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Cracking matches, the warmth of the small flame being ignited reaching his fingertips. He brings the flame to the dull lamp and lets it heat.
It’s a cold night this evening with a half - moon on display for all of Paradis to see. In reality he could go without the extra lamp and make do with the moon’s glow — but he is treading up high on the walls tonight with little fear of falling. He steadily inhales, exhales— let’s the chill of the air sink into his lungs to shake off the weariness.
In his eyes Floch belonged to the sky and the stars, with those wings of freedom they branded themselves with. Even if it had never been a journey he thought he’d end up taking, there must have been a destiny in store for him being with the scouts. And hell, he was a pragmatic thinking fuck but there had to be some play of fate testing his luck. /Surely/. Because why else would he be here? To fly high and never come back down?
Free falling had never felt so refreshing.
He had fears ; hated falling too close to the floor, it felt like the worst form of cheap thrill — and he was desperate to not be another piece of debris flung through the air .
But there was nothing more addicting, more thrilling than the weight rising in your stomach as you’d fall, like butterflies— nothing more pulsating than the sound of wind in your ears as it whirled past. You were light in the air and it didn’t mean a thing, there were no ropes to tug you back and no boundaries to string you down (aside from gravity). And each time he would fall through the air and feel alive once again, relive the experience every week.
People never really feared heights, they feared /falling/.
Being an ex-garrison soldier, if there was one thing he appreciated about these towering walls , it was their incredible height. He could see far beyond over them, the horizon and hills in the distance. He felt on top of the world; only now had he come to realise his world was a lot vaster than he’d initially imagined and far less bright and warm.
With his legs dangling over the edge of the wall, he lifts the match box in the air and lets it fall.
One afternoon in the midst of their training days, he speeds ahead through the air—— far ahead of Gordon and relishes in the way the breeze brushes through his mop of hair; no wonder if gets so messed up. He’s a /disaster/. He is up high and soaring through the sky, no genius with the gear being too reckless and far too careless with his gas . A shot at the top ten is so distant a dream.
He reaches a point in height and wonders how good it would feel to fall and feel like a bird swooping down; so he does. It’s fine, he is surrounded by trees and he knows how to utilise the anchors on the ODM. How good it feels to be mesmerised by the pattern of tree trunks as he falls further, deeper, right towards the dusty floor until——
Gordon catches him by the waist and slams the both of them into one of the trunks, relieved. The adrenaline feels amazing.
“ are you an idio—— “ and he cuts him off with a snort and an exasperated, breathless chuckle.
“ I’ll be fine, “ Floch laughs into his shoulder with a grin that is all teeth on display. “ Whenever I fall I will have someone like you to catch me. “
Arms will catch you when you fall, there will always be something to cling onto. The world is less lonely than you realise, when you come to accept your comrades are there to support you.
He is a saviour in the end. One hero that will be remembered to go down in the history books— let it be known that Floch Forster was the one who saved the world, or what was left of it. /His/ world. All there is to do is destroy the boat, sink it beyond repair; he is flying free in the blue sky to prevail against all odds and take down the /final/ threat.
And with a war - cry, “ Eldia will be saved by — ! “
When his body gets flung through the air like a piece of debris, there are no warm arms that catch him — only the cold, hard ocean’s surface by the port’s edge. He lands all wrong, feeling a bruise that will be black across his rib cage by tomorrow (if he even lives to see the sunrise). He feels hot, searingly hot in a flash and his right side screams out. /He/ screams out.
He lands flatly and clashes through the surface, tangled in his own limbs— the shock of being both shot and having a thunder spear blown up in his face finally subsiding into the cold depths of saltwater.
His bullet wound excruciatingly throbs and the burns caused by the spear are only countered by how icy the water is. Skin that had been set aflame now replaced with something much more numb. The shock, the pain, the cold could paralyse him enough and yet he breaks the surface for reasons he can’t quite remember yet. His head hurts, and ears ring desperately as there is no sound around him.
Nobody is left anyway. Again, as a cruel battle’s sole survivor —he remembers. There is no way this could possibly end for him other than death. He would never live it down, never face the guilt a second time of being the coward who survived alone.
Floch does not think when he clings to the boat with bloody nails and pulls himself up with sore, burnt - scarred arms. The strain on his torso could end him now and his final resting place would be the ocean. Poetic, fitting and something you’d hear of heroes spoken in fairytale books.
And yet he clings like his life depends on it, like he’ll have a shot at surviving when he finally drags himself aboard. The decks are stained with crimson saltwater as the soldier shakily stumbles over to a secluded corner he can gather himself in. Terrified, his once-comrades are unmasked to be traitors and there’s no telling what they’ll do now.
If he falls now, everyone dies. Paradise will sink under a sea of blood, there will be nothing left to salvage. If the alliance succeeds then it’s one massive, colossal catastrophe that ends with no winners and a long path of corpses and wasted lives left behind them. The deluded fantasy that he could somehow bring meaning to all those fallen: was it worth it?
Dragging himself through the door as his final act, his hold on the gun is feeble —his good arm is peeling under the leather uniform and his sight is all wrong in one eye. And still, he fires every last bullet into the heart of the engine. They will eventually get to return home when the rumbling is finally over, live with the guilt but they will be free at last. Between a pointless massacre and cutting their only mode of transport, the answer is clear cut.
Final moments are supposed to be grandeur and special, with their beloved caught in their arms. All the storybooks and tales would never have prepared him for the hopeless, regretful feeling lying at the end. He feels as though his final breaths are in those moments — the next, all there is to put him down is an anchor lodged in his throat. The blade rips away all dressed in scarlet and leaves him lifeless, bleeding out on the ground. “ stop it, “ muttering quietly and low, so weak. “ please don’t go. “ Kirstein is distraught at the pleas, hands slicked in his blood.
He feels as though he is falling again with no end. That giddy sensation of butterflies in his stomach returns tenfold, a coldness taking its place that feels strangely inviting. If there is a destination where he’ll be welcomed back in the arms of his comrades —or if there is nothing but an endless cycle of falling free for the rest of his afterlife, Floch does not think of being free at all.