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First, she will fall in love with his mind.
He will fill the dictionaries of her vocabulary with meanings she's never known, and syllables she's never tried. And the words of his voice will become the thoughts that fill her late nights.
Nobody will speak the way he does.
He will whisper the secrets of the universe to her, in the warmth of the sun, in the colossal darkness of the night. And she will listen; always.
She will never crave a mind so deeply.
He will show her skies she's never seen, past midnights in their pyjamas. And he will show her how to trace the shapes of a hunter, a queen, a dragon, and a chisel from the stars.
"There was Orion," he'll tell her, "Cassiopeia, Draco, Caelum. And there were the gods that created them."
Then he will take her hand and hold it up, against the constellations of stories he'd mapped across the sky. He will guide her fingers towards the gods that ruled over the ancient empires of fallen, forgotten worlds.
And he'll tell her that their names were Jupiter, Mercury, Saturn, Venus, and Mars; once, when they ruled over a nation called Rome.
"What happened to them?" she'll ask.
"What happens to all gods of all great kingdoms — they fell with their cities, like the walls will fall with ours one day."
When she looks up at him, the blue in his eyes will be a fierce shade of certainty and his shoulders will carry a strong, confident determination. He'll promise her, "one day, we'll leave this place and I'll show you everything there is out there. Oceans, and deserts, mountains."
"Aren't you afraid, though?" she'll ask. And she'll suddenly be aware of how small and insignificant their voices feel, under the sky of the stars and gods. "It seems so dark and lonely out there."
There will be a small smile when he looks back at her. "Maybe," he'll say, "but we'll have each other and the stars for light. And it won't be so dark and lonely after that."
And she'll forget that she's in her pyjamas, out past bedtime, and under the enormity of the sky.
She will feel the safety of his hand holding her's — warm, and gentle and kind. "Come on," he'll say. "I'll walk you back home."
** ** **
She will fall in love with his body second, beneath his Survey Corps uniform, in between searing kisses and burning fingertips.
She will find the secrets of his anatomy, first with her hands, then with her lips — faded scars, birthmarks, weaknesses.
Then, she will grow bolder and learn how to trace the gasps, sighs, and moans from his body. And she will know what sublimity is when her hands find that spot that will make him worship her name, over and over again.
He will be extraordinary.
She'll tell him as her fingertips roam over his perfection; then over his healing injuries and the scars they'll leave behind.
"Always," she'll whisper, when he allows her to find the bandages that bleed into the emptiness of his right sleeve.
He will be wearing his scars and the bruises of the tired, defeated posture he'll occupy.
But he will be extraordinary. Always.
** ** **
She will fall in love his soul. It will harden beneath the weight of the commander's bolo tie and she will love it still.
He'll return from battlefields with new wounds but his life will suffer from the damages they've caused.
She will watch the guilt punish his humanity.
Nightmares will wait for him in the darkness beneath his eyelids. He will grieve, he will hurt; he will remember.
She'll hold him in whispers and kisses, and soft touches. She'll do her best, but it will stop being enough.
The blue in his eyes fade and numb; because it will have to. His touch will callous, his voice will harden.
All she'll be able to do is watch and struggle to recognize the ruins of his soul.
On some nights, he'll lie next to her, fighting to find sleep between the commander's responsibilities, worries, and bad memories. Maybe he'll take solace in her body and admit that he still loves her.
But most of the time, he'll sit in his office, filling his glass and insomnia with whiskey. At first, she'll try to coax him to bed — whispers, kisses, soft touches. But they stopped being enough long ago.
He will no longer touch her like he used to, smile at her like he used to, look at her like he used to.
The war will continue. He will lead, he will fight; he will make sacrifices. He will lose an arm, he will suffer, then he will break.
She will hold him; he will let himself crumble — broken, beaten, and exhausted.
And she will love him still.
"Always," she'll whisper, when he allows her to find the bandages that bleed into the emptiness of his right sleeve.
She will kiss his forehead, the wounds beneath the bandages and finally, his heartbeat — kisses on his mind, body and soul.
"No matter what you think, no matter what you do," she'll tell him, "I will love all that you are always, Erwin."