#bruchfest

He is still vaguely aware of his surroundings. Enough to know that the group passing just up ahead of him are members of the Panzer Unit, but not enough to register that one of them actually glances back and greets him as they make their way by. Porco is miles away in his thoughts right now. In truth, he does this more often than he'd care to admit.

Ymir likes to taunt him, he thinks. When he's trying to strong-arm his way back into his brother's memories, it'll be hers that always come to him first, if at all. It is that little blonde one, again, today; the girl with two different names that seems to be all he's been able to hone in on thus far. Snippets of her voice in his mind, pictures of the way she would stare back sometimes, and a subtle scent that he imagines must be her.

Whoever she is, Krista or Historia, Ymir had loved her. Porco can tell in those memories, by the tight sensation in his chest, he can feel it as though it were his own—

Pieck says: How long have you been standing there?

He blinks a few times, jarred, realizing he's no longer standing out in the forest as the bustle of life around him quickly seeps back into the present — where he's been patiently waiting for Pieck to appear up by the top of the stairs. Not her best obstacle.

"I wasn't exactly counting the minutes," Porco says as he picks his elbows up off the railing upon her arrival and pockets his hands with a shrug. "But not long, I guess."

Like he hasn't been zoned out for the last ten minutes at least. As if he hadn't been intentionally waiting there for her, and he doesn't come purposefully around to Pieck's side not supporting her wooden third-leg so she has his arm right there at the ready.

The gunfire had ceased; nothing but death, dust and debris lay spread across the battlefield now. The skies are filled only with the dark mushroom clouds left behind in their wake. Voices have finally begun to calm as the time has passed, with the conflict won and the surrounding territory successfully secured under their control. No word of any more enemy reinforcements yet headed their way. For the time being, anyway.

There might be a chance of relaxing now, for Porco, after he steps aside for the medic that he'd previously barked at like a bloodhound to come and help right away. Feeling the tightly-drawn string that had pinned his shoulders back finally fall slack once she confidently assures their watchful Commander that the young man's going to be okay.

He can finally stop worrying at least—and so could Magath. Good.

It was getting hard to breathe in the tent. The first thing Porco does once he's back outside is drag his hands up through his hair and sets them like hooks over the back of his neck, before heaving out a sigh of relief. It's just a couple of seconds or so after that, that he hears the familiar sounds of upcoming footsteps, boots crushing down through the dirt in a rush—and he lifts his head again.

In the next beat, he's dropping his hands and catching the boy with a flat palm to the chest before he's able to pass him, easing him backwards again as he says, "No you don't. Not while Magath's still in there."

Like that's what matters. Not that the medic hadn't yet finished bandaging up the beyond sorry-looking state of the boy's older brother when Porco had walked out, and he is quite sure the last thing Colt would want is for Falco to see him lying there with his head cracked open.

Falco asks: Is that ... blood?

And Porco frowns, following his eyes until he's staring at the dark red shoulder patch that sits starkly out of place on his dull beige uniform. Not his own, obviously—Colt's.

"Well, what else would it be?" He huffs lightly, baring his teeth before he guides the kid back around and brings them just a few steps away from the tent by the gentle budge at the back of his head. Not far. Porco already understands he will not go far.

THERE IS ALWAYS A LEVEL OF SEPARATION BETWEEN THEM, a gap that could not be bridged, a door that could never be opened, an ocean that could not be crossed. in the rot of her mind she wonders who had placed it there? what great hand had reached down to dig the trench? madness likes to coil its fingers through her flaxen hair and coyly whisper that it was her long lost loves. the two mighty enough to quite literally rend the earth. how even beyond the grave they could not bear the thought of her and another. that they would extend into life once more to jealously divid her from any other. but in her heart she knows that hand was her own. she could not delude herself anymore than she could delude the man that sat on the opposite side of that door [ . . . ] in the stillness of her half empty room, the clamor of guilt-conjured voices finally allows a moment of clarity and respite. were she like the wretched faithful she would mortify her flesh in penance, instead she destroys every scrap of undeserved goodness that dared cross her path. he deserved the same for daring to love her in spite of the blood. there is no punishment harsh enough to absolve her sins, there is no punishment harsh enough to absolve him for forgiving hers.

RESIONE Schlagfestes, hochfestes Harz mit geringer Wasseraufnahme, Nylon-ähnliches, langanhaltendes, nicht sprödes Harz zum Bedrucken von aufschnappbaren oder beweglichen Teilen (500g) (more…) “”

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