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It was December.
The hyacinths were grieving below their purple petals. And the roses trembled by the graves, mourning the dead that laid beneath the stillness of the cemetery.
Levi Ackerman stood behind his black clothes, in the quiet formalities of a leader. Humanity's strongest soldier, silent against the cold of the bleak midwinter.
He watched the funeral suffer from a distance.
A ceremony of grief, dressed in black. They honoured the violence of military sacrifices, the dignities of early deaths. They knelt their final respects below their bowed heads, whispering selfish words of gratitude and admiration.
They would never know the true horrors of war — the emptiness of the violence, the meaninglessness of death. The glory and heroism of bloodshed was nothing more than an illusion.
"My son fought alongside you, Captain Levi," I heard someone's mother say to him. "He would have followed you to his death. And now he has. He's dead because of you."
I watched Levi Ackerman say nothing.
He was a captain of the Survey Corps. And he carried himself accordingly — without a doubt, without hesitation, without fear. He stood behind his loyalties, his responsibilities, his decisions.
The same loyalties, responsibilities and decisions that killed our comrades.
But he never apologized for the deaths.
His gaze was dark; held in silent conviction.
There were no words.
He turned and left, walking into the bleak midwinter.
Behind him, the hyacinths grieved, the roses trembled.
And someone's mother knelt in the snow, weeping for her dead son.
I never saw Levi dare to humble himself, below the whispers of an apology, the confessions of his sins. But I'd learn to understand the silences between us and the emptiness of his gaze.
He grieved and hurt in the same way he loved: carefully, behind the darkness of his eyes.
Saying nothing and feeling everything, all at once.
I'd stand on the other side of the silences, the darknesses. And all of it would be unspoken but understood between us — everything and nothing, all at once.
Slowly, winter melted from the graves.
It was April and it was beautiful. But it was the cruellest month.
We mourned by sunlight, seeing all the names that had been buried in the snow.
The hyacinths had wilted, the roses had died. And lilacs were blooming from the deadened land, shivering delicately in the rain.
I still remember the way they had smelled — graceful and sweet — as the midnight breeze carded through their petals.
Levi Ackerman was standing in the stables that night, staring at his dead horse.
There was a gun in his right hand. And around him, the echoes of the gunshot sobbed across the stillness of the April night.
"She was sick," he said, hearing my footsteps behind the shadows. "Thought I'd put her out of her misery. Sometimes, death is a kindness, isn't it?"
He leaned his forehead against the quiet, saying nothing else at first. Humanity's strongest soldier was empty and silent behind the darkness of his gaze.
Then he took his coat off.
And that was the first time I ever saw Levi Ackerman apologize.
It was terrifying to see the wreckage of him: collapsing into a desperate, depraved act of contrition. He knelt in the shadows, below the pious posture of a murderer.
There was a shiny click, as he loaded the bullet into place. He brought the gun to his head and held it to his temple. His chest was heaving with frantic ecstasy.
This was the damnation he craved, the absolution he needed.
I watched the captain of the Survey Corps. He had carried himself accordingly, for many months and the many years before that — without a doubt, without hesitation, without fear. Strong behind his loyalties, his responsibilities, his decisions.
But he had loved, and grieved, and hurt despite it all.
Still human, still terrified. Humanity's strongest soldier, but he too could only take so much.
But Levi Ackerman put the gun down.
His gaze was dark; held in silent conviction as he bowed his head in the stillness. Damned, absolved, condemned.
Whether it was out of fear, or love, or for me; perhaps it was all of those things, or maybe none of them at all. I would never know for sure, as he looked up at me.
He smiled out of the quiet corner of his mouth.
Then he turned and left, walking out into the midnight breeze.
** ** **
We never spoke of that night again but the smell of lilacs always reminded me of that April — cruel and beautiful.
Sometimes, I think that winter is merciful — covering the meaningless deaths and empty names that remind us, that punish us. All lost and forgotten, buried in the snow.
For a few months, there are no memories. Only the cold and the bleak midwinter.
And its in those moments of silence and nothingness that I think about burying Levi lovingly, below the April lilacs.
The roots of spring would bloom from his bones and he would be no more.
No more loyalties, responsibilities, or decisions.
No memories.
And then I think that sometimes, death is a kindness.