Chapter Text
845 CE.
SIXTH MONTHS AFTER THE FALL OF SHIGANSHINA
december
Did the archangel Michael fear death without honor?
Or did he take up arms in the rebellion against heaven with wings outstretched?
Bound and locked away like a domesticated animal, do you believe that Michael craved liberation? Like a dog tethered to a short leash, did Michael yearn for battle? For death beyond his divine right? Do you believe that he desired all those things which cast a malignant gaze upon the Morningstar? Lust. Greed. Gluttony. War?
Did Michael regret his death beyond the making of his father? A death without honor? Would you ?
Sitting on the edge of your bed, you cower, head between your knees and hands intertwined upon your thighs. It’s dark in your quarters. Candles absent of flame and curtains drawn. Your eyes have adjusted to the shadows, more comfortable here than within the flutter of firelight just beyond the door. And yet, within the seemingly impenetrable night of your chambers, light continues to preserve.
Squinting through the heavy mass of smoke which clouds your eyes, you’re just able to catch the flicker of sunlight dancing through the December frost of the window. It slips gracefully across the floor, narrowly avoiding the mass of your blood-soaked bandages and sinking down into the interweaved groves of the wood. Detailed and delicate, it rocks back and forth-- mimicking the coming and going of high and low tide before smothering the panels in an amber haze. It spreads quickly, like a match thrown into the far fields of Ragako-- burning and suffocating your room with a sea of yellows and reds. Doused in color, your feet quickly retreat to the obscurity of the bed as if the light itself scorches your flesh. Bitten and berated by the flames, you recede further into the safety of your sheets-- a cigarette hanging loosely from your lips, it being the only light suitable for your security.
You take a drag, moving a hand to paw at the edge of your right eye as you fall backwards-- head dangling off the edge of the mattress. It’s a tingling feeling which races from the stretch of your abdomen to your nostrils, forcing you to blink fast and swallow hard. Your nose twitches, scrunching and relaxing in an attempt to relieve itself of the buzzing sensation. But it doesn’t fade. Instead it begins to throb in the top of your temple, pressing down against the walls of your cranium as if they might very well break down. The smoke which escapes from your lips glances over your eyes and sticks to your eyelashes like snowflakes. Each wisp a variation of shape and size. It’s difficult to swallow. Every atom of matter in your body feels as if it’s rushing towards your brain. But it was something. Something other than the itch in the back of your throat and the dull, aching pain of your shoulder.
Two knocks resound through the room.
You exhale harshly, lunging upwards with a head pressed against your skill-- pushing down hard onto your forehead in a poor attempt to ease the rush. It doesn’t help. The sudden surge of movement forces you to clench your eyes shut, pressure mounting up behind them as if it might spill out with tears. It takes a couple moments of blinking before your vision returns to normal, accompanied by a faint ringing in your ears. You sigh, bring up a nail to scratch at the bridge of your nose. “Yeah?”
“It’s me,”
“Doors open,”
“Oh god, it smells like shit in here,” Nanaba lingers in the doorway, one hand clenched over his nose in an exaggerated pose of disgust, “Is it the room or you?”
You take a drag of your cigarette before cocking your head to the side, lips sliding into a small but amused smile. “You sure you didn’t drag it in with you?”
“Ha, ha, very funny,” She steps through the threshold, shutting the door behind her and absentmindedly stepping over a pile of clothing only to nudge another with her foot. She shoots you a look. Something mixed between concern and irritation-- one you know all too well. You raise your hands in defense, lifting your brows in an attempt to appear innocent.
“I’m working on it,”
“I find that hard to believe,”
“It’s true,” You fall back onto your bed, flipping your cigarette between your pointer and middle finger. You watch the flame sway in and out of existence with the utmost precision, as if you’re afraid you’ll miss it if you take even a moment to blink. And then you’ve narrowed in on the aged supports of the ceiling. The light, tan wood unaffected by the whirlwind mess of your floors-- remaining untouched by your lack of care and the delicate smoke blown from your lips. It offers a scenery of clarity amidst the clutter and disarray of your quarters.
But it doesn’t last long, your view suddenly obstructed with the irked face of Nanaba-- leaning over your complexion with a thin lipped frown. She brings a finger to your forehead, flicking her nail against your skin. “Liar,"
You blink a few times (once, twice, then five times more) before pushing her fingers away with the back of your hand and pressing your palm against her forehead, forcing her to reel back and provide you with the opportunity to slink upwards. You hunch over your knees, stretching your fingers down to the tip of your toes before leaning back, the joints of you back popping and snapping as you arch. It’s sore, straining the muscles of your core and leaving a muted sting within them.
You groan, throwing back your head and meeting your comrades gaze. Her left hand is fixated on her hip, her right falling parallel to her leg. Nanaba looks more tired than usual with deep, dark circles and drooping eyelids. Her eyelashes are stuck together in clumps, the flesh surrounding them stained a faint pink. Her brows are furrowed, digging into the bridge of her nose and causing her eyes to narrow into beady glare. Blonde hair hangs over her forehead, some strands clutching fruitlessly at the edge of her lashes. Her lips are set in a permanent pout and you can tell that she’s biting her tongue to keep from snapping out a comment. You sigh, bending forwards and standing to your full height.
“I am working on it, Nana,” you take a slow drag, leaving it clenched between your teeth as you raise a hand to your heart in a show of dramatics, “Cross my heart,”
She rolls her eyes, struggling to fight down the slightest inclination of a smile. “How many times have I heard that one before?”
“Dunno,” you pluck the cigarette from your teeth, leaning over to your nightstand and stamping it out in the ash-tray, “How many years have we known each other?”
Nanaba chuckles, her focus shifting as she draws open the curtains, allowing sunlight to swallow the room whole. You take a swift succession of steps backwards, shielding your eyes with a hiss escaping gritted teeth-- but if Nanba noticed (or cared) she didn’t show it. “I didn’t come her just to nag, you know,”
“ Oh yeah? Just missed me too much to bear it any longer then?”
She scoffs, shooting you a side-eyed glare as she busied herself with fixing your old blades back to their position on the wall. She hesitated as she straightened the length of the weapons, fingers lingering over the aged and faded divots of the blades. It’s been a long time since you used them, the edges coated in a layer of dust. They’re impressive pieces of metal, aiding you in your quest to gain the highest solo kill count in the entire corps. She’s always been somewhat awestruck by them, not that she would ever admit it, of course.
True to your two year age difference, Nanaba acted much like a younger sister to yourself. More so than you’ve ever acted like an elder sister to her. She would spend her days affixing lucky charms to your weapons and preparing lunches for your long journeys. Constantly distressing over the state of your wounds and the disorder of your quarters. Picking fights with those who talked poorly about you beyond your back and having you tend to her “battle wounds” as she called them. Your gaze softens as she relinquishes her hand from the cool of the iron.
“New Commander has a mission for you,” she turns her head in your direction, a grin toying with the edges of her lips, “Just outside of Shiganshina,”
You perk up and raise a brow. “Why now?”
Nanaba shrugs. “Guess he thinks you’re getting a little stir crazy. We all are,” you scowl at the remark but she ignores your reaction, choosing instead to gesture to your shoulder, “Plus aren’t you all healed up anyway?”
Your gaze slides down to the exposed flesh, remnants of the wound revealing itself in a faint yellow tint which encircles the joint. You rotate your arm carefully, resulting in nothing more than a slight spasm of muscle and a pop of the bone. “Seems like it,”
“Glad to hear it,” she muses, walking towards you with a slight hesitation in her steps. You already know what she’s going to ask before she even opens her mouth. “And this?”
She outstretches her hand in your direction but you catch her wrist harshly before she’s able to move it any closer to the long, lacerated scar ripping across your face. The wound has just barely healed over, spreading its fiendish appearance from the five o’clock shadow of your jaw to the middle of your nose. Only slightly puffed with irritation, the top of the stitch marks seldom visible but to the keen eye. “It’s fine, Nanaba,”
There’s a bite in your words, mellowed out by a comfortable tone upon retrospection. But she catches the initial venom. She can feel it in the weight of your loosening grip and the slight snarl twitching on the edges of your faux, collected expression. Nanaba can spot it in the enduring stare of your eyes and the slight angle of your jaw away from her. You mellow in your stature, bringing her palm to the unaffected area of your cheek in a lambent motion. Your skin there is smooth, unburdened by the plights of battle. You tense at the touch, however welcome it may be. Your comrade notices but says nothing. She knows that pointing it out would only be picking a fight.
“Don’t believe me?”
She huffs, tension alleviated with the budding hint of entertainment in your words. “I never said that,”
“You don’t have too,” dropping her hand, you’re own palms rummage across your sheets in search of your cigarettes, “I just know you that well,”
“Yeah right,” she laughs, attempting to cover her smile with a shake of her head, “In your dreams, maybe,”
“Ooo, that one hurt Nana. Right in the heart,” you throw a hand against your forehead in a show of dramatics as if you’re about to faint. Your lips are quick to leave behind your teasing pout to warp into a conniving smirk as she rolls her eyes at your antics.
In your theatrics, you manage to swipe your cigarettes out from under your pillow-- lazily sliding one out of its package and tucking it in between sharp canines. It takes another few moments of rifling through your sheets before you discover your lighter, flicking it once or twice before it lights. You take a drag.
“The mission. You on it too?”
Your comrade shakes her head, wrinkling her nose at the stench of your smoke and angling her head in a different direction. “No. This one’s all you,”
“All me?”
“Well…” she trails off, gaze turning sheepish, “Not all you,”
The look she’s avoiding giving you spells trouble. Last time she gave you that look was when you were forced into rooming with Kerstein Rutter during a night at the Northern out-post. Or that other time when she told you that Niklas Kriener ripped your uniform jacket when he tried it on after a game of truth or dare (with that squad it was usually always dare or dare).
“There’s a Captain going with you,”
You raise a brow, taking another drag. You don’t see the big deal. “A Captain?”
“Captain Levi,”
You choke on the smoke, coughing viciously as you raise a hand to your throat. It burns the inner lining, making your chest become burdened with pressure and your eyes prick with tears. Speak of the devil and he shall invoke his power.
You would have to be incredibly sheltered not to recognize the name of the famous Levi. Humanity’s Strongest Soldier. Newly crowned Captain of the Special Operations Squad. He’s a hero. An underdog story. A soldier promoted to Captain in just three years of his enrollment within the regiment. Compared to him, the reputation and name which you have built yourself means nothing. Greyed and faded along with the rest of your achievements as soon as he beat out your kill record. A majority of you resents him for it. Hates him for how easily he climbed the ranks. How quickly he overshadowed you, the prodigy of the inner walls. The rest is minuscule admiration, not that you would ever admit it, of course.
Regaining your composure, you jab your cigarette in her direction. “No. No way in hell,”
“Come on! Don’t be dramatic!”
You scoff. “Dramatic? He--”
“Stole your promotion, I know,” Nanaba shoots you a look, “You’ve only told me five hundred times since it happened,”
Well, she’s got you there. You say nothing in response, tongue pushing against the back of your teeth in an obvious show of vexation. She takes your silence as a reason to continue.
“Don’t you want to get back out there? Aren’t you tired of being all cooped up in your quarters all day? This is your chance to prove yourself worthy of that promotion!”
You grit your teeth. “ Yeah , but--”
“But nothing. This is an assignment including the Captain,” the blonde crosses her arms, “And last time I checked, the new Commander wasn’t exactly asking,”
Fuck.