#geopfert

Picture the mother defeated. Pieck sits on the cot, her fingers laced into her hair unwashed hair. It falls in dry strands, obscures where she is pressing hard into her eyes, where the headache screws holes into her brain. She has been sitting there for too long, sunken into herself, a discarded doll with pointed shoulders. While the makeshift crib bears the miserable wails of a child.

Pieck doesn't look. Is too ashamed, too tired to look. She hides in the palms of her hands and lets her mind leak out of her ears, liquified by sleep deprivation and migraines. Her shirt is dirtied, swollen and raw teats soaking it with wasted milk. She's cried already and is now too dried up to attempt it a second time. Her eyes are red-rimmed, punched black and blue by sleepless nights. Colic, said the one doctor she could find who'd give her and the crying little creature writhing in her arms the time of day. She doesn't know what that means. She was sent away, told to give it time. But the child keeps screaming and Pieck can't bear her weight anymore.

"I can't do it, Annie. I can't. I don't know how. I don't know what to do." She rasps out, a confession she flicks at her like a pebble. She chokes on a half-swallowed breath. Such helplessness leaves her so cruel, so resentful. It's not the child's fault. It can't be. How could it be? And yet, every scream balls up in her stomach like a hateful fist.

"Just... Take her away."

A tarpaulin-domed den, drenched in a scent Annie associated with burrows or caves – primal places, floors lined with fur and bones. Dirt and piss. The intimate, viscera-tang of a mother’s innards. Blood and milk. The lattermost bloomed in wet, sticky flowers on Pieck’s chest, her body reduced to a leaking, deflated thing. Some small, bruised part of Annie died of second-hand shame and was grateful for the distraction of those piercing wails. Such a wretched sound must hit Pieck like a bullet, like a train that kept on coming.

“What a racket you’re making…”

Annie murmured darkly, peering at the bundle lying at the heart of the cobbled-together crib. It heaved and writhed with unpractised misery. Through it all, Pieck sat with a faraway and feral look on her face, fingers twisting in the stiff, dirty hair that cloaked her like a burial shroud. Two people were drowning, which one to choose?

“You just need sleep.”

This isn’t you, she wanted to emphasise. Years apart had left them almost strangers, but still she knew enough of Pieck to understand such overwhelm was uncharacteristic.

As always, Annie chose obedience. Taking the desperate order between her teeth she lifted the infant – Zofia – and held her gingerly, scooped against the bird bones of her own brittle chest. Annie was the colour of a fish belly, all mean features and hard angles sharpened by hunger, ringing hollow at her roots. She was not built to coddle something so soft, so new. Still she tried, swaying faintly where she stood, gazing dubiously into the stiff nest of blankets. Zofia arched and raged against her with surprising strength, hands clenched into tiny pink fists. How had her father ever weathered such inconsolable crying? How he had resisted the urge to smother her, to drown her in the same pail as the miller’s kittens?

Attention returned to Pieck, who sat shell-shocked, defeated by the squall of her unhappy baby.

“You need to rest. When you’ve done that, get cleaned up. Wash your face. Drag your fingers through your hair. Pull yourself together – because it isn’t just you anymore, is it?”

Annie meant it kindly, meant only that Pieck couldn’t afford to unravel, not even in these impossible circumstances.

Time was a wicked devil, Armin had grown to learn that long before the rumbling had ever happened. Blink and it passed in an instant when you wanted it to never end, and when all you wanted was the sweet release of a new day, time stood still. Painfully still. Every day seemed to have been stuck in the latter. A vicious cycle, wake up, become a ghost, allow yourself to be haunted by others, try and find sleep. Wake up. Wake up. He couldn’t wake up. Did he want to? 

Some days were easier than others, despite the fact they never seemed to end, but this day wouldn’t be one. He found himself here often, rummaging about the rubble in an attempt to right Eren’s wrongs. Clean the mess he’d created, find the names to the John and Jane Doe’s that lined the overfilled morgues and the unmarked graves. Just do something. Even if that something was spawned solely from a place of self hatred, it was better than not doing anything at all.

They had started to make a dent in the long list of names over the past few months, day by day people were finding dog tags or old photographs or loved ones to put a face to a name. It was hard work, miserable work, but nothing yet had quite punched Armin as hard in the stomach as the green jacket he’d found among some outlying buildings, stashed away in a duffle bag that didn’t quite fit in with the rest and alongside a handful of other clothes. He’d thought nothing of it to start, just another piece of clothing to burn with the rest, until a name had caught his eye. Sewn neatly onto the breast pocket was a patch of fabric with the name GALLIARD. 

Armin sat there for too many moments as the name racked his brain, he knew this name, didn’t know the person, but the name. He’d remembered the warriors speaking of him highly, the Jaw titan, if he recalls correctly. He couldn’t allow them to burn it. Not when they still mourned the way they did. 

It was an effort to track her down, one that spanned a multitude of days and miles. Armin didn’t often travel this far into the refuge camps, not when the bloods were still bitter between the two nations despite the (poor) efforts of reconciliation. It was safer for him and better for them, he figured. The Jacket had been folded neatly and returned to the bag from where it came, careful not to disturb it or taint it with his bloodied hands, Armin had the strap slung about his shoulder and the weight of it threatened to bury him in the ground. 

"This one?" Lothar holds up the pale lilac flower up for his daughter's inspection. She furrows her brow in earnest contemplation, mercilessly judging his selection. Then she huffs a small 'no!' and returns to her work of ripping daisies out by the roots. The low rumble of her father's laugh settles over her, a melody that spells patient love. "No?" He pouts at her and puts the flower away to direct her clumsy hands instead. "What flower do you think mama likes? Daisies? Can you make a daisy chain?"

The soft pitter-patter of their play is framed by the kitchen window. A sensation of scrutiny is crawling up Lothar's spine where he crouches his with his child, warily checking the horizon, shielding her at times when a carriage rustles down the distant street. It isn't the outside world that concerns him, that pelts him with stares. The specter is inside the house, haunting his hallways. Blond and pale, she must have wafted from her solitude, out to the threshold, like mist. Lothar knows his wife has arrived on the scene, the way a hare can smell the descending hawk. He doesn't freeze, knows that to play dead is to invite scavenging. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Sasha, kisses her curls, helps her weave white flowers into a crown. His fingers are rough and calloused but deft, looming over his daughter's like gnarled shadows.

"Now, be careful, angel. It's delicate, just- Yes, good. Do you want to go wish mama a happy birthday now? All right, up you go." Once the work is complete, Sasha holding fast to the chain, each flower a yellow-capped pearl upon the necklace, Lothar lifts her up and out of the grass. Green stains the skirt of her little dress as well as the knees of his rough work trousers. A privilege, to be stained by grass and not blood. A privilege, that his daughter doesn't know the color of red from anything but strawberry tarts.

Lothar's eyes turn to the kitchen, to the porch. There she is, of course, staring in her desolate way, her distant-figure way. He thought to leave her alone for the duration of the day, something so primal and moored in misery for the young woman. Others will come, her entourage, her littermates, and they will bring her joy that he cannot comprehend. But he can bring her her daughter. That is his function, after all. He exists to complete the picture, an intimate guard dog for his queen.

"Sasha has something for you." He introduces the two of them to each other as he ascends the small steps to the house. In his arms, the toddler grows lively, reaching out towards her mother with flowers in her little hands. Lothar's voice is soft and instructive, reminding of the ritual: "Say happy birthday, angel."

IT’S A DAY AS ANY OTHER, though not quite as cold as those she remembers, nor as dark. She isn’t locked in her room and ordered to be silent as her mother weeps bitterly about the worst day of her life from across the house. Historia still feels the need to cloister herself away though. A niggling little itch at the back of her head that make GUILT fester in her belly with every step down the staircase she takes. [ Who let you out of your room? Go! It isn’t time for your dinner. Get back up there! You’re upsetting your mother. ] Had anything really changed though? She casts a dark shadow over her family with her presence. She is keenly aware of Lothar’s body language when he notices that she is behind him. He doesn’t freeze, but there is a shift in the energy that encompasses them that makes her want to turn on her heel and run. 

But Sasha is there with all of her youthful excitement, little fingers reaching out to present her with her string of flowers. She thaws instantly at that. The blue of her eyes as warm now as the midsummer sky as she carefully takes the flowers; smiling as her daughter offers her a clumsy ‘happy birfday, mama’ Historia reaches out to kiss the backs of tiny fingers in gratitude before the flowers are placed in her hair ‘Look at how talented you are, little lamb. Thank you for the wonderful present!’ Sasha grins with all of her little white teeth on display, golden head whipping around to look at her father in delight at the approval, silver eyes sparkling in delight. The girl really is a buffer between them that lessens the awkwardness that hung like fog when forced in close proximity. 

SHE REMEMBERS HIM LIKE A MOUSE REMEMBERS A CAT, not without trepidation. It slickens her palms with sweat and fills her veins to the brim with ice. Her gate is staggered as she strides towards the barn, she walks like she approaches the gallows. THE GUN AT HER BACK IS REPLACED WITH A NEEDLE. It isn’t just he she fears. Her mind is knotted with the threads of a hundred anxieties that have nothing to do with this man from her past. ‘Our only options are to fight or run’ fight or run / fight or run / god how she wants to RUN. Let’s run together, please. I’ve changed my mind, I don’t want this.  Her feet carry her ever forward, a hand grazing her belly. IT’S TOO LATE FOR THAT NOW ANYWAY. Phantom pain skitters across her shoulder like lightning when she catches sight of him through the open doors. Over the scar that shines white against already pale flesh. Funny that he would be working her fields, like he was biding his time waiting to claim a prize he barely wanted with a throw of a stone all those years ago. God, what would Ymir think of her now?

Historia can’t bring herself to meet his eyes, even as he turns from his work to face her. [ IF I LOOK AT HIM I CAN’T GO BACK ] He remains a blur in her peripheral until she hears the soft pad of footsteps to her left. There stands a hooded figured, silver eyes flickering beneath it, offering a nod of reassurance that allows her finds the fractured pieces of her courage. THERE IS NO GOING BACK NOW, THERE NEVER WAS... Lothar is as different as he is the same. Still a head taller than her, still lanky; though the years had broadened his shoulders and labor had wrapped him in wiry muscle. His eyes were still the warm brown she remembers looking into as he pulled her from the lake, still looking down at her like he can’t quite believe she’s speaking to him. The queen stands there like a ghost. Drawn and pale in the afternoon sun like a sheet on a line. Surely she could have asked another friend? None of them wanted to see her suffer, they would need little coaxing to play the part. But she couldn’t do that to them. This role would break them. This left the only viable option, the only person from her past she had left. An obvious red-herring that no one close to her would buy, but there was nothing left. No other choice. Perhaps it would break him too in the end...

"He's the kind of father you deserved to have," he remarks quietly, nursing his glass as he sidles up beside her on the porch. "Maybe you shouldn't drive him away from your daughter." @gepanzrt​​ / @geopfert​​ walt goes to jail arc!!

The estate was swift to tumble into autumns embrace, the horizon painted in shades of red and gold as mighty trees succumbed to their fate. The queens stare is so intent that she nearly misses his words, glancing briefly at her friend in acknowledgement as he meandered forward before returning to the skyline. It was almost comical how fast they snapped back on to Reiner when his words registered. Historia looked much like a fish out of water as her mouth popped open, gaping in some semblance of HORROR & AWE before finding the decency to shut it once more. She won’t pretend it doesn’t sting. When she had told herself she wanted him on her side, she assumed he would back her in all things. But of course this was where the line was drawn in the sand. Especially after that night. She can’t help but fizzle in ire, lips pursing and shoulders hunching. She loves him dearly but this penchant for backing her into a corner and unraveling tightly bound wounds was becoming tiresome. Perhaps it was unfair of her when she knew he only sought to help, but she was far too embittered these last few months to care. The poison had long taken hold, do stop trying to draw it out, YOU’LL ONLY SICKEN YOURSELF.

It dawns on her slowly though: She isn't being scolded, not really.

The queen stops herself from lashing out as she had before, choosing retrospect instead as she gazes down at her hands. She dusts off the little box where she keeps her thoughts of him, peering into those memories she refused to let herself dwell on for too long. It’s the quiet moments, she thinks, that get to her the most. Sasha, barely out of infancy, curled against the broadness of his chest as he hums to her, a rough hewn hand cradling her tiny golden head. There's a warmth in his eyes, a tenderness so raw it pains her to witness. She thinks of her toddler now, stubby fingers wrapped around a single one of Lothar's as the pair venture towards the paddock. She sees him lift her in the air and press kisses to her chubby cheeks. Sees him lift her off the ground when she falls and coo over scrapes. He wipes her tears away and speaks to her like a person instead of a pet, this little girl who was not his own but had made herself a home in his heart. She knew in her heart there was no wrong this girl could commit that would ever shake Lothar's affection for her. If her heritage would not sway him, nothing would. 

She didn't understand, but how could she? Why would it click in her broken mind when her owe blood despised her so completely? To love something with such unconditional reckless abandon was a fantasy. IT WAS LESS THAN MYTH. But here he was, doing just that. Breaking through her perception of reality and proving her wrong as he was want to do. Historia swallows, still refusing to meet Reiner's eyes as he watches her from across the porch. 'He's the kind of father you deserved to have.' did she though? A hollow ache opens in her chest as those words hit her again and again likes waves beating against a cliffside. She imagines a faceless being in place of Rod coming to scoop her up after a long day. The feel of scruff on her face as she's pulled in close and tight. She imagines a deep rumbling laugh when she speaks. She imagines what it would have felt like to be safe, as a child should be. To not be hit for making noise, for SPEAKING, for daring to reach out. It feels more foreign to her than the shores of Marley...

She casts the thoughts from her mind, unwilling to fracture herself yet again. Now was not the time. He wasn’t right about her, but he was right about Sasha. She deserved what Historia did not. She deserved to have all of those things Historia couldn’t understand, would only half understand as a bystander can. The queen purses her lips again and sighs, sending her friend a baleful look as she settles further into her rocking chair.