  there  was  something  IMPORTANT  to  talk  to  you  about.               ”               he  shifts  his  weight  from  leg  to  leg,          fights  the  cold  of  night  with  his  restlessness.               [               stand  properly,          child,          and  quit  your  fidgeting.               ]               you  aren’t  fine,          you  aren’t  well,          shall  i  fetch  you  some  soup  and  a  tonic          ?               but  he  must  remember  his  place.               

 Oh,  how  it  was  all  so  sweet.  Innocence  Pieck  could  only  dream  of  still  having  wove  thick  through  falco’s  words  as  they  stuttered  out  of  him,  the  smile  on  her  face  growing  wider  and  warmer  as  he  continued.  She  listens,  with  nothing  but  honest  intention,  as  he  continues  on.  So  there’s  this  girl  that  I  like.  It  was  bordering  on  admirable,  that  they  were  still  so  young  and  untainted  by  the  troubles  that  coloured  the  pages  of  Pieck’s  life.  Though  she  knew  exactly  who  he  was  talking  about  ( poor  falco  had  been  about  as  subtle  as  an  elephant  in  his  feelings  for  Gabi  )  Pieck  figured  if  he  wanted  to  let  her  know  -  he’d  let  her  know  himself.  Until  then,  she  continued  on  under  the  guise  of  mystery,  head  tilting  just  to  left  as  she  watched  his  idle  little  action.  The  sound  of  a  very  sweet,  very  soft  chuckle  left  her  chest,  too.

 “  That’s  very  sweet  of  you  Falco!  ”   She  muses,  hand  going  to  his  shoulder  and  giving  it  a  gentle  squeeze.  Innocence  aside,  she  was  very  content  with  the  fact  that  Falco  felt  comfortable  enough  to  come  to  her  for  this  advice.  She  was  doing  something  right.  Years  ticked  down  on  her  life-clock  every  single  day,  all  she  ever  wanted  to  do  was  make  a  difference  and  leave  a  mark  on  those  people’s  lives  that  she  loved.  To  have  Falco  come  to  her,  even  for  something  as  simple  and  harmless  as  romantic  advice,  it  made  the  sacrifice  feel  all  the  more  worth  it.  “  I  envy  whoever  this  lucky  girl  is  Falco,  she  must  mean  a  lot  if  you’re  coming  to  little  old  me  for  advice.  ”   Another  soft  chuckle,  Pieck  had  about  as  much  romantic  experience  as  any  warrior  did  -  next  to  none,  but  she’d  try  her  best.  “  I  think  the  best  way  to  ask  her  is…  to  just  ask  her.  Catch  her  in  a  moment  when  she’s  not  too  busy,  or  in  a  good  mood  and  ask  her.  Have  a  time  and  day  in  mind  before  you  do  so  that  you’re  completely  prepared.  ”  She  paused,  hoping  it  wasn’t  all  too  much  for  him.  “  What  did  you  have  in  mind?  You  don’t  have  to  tell  me  if  you  don’t  want  to.  ”

his  fingers  press  against  each  other  as  though  to  seek  comfort  in  the  touch  of  his  own  flesh.               it  is  a  god  awful  thing,          sharing  a  secret.               the  tension  in  his  chest  may  dissipate  now,          as  he  basks  in  the  affectionate  warmth  of  pieck’s  musings,          but  it  is  only  a  temporary  cure.               she  must  take  it  to  the  grave,         must  commit  the  spoken  confession  to  memory  and  never  breathe  a  word  of  what  has  been  shared  here  today.               “               um,          i     -     i’m  glad  you  think  so.               ”               words  tumble  from  his  mouth  clumsily,          catch  in  his  throat  and  lodge  themselves  there  until  the  child  coughs  them  out.               

her  advice  is  certainly  sound          :          the  boy  can  imagine  something  not  dissimilar  in  the  familiar  lilt  of  his  brother’s  voice.               it  is  unfortunate  that  gabi  never  seems  to  be  in  a  particularly  pleasant  mood  whenever  falco  is  around  in  recent  days               [               the  falcon  has  sharp  eyes  with  which  it  may  survey  its  surroundings,          he  is  no  different.               ]               and  he  is  certain  that  their  rivalry  in  conquest  of  honor  will  continue  to  sour  her  opinion  of  him.               she  is  tenacious,          all  snarling  and  sharp  claws  and  teeth,          biting  down  on  her  opposition.               she  rips  him  apart  as  though  to  bare  his  vulnerabilities  to  the  world,          and  he  is  helpless.               perhaps  that  is  why  his  affections  for  her  must  be  OBVIOUS  to  even  the  thickest  of  them.

the  dirt  and  the  dust  do  not  settle.              ruination  must  stretch  to  where  the  sky  and  the  sea  meet          :          sharp  eyes  search  and  search  for  a  memory  of  what  the  land  once  was,          the  bird  released  to  search  a  barren  stretch  of  desolate  nothingness.               he  hopes  for  an  olive  leaf  with  which  he  can  return  to  the  camp,          a  sign  that  they  have  not  been  forsaken  by  whatever  eyes  watch  them.               but  it  is  nothing  but  a  foolish  dream,          and  so  he  resigns  himself  to  the  fire  and  sits  in  solemnity.

a  dog  which  only  knows  the  COMFORT  of  the  chain  around  its  neck  is  not  content  to  have  it  ripped  from  him.               you  may  allow  the  metal  to  clink  against  its  links,          may  proclaim  his  freedom  proudly,          but  he  is  happy  to  be  soothed  by  another  lead  clasped  around  his  throat.                  perhaps  falco  finds  a  pathetic  longing  for  the  past,          perhaps  it  is  why  he  clasps  a  hand  to  where  an  armband  used  to  rest  not  too  long  ago.               

“               no,               ”               he  begins.               falco  does  not  speak  without  thinking          :          he  sits  and  turns  words  over  and  over  in  his  hands,          like  a  potter  molding  clay,          before  he  settles  upon  the  diction,          the  pacing,          the  tone.               DENIAL,          now,          tumbles  past  his  lips          ;          catches  onto  his  teeth  and  sticks  to  his  tongue.               it  is  awkward,          sitting  together  like  brothers,          feigning  ignorance  to  the  calamity  leveled  upon  the  land.               reiner  reaches  out,         he  who  shielded  the  other  children  from  the  harsh  winds  and  rain  with  his  branches.             he’d  left  falco  to  quiver  in  the  warmth  of  his  own  embrace,          but  the  child  cannot  fault  him.               the  strong  survive,          but  only  because  the  weak  die.

“               please  don’t  apologize.               i          ...          i  wanted  to  protect  her.               ”               it  is  the  truth,          but  it  sits  in  the  air  with  the  silence  of  uncertainty.               does  a  bird  unable  to  stretch  its  wings  know  more  than  the  constraints  of  its  cage          ?               the  honor  and  the  glory  and  the  privilege  were  all  lies,          but  he  had  fought  for  them  with  claws  and  teeth  and  ferocity.               perhaps,          had  falco  been  allowed  the  briefest  of  looks  at  what  was  to  be,          he  would  not  have  said  such  selfish  things  then  and  would  not  be  forced  to  say  them  now.               “               and  i’m  sure  that  my  big  brother  would  have  thought  of  doing  the  same          ...          if  everyone  thought  i  was  going  to  inherit  the  armored  titan.               ”

but  this  man  terrifies  him,          roots  him  to  the  earth  and  slices  his  tongue.               it  is,          perhaps,          something  as  foolish  as  LUCK  that  falco  can  extend  a  hand  of  amends  today.               perhaps  his  blood  should  have  been  spilled  across  the  paved  roads  and  jean’s  uniform  on  that  day.               he  remembers  the  acrid  fumes  of  their  weapons,          the  effortless  nature  of  their  flight  as  they  shot  and  burned  and  swung  across  the  rooftops  of  his  home.

gabi  has  always  been  an  EXCEPTIONAL  marksman.               it  is  no  feat  of  excellence,          killing  a  woman  not  more  than  ten  steps  away  from  her.               enemies  cannot  share  in  an  offering  of  an  oblation.               they  must  burn  their   grievances  with  the  corpses  they  have  created  and  start  anew.

“               um              ...              me  too,               ”               falco  contributes,          and  this  is  a  start.          he,          too,          must  forget  the  blast  which  had  nearly  turned  him  to  ash.               “               i'm  really               ...               er,          i’m  really  sorry  that  we  did  that.               ”           

It is an ax buried in the back of his head, the way Falco curls in on himself. He watches him as he draws his small knees up to his chest, as if he could open up a black hole in his middle and crawl into it, disappear that way. Of all the escapes to dig for, the one inside your body is the last to look to. Bertholdt thought it is not possible for the child to grow smaller, smothered beneath the weight of guilt and grief, but he was wrong. He sees him shrink before his eyes. Falco withers, vanishes, fades out. And Bertholdt, guilty and grieving, looks at him as if into a mirror. 

Not too long ago, though it feels like centuries now, he has been that boy. He has been the boy with the knees pulled up against himself, arms wrapped around them, rocking himself, hugging himself, taking up as little space as possible. The impulse remains, the impulse will never die. A lifetime of neglect is shouting: No one is coming to comfort you. Comfort yourself. Be your own mother. Be your own father. Stroke your own cheek, hold yourself tight. No one else will do it for you. You have to eat your aching all by yourself. 

“I know you do. I know you are.” Bertholdt’s voice rumbles through his body, an errant earthquake, echo of something older and heavier and uglier. In the cavern of his broad chest, it has space to breed and multiply, a voice like his. Always deep, always spoken from the gut, Bertholdt’s habit of devouring cigarettes until all his breath is singeing smoke has roughened his vocal chords, turned the last smooth touch into gravely bedrock. Bertholdt must think of himself in sedimentary layers. Here is the silt, here is the loam, here is the granite. In his body, every kind thought is fossilized and turned into oil spills. And it is no easy thing to make himself soft for a mourning child. But he must. He is not adequate, has nothing to impart, has never been a healer. But he must. If no other sentiment moves him now, at the end of the world, then the cry of a child. His child now. Who else? Who the fuck else will ever understand? Who else has died twice? 

“Come here.” Long arms slowly, gingerly, wind around Falco’s shivering body. Bertholdt pulls him into his lap, into the protective architecture of his limbs. Covered by the jacket, pressed against the slowly lifting and sinking wall of his chest, he holds the boy close. “You can cry or you can talk. Or you can do nothing at all. I’m here no matter what. We’re here.” A thousand degrees seem to flare beneath the man’s skin, contained only by flesh and bone. He radiates heat and ill intent. But Falco, he keeps within the fold. Falco, he keeps safe. Somewhere to the side, out of sight, Pieck’s large body shifts and breathes. She keeps watch. So does Annie. So does Reiner. So does the Commander. He must believe that. 

And Bertholdt keeps watch, too. As he holds Falco and lets him weep, drench his shirt with salt water, the warrior’s sunken, dark eyes are trained on the soldiers on the other side of the camp. They who have forfeit all humanity, they who meant to sacrifice a child. Who meant to sacrifice the entire world. He cares nothing for the Paradisians’ pain. He no longer has the heart for it. He must ration his sympathies. And they are all being eaten up by Falco’s grief right now. To hell, then, with everybody else. 

playing  pretend.               every  child  does  it:               speaks  to  friends  no  one  can  see,          gathers  their  toys  into  their  arms  and  murmurs  into  their  fur,          drags  those  around  them  into  their  games.               it  is  easy  to  pretend  that  the  willowy  arms  that  wrap  around  his  trembling  frame  are  colt’s,          that  the  cause  of  his  anguish  is  a  scolding  from  their  mother.               he  likes  it  this  way,          is  happy  to  sit  in  ignorance  and  deceit  until  he  must  destroy  the  illusion.               it  is  no  fun  to  quit  your  little  game  so  early.               it  is  like  watching  a  magic  trick.               you  understand  that  the  card  has  not  reappeared  in  the  illusionist’s  hand,          that  the  cuffs  of  his  sleeves  conceal  his  instrument,          but  you  allow  yourself  to  be  awed  anyway.

he  is  not  content  to  share  a  meal  with  the  devil,          does  not  wish  to  grasp  his  hands  and  sing  along  with  his  songs  by  the  fire.               that  is  what  they  are,          devils,          that  is  what  they  are  said  to  be.               they  lure  you  in  with  sickly  sweet  smiles  and  a  facade  of  kindness.               how  terrible  a  lie  it  all  is          !!!               he  was  a  fool  to  extend  an  olive  branch  to  the  wicked,          as  though  they  could  see  past  their  own  depravity.               all  that  had  come  out  of  it  was  the  revelation  of  his  own  naivety,          the  trust  he  had  extended  again  and  again.               whether  it  is  delivering  letters  for  a  hospitalized  patient,          or  pleading  a  weary  soldier  not  to  shoot,          or  trailing  behind  a  desperate  man  with  a  knife.               

but  children  are  yet  untouched  by  the  wickedness  of  the  world,          and  so  they  extend  their  hands  and  clasp  their  fingers  around  those  of  sinners.               they  do  it  a  thousand  times,          they  do  it  until  they  are  the  ones  being  reached  for.               and  so  falco  had  sat  against  the  skin  of  the  cart  titan,          accepted  a  cup  and  a  spoon  and  a  healthy  helping  of  stew.               he  had  not  dared  look  at  the  person  who  had  served  him.               what  do  you  say  to  the  man  who  put  a  blade  to  your  throat          ?               how  do  you  greet  someone  who  placed  the  barrel  of  a  gun  at  your  head          ?               how  do  you  apologize  for  your  own  helplessness          ?               alongside  their  sins  are  his  own,          equal  in  the  face  of  judgement.               had  he  not  hesitated  in  the  face  of  gabi’s  rifle          ?               had  he  not  been  scrubbed  clean  of  contaminated  wine  by  those  who  had  not  once  spoken  to  him,          been  escorted  to  his  brother  by  the  kind  man  he  had  met  in  a  cell          ?               falco  teeters  on  the  edge:               enlightened  one  moment,          bewildered  the  next.

he  tucks  his  head  beneath  the  man’s  chin,          curls  in  on  himself,          and  cries.               he  cries,          and  he  cries,          and  he  cries.               if  the  others  can  hear  him  from  where  they  keep  watch,          they  do  not  speak  of  it,          and  falco  is  grateful  for  this  too.               perhaps,          if  this  were  under  any  other  circumstance,          falco  would  feel  even  the  least  bit  of  shame  for  being  comforted  as  though  he  is  but  an  infant.               his  ears  would  go  pink,          fever  in  the  face,          a  stammer  to  his  voice.               now,          he  can  do  nothing  more  than  mourn.

“               i’m               ...               i’m  sorry.               i  shouldn’t  be               ...               i  -  i’m  so  weak.               i  don’t  know  what  to  do,          and  we  needed  mr.  galliard,          or  my  brother,          not  me.               now  everyone  will  be  dead,          and  we  can’t          ...               ”               he  must  calm  himself.               he  huffs  and  puffs  until  his  face  begins  to  go  red,          but  his  chest  still  pounds  with  exertion.               maybe  bertholdt  can  hear  it,          can  FEEL  it  where  falco  hides  from  the  world  in  his  arms.               “               do  you  think          ...          that  they  will  help  us          ?          we,          gabi  and  i,          we  killed  their  friend.          ms.  sasha,          i  think.          that’s  what  kaya  said.               ”               

@flcos​​ (cont.)

————- For a moment, he almost thinks himself thrown back in time. For a moment, he is eleven again, sitting in the grass with a dejected, heartbroken little brother, weeping over destiny lost and confidence lying in tatters at his feet. Marcel picks a green blade of grass, twists it around his finger, just like he used to; but he is no longer a child trying to comfort his little brother. ThiS time, Marcel is an adult, trying to comfort someone else’s brother. He hopes there is not much difference between the two scenarios. 

“Now, what makes you say that?” A smile, patient and amused (but serious - always take children’s woes seriously; Marcel knows this too well), curls up the corner of his lips; cat-like, he observes, gauges, curious. From one generation of Warrior candidates to the next, patterns repeat themselves, dynamics so uncannily recognisable, he would laugh at it, if it weren’t so puzzling. But it is amusing. They traded one pair of brothers for another - if Falco is nothing like his own brother, he cannot help the pang of nostalgia whenever his eyes trail on Colt and his younger sibling; too familiar with the protectiveness, the lion’s instinct to watch out for their own, the worried gaze following the youngling everywhere. Of course Marcel Galliard would take a particular liking to these two. How couldn’t he? Kinship forms in the most unlikely places; but older brothers can never look away from the little ones. Even those who aren’t their own.

“There’s only five of you candidates left. You were hundreds when you started the programme, weren’t you?” He remembers it like yesteray; the new cohort, the new batch, hundreds of children led onto the training field and dragged into the mud until only the best could stand on their own two feet. Off to Paradis, he hadn’t seen them hatch from their shell and go through their first baptisms of fire and dirt; but what he sees now is not too different from what he saw then, when he was just about Falco’s age. “No one who is weak would have been able to make it this far, Falco. Whatever happens now, you’ve already proved yourself to be among the strongest. That’s why you still have that yellow armband, and hundreds of others don’t.” He commands himself encouraging, reassuring; ignores the bile that pools in his stomach. Keep your opinions to yourself, Galliard. “Did Gabi say something again?” Doesn’t that ring a bell too. Truly, children never change. 

he  is  bitter,          clenches  a  fist  and  buries  it  in  the  dirt  and  grass  of  the  hill.               it  sits  there,          soothed  by  the  cold  touch  of  the  earth.               “               nothing  much.               ”               falco  does  not  like  to  lie,          feels  the  heaviness  of  the  falsehood  struggle  past  his  lips  and  make  itself  present  in  the  thick  of  the  air.               expression  is  solemn,          thinking,          serious.               he  cannot  look  at  marcel.               children  hold  themselves  to  great  importance,          as  if  they  are  the  very  pull  that  keeps  the  earth  spinning  upon  its  spokes.               but  the  youngest  grice  is  weary  of  the  bark  of  military  commanders  and  the  knowledge  of  his  own  insignificance.               for  this,          he  is  relieved  of  the  great  burden  that  is  holding  up  the  world  upon  his  shoulders.

falco’s  averageness  is  noted  amongst  the  top  brass               ;               a  jack  of  all  trades,          when  they  pity  the  child  beat  down  by  the  words  of  his  peers.               he  cannot  boast  mastery  of  marksmanship,          nor  academia,          nor  hand  to  hand  combat.               it  is  a  bitter  feeling,          to  know  you  are  so  unexceptional  amongst  the  remarkable.               each  of  his  fellow  cadets  are  like  the  sturdy  trees  that  line  liberio’s  horizon.               he  is  the  pitiful  weed  that  struggles  to  see  even  a  moment  of  sun  beneath  their  shade.               “               i  guess  so,               ”               he  concedes,          and  that  is  that.               perhaps  his  survival  is  truly  something  to  find  a  contrived  pride  in,          the  mere  fact  that  he  has  clung  to  his  honor  by  the  skin  of  his  teeth.

“               ...               yes.               ”               they  have  built  something  of  a  reputation,          him  and  gabi.               their  rivalry,          his  renewed  DETERMINATION  in  pursuit  of  the  right  to  inherit  the  armored  titan,          their  constant  squabbling.               she  snarls  with  the  viciousness  of  a  beast  in  recent  days,          clawing  and  snapping  and  gnawing  to  demand  that  all  eyes  are  on  her.               he  curls  in  on  himself  and  pleads  for  it  to  be  over.               it  is  a  romantic  thing  in  literature,          to  be  the  underdog.               but  the  novels  never  show  the  mangy,          sniveling,          frail  pups  which  must  prove  themselves.               

                                      @flcos​ said   :    𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧❜𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧   ♡

 𝐎𝐡❟  𝐛𝐮𝐭  𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭  𝐰𝐚𝐬  𝐚𝐥𝐥  𝐬𝐡𝐞  𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝  𝐭𝐨  𝐝𝐨.  Bring  her  back  from  the  brink  of  disorientation  and  ground  her  back  into  the  very  much  present  world.  Pieck  thinks  back  to  when  she  was  in  his  shoes,  fighting  for  the  honour  of  a  titan  in  exchange  for  the  promise  of  safety  for  their  family,  how  her  knuckles  were  constantly  bruised  and  her  muscles  constantly  ached.  She  had  been  as  tired  then  as  she  was  now,  though  the  extent  was  spread  to  opposite  ends  of  the  spectrum.  How  she  wished  she  had  someone  her  senior  to  guide  her  in  the  right  direction,  someone  who’d  walked  the  path  she  inevitably  would.  Not  all  of  them  were  given  the  luxury  of  knowing  the  host  of  the  titan  they’d  eventually  consume.  Pieck  would  never  say  that  the  new  generation  had  it  easier,  but  they  certainly  had  the  luxury  of  the  current  warriors  support.

 “  Falco —  ”  his  name  was  sing-song  on  her  lips,  crutch  positioned  under  her  right  shoulder  which  would  now  take  most  of  her  weight,  she  reached  out  and  lightly  ruffles  the  hair  atop  his  head.  “  —  if  I  didn’t  want  to  listen,  I  wouldn’t  have  asked.  ”     It  was  the  truth  —  she  didn’t  have  time  to  listen  to  petty  whines  and  complaints,  but  there  was  something  in  the  way  the  young  boy’s  brows  had  knotted  and  the  look  of  defeat  in  his  eyes  that  had  captured  her  curiosity.  Her  hand  returns  to  her  side  before  she’s  opting  to  sit  on  the  bench  beside  them,  crutch  leaning  against  the  wall,  she  both  did  it  to  be  at  his  level  and  show  her  willingness  to  listen  and  to  let  her  aching  legs  rest.

 “  What’s  going  on  in  that  little  head  of  yours,  hmm?  ”  Her  voice  tender,  warm  like  summer  sun  and  smooth  like  royal  velvet.  The  smile  that’d  crept  it’s  way  onto  her  features  reflected  that,  too.  Pieck  was  nothing  if  not  understanding,  both  in  and  out  of  war.  “  I’m  all  ears.  ”  

sole  of  his  boot  is  kicked  against  the  earth  and  his  head  ducks  in  a  desperate  attempt  at  hiding               ;               ears  glow  scarlet  with  the  shy  embarrassment  of  a  boy  backed  into  a  corner.               the  hand  which  displaces  his  hair  is  met  with  a  flustered  barking  of  pieck’s  name,          as  though  falco  is  inconvenienced  by  her  affection,          but  his  protests  die  down  just  as  quickly  as  they  rise  in  his  chest.               “               i  suppose  that’s  true,               ”               falco  mulls  aloud,          squinting  at  the  woman  as  though  he  is  discerning  her  true  intentions  from  a  facade  of  sincerity.               he  finds  no  malice  in  her  tone,          nor  the  smile  upon  her  face,          and  so  he  joins  her  on  the  bench.

falco  is  a  quiet  boy               [               a  good  thing,          his  mother  would  say.               it  is  best  to  know  when  to  bare  your  fangs,          to  keep  your  vulnerabilities  to  your  chest               ]               and  so  he  is  reluctant  to  indulge  in  the  exploration  of  his  worries,           particularly  in  the  company  of  another.               still,          he  supposes  that  pieck  is  as  safe  a  confidant  as  can  be.               far  more  trustworthy  than  udo  or  even  porco,          who  would  undoubtedly  tease  or  abruptly  forget  that  this  is  a  TOP  SECRET  MATTER,          deserving  of  the  confidentiality  given  to  war  strategy  and  knowledge.               “               um          ...          so  there’s  this  girl  that  i  like,               ”               begins  the  reluctant  drag  of  his  words.               falco  presses  his  hands  against  one  another  and  entangles  his  fingers  together  with  the  inward  roll  of  his  lips.               his  anxieties  catch  his  confession  in  his  throat,          and  grice  child  chokes  on  them  with  trepidation.               

They have the script memorized. That is good of them. Bertholdt calls his concern into the tiny echo chamber of air between them, and Falco calls back, softly bleating his response. It is something of a shepherding act. He listens for the ringing bell of a lamb stuck in the thicket. He knows the body and the mind don’t need to go hand in hand. One is flightier than the other, takes its leave at the slightest shock. So he calls, asks the impossible, says ‘sleep some’ as all the useless adults have uselessly done before him, and Falco, smart kid, answers exactly as he is meant to. 

Bertholdt takes his pulse, makes sure he is still there. He can do nothing else. He is a child, looking after a child. The pack animal in him, a wolf-lean heart with its fangs bared at the shapes across the campsite, wants to believe that there will be more eyes to keep all accounted for. He wants to believe that he can trust the comrades by his side to protect and preserve. But so often fragile things slip through their fingers. He doesn’t know what to look out for, how to defend. Magath demands collaboration, civility. Of course. Magath wasn’t there. Didn’t struggle for light, for air, in the grasp of this island, eviscerated by guilt and love and duty. Each demon loped back into the forest with its pound of flesh dangling in its teeth. 

Bertholdt has no qualms now about assigning the specters that haunt him a face and a name. He stares at them from across the fire, with his grief-sunken eyes, his lined and weathered face. The internment zone is a mass grave now. Porco Galliard is dead. Colt Grice is dead. And he knows who is to blame. He knows who their enemies are. He tracks their movements, makes so so certain the moat is not crossed. Bertholdt was not a guard dog until they made him one. Now he bristles at the border, now he patrols. He doesn’t call them devils, has no further use for such allegory. But he does call them murderers. It makes no difference to the dead who shot first.

Worse, perhaps, that the poison that pounds in him is now inherited by yet another child, yet another bystander. Yet another life that is cut short for nothing. Cruelty has nothing to do with this anymore. This is sheer apathy. No god could devise this, no all-seeing fate woven from possibility and thread. Whether they all kill each other now or later, it makes no difference. But that is nothing he can say to Falco. He can only tighten his hold on him, small body disappeared under the layers of fabric. What did he think he was doing, building a nest for him? No warmth can replace a brother. No comfort can wash the blood off. All adults are useless.

“Falco…” He mutters as if to discourage the question, the very thought of it. Don’t do that to yourself, Bertholdt wants to say. Don’t punish yourself by asking questions. Didn’t you see what comes of it? But Falco is a child and children care nothing for themes. Bertholdt looks down at him, curled up and hollowed out. 

“You only need to know that he was prepared for it.” He mutters, stilted, unaccostumed to comfort. Bertholdt never had a knack for words. “He loved you very much and knew what would happen. He chose to stay with you. You didn’t do anything. And I want you to understand that, because anything else will do a kind of damage you can never come back from. It is not your fault. None of this. I know it doesn’t feel that way, but that is the truth. Something horrible was done to you and your brother, and we will not forget it. We know who is to blame and it isn’t you.”  

selfish.               to  grow  concerned  only  with  oneself  is  a  vice  that  roots  your  motion.               falco  has  never  been  a  self  centered  boy               ;               he  sets  the  dinner  table  without  being  told  and  ensures  his  parents  have  the  largest  helpings  of  stew  and  stale  bread.               the  leaves  that  fall  in  the  street  are  raked  without  complaint,          the  dishes  are  washed  without  a  noise  of  discontent.               and  though  he  has  lived  his  life  in  the  service  of  others,          as  a  tool  of  war  amounting  to  nothing  more  than  an  artillery  shell,               falco  cannot  help  his  own  egotism.               it  is  inherent  to  man,          concern  for  yourself  and  your  problems               ;               disregard  for  the  pain  of  others.               anyone  would  sooner  see  a  friend  wounded  than  to  suffer  themselves.   

bertholdt  shakes,          even  if  falco  pretends  he  does  not  notice,          and  offers  the  comfort  of  his  shade  to  the  weary  traveler.               all  the  child  does  is  complain  of  the  older  warrior’s  demarcated  reach,          which  does  not  manage  to  truly  soothe  the  aching  of  his  bones,               DEMANDS  him  to  relive  his  pain  again  and  again  until  he  is  satisfied               [               and  he  never  will  be.               he  knows  this,          bertholdt  knows  this,          they  who  gather  around  the  fire  know  this               ]               and  sated.

“               i  just               ...               i  miss  him.               ”               miserable,          he  pulls  his  knees  into  his  chest  and  buries  his  face  into  his  arms  for  a  brief  moment.               the  coat  bunches  around  him,          and  it  seems  as  though  falco  disappears  into  its  folds.               in  his  place  are  the  scruffy,          bedraggled  remains  of  a  sad  creature  who  was  once  a  boy.               colt  and  porco  had  reared  him,          taken  the  fallen  chick  into  their  cupped  hands  and  brushed  the  dirt  from  his  feathers.               how  had  falco  repaid  their  kindness          ?               with  snapping  jaws  and  cruelty,          as  though  he  were  but  a  beast  briefly  tamed  by  man.               “               i  miss  them.               a  -  and  i’m  very  sorry.               ”