Work Text:
I never knew what brought me to study history, but something about it always pulled me in where other academic subjects left me feeling bored and spaced out.
The course I chose to study at university always shocked people who knew me as a child, they never thought someone like me capable of endeavours so focused. I suppose I've always been a coiled spring, never able to stay still for long. As a child I was constantly getting into trouble, but these days I've managed to rein it in somewhat.
Is it normal to feel as if you were built for something else? My body has always been waiting for something awful to happen, a moment where I'll need to fight, or run. I was diagnosed with ADHD and anxiety as soon as I was old enough for it to be apparent, but I've always felt it was deeper than that. A feeling in my bones has always made me so on edge, I've had to run until I can barely stand to get the feeling out, or constantly look over my shoulder for a possible threat.
Regardless, studying history has been one of those things that I have been able to lose myself in since childhood. I can crack open a book and remain absorbed for hours, the only thing to calm the steaming train of thoughts inside my head.
The history of our lands and Paradis Island is mostly lost to the wind, few elements surviving after so many years. Some people even disregard our history these days, feeling that some of it is far too entangled with fiction to believe.
The few texts excavated are held in reverence by scholars who believe the legends and stories that traveled only by word before the old handwritten tomes were discovered; translation of the ancient language contained in their pages took years upon years.
The pages, so delicate and aged, only confirmed what was rumoured - monsters taller than you could imagine, their bodies made of matter that disappeared into thin air. Death, loss.. a history painted in blood with little to show in the way of victory.
What is it that pulls me in? I've always pondered it, wondering over and over why these texts and this history capture me so.
The gallery my class and I are currently gathered at is one we traveled far to see, the Eldian exhibit is one of the largest collections of historical matter in the country.
The low lights protect the pieces displayed before us, and we mill about gazing at charcoal sketches and trying to decipher the old languages displayed in cases of glass.
There is a handful of oil paintings hung in elaborate, antique frames but a feeling of illness washes over me to see their faces staring down at me - upper class pigs with nothing better to do but watch those beneath them die and fall to ruin.
I move away from those artworks, in search of the humble drawings depicting the soldiers and civilians. I've always preferred them, they feel so special and they fill me with a strange sense of warmth. It's strange... but I feel as if I'm looking at pictures of my family.
My breath catches in my throat as I take in a particular drawing of a soldier. He carries the winged insignia that I've always adored, the mark of a Survey Corps member. As long as I can remember, they interested me most, those of the military that truly risked all they had for the greater good. Yet, still, something about them fills me with the greatest sorrow I have ever felt.
The face I gaze down at currently is labeled on a plaque, "Levi Ackerman, squad captain. Approximately, Year 846." I would know his name even without the caption.
It's like he's looking right at me, his shadowed eyes boring into my very being, and something about that gaze feels familiar. There's a furrow between his brows, his mouth a straight line. He looks young, especially since he hasn't the scarring from his later years. If I have my dates right, this picture must have been drawn shortly after he joined the military.
I've never seen an image of him smiling, but I can imagine it so vividly. Crow's feet, definitely crow's feet… a chip in his right canine, roguish and telling of his past in the Underground City. I'm aware that's ridiculous, I couldn't possibly know - still…. it's something I've often thought of.
Captain Levi's face has always seemed like the face of someone I know, and I've never understood how that could be. Though, it is something that I've grown to accept.
Perhaps, it does stem from admiration that I've harboured since childhood, the historical stories captivating me at such a young age. I've carried these feelings towards the figures in our history books for so long that my attachments and familiarity would make sense.
Most of Paradis' recorded history is credited to Hanji Zoe and a soldier named Armin Arlert. It makes sense that Levi appears so often in the texts that have been recovered, a close friend as we understand to Zoe and, later, a mentor to Arlert.
Despite almost constant mentions of Levi in Zoe and Arlert's records, never has anything of Levi's own creation been discovered until a few months ago. The reason for our visit is to see those papers, preserved so beautifully as they are.
Some of the texts on display, field notes from exhibitions especially, are falling apart, yellowed and fragile. But as I look upon Levi's letters in the case to my left, the paper is mostly intact, the ink without water damage or fading. The wax seal on the envelope is a forest green, the wings of freedom imprinted into it.
There's something about that chicken scratch, messy handwriting that makes me feel I should be able to read what is written - of course, I can't. I pick up a few words from the Eldian language, but I cannot translate it all. Inside the case, however, is a plaque, a translation written by historians who have dedicated their lives to this dead language.
Eagerly, I read the translation. I want to know more, always I have wanted to know more and more.
How is it that I know so little about Levi Ackerman, while an incessant familiarity continues to eat at my insides. I feel starved of information that I'm sure should be there, buried within me. A melancholy I cannot stave off, is always twisting my guts into knots that I never seem able to undo.
As I read, I picture his face, the way his lips form the words he that he writes. I know his expressions, his whispers. Sometimes I think the deep tenor of his voice drifts at the edges of my subconscious, but of course, I can never reach it. It's locked away, somewhere that I can't go, no matter how hard I try.
His hands hold the quill in my mind's eye, dips it into the ink with slender fingers. I know his hands, the roughness at his palms from the gear, and the permanent coldness of his fingertips. Sometimes his touch ghosts my skin and other days, when it doesn't, I feel that I'm being haunted by hidden memories.
"Eren.
I don't write, I never have, but Hanji insisted that if I won't tell them I must tell you. I can't recall when I last spoke a single word.
They know me too well, regardless of whether I tell them with words. Hanji has always been that way. And you. I never needed words with you, either.
The execution was a week ago and I still cannot forget it. The smell of your blood lingers and I cannot wash it away, I've scrubbed and scrubbed but the metallic tang lives inside me. Reminds me of the Underground. I despise it. The sound of the guillotine slicing the air. And then you. It echos, how can I get it to leave me? I'm afraid, one day I may forget your voice. But I will never forget the sound of the blade.
My body screams for you and there's nothing to quell my pain. Not tea. Not flying. It's all you, how could you leave me with all of these joys that mean nothing without your light. I am left with a darkness that I had almost forgotten. It was your light that has always kept the darkness at bay. I realise that, now I'm without.
What am I supposed to do? Hanji cries every night, they don't sleep. I was never good at helping, that was your strength. My hands shake, the words stick to the back of my throat. I feel strangled with what I cannot say. You steadied, you held. I push things away. It won't stop.
I don't know where to go from here. I need you. Yet, Hanji needs me. No, they need you, of course I'm no match.
If you could, I know you would come back. The pain of knowing that you cannot keeps me awake. I never slept well regardless. I hope you're resting well. You always deserved peace, it evaded you too long.
You brought me peace. So, thank you.
Levi."
The tears fall and fall, an unstoppable tide that's broken its damn. I cry and the pain bursting in my chest is like nothing I've felt before. Why am I crying? How do I make it stop?
Images flash in my head and the scenes that pass feel like memories being ripped from their hidden void. Hands and touch, fireplaces and tea, warmth as sweet as the first day of Spring. Flying, pure elation of going so fast between trees that they blur into varied shades of emerald. But the sadness, the pure dread and rage bubbling up is too much to take.
My tears flow freely, and there's nothing but sorrow blocking my throat. I can't breathe.
What is wrong with me? I don't understand. The last thing I could feel right now is peace.