Chapter Text
My prince of sorrow, heed my voice and listen to my prayer
…
…
One day my body will rot, I will return to dust.
Yet, I'll continue watching over you.
My protection, carries on….
The sheets were covered in dust and dirt, and the smell of hunger and sickness tortured his olfactory senses. Donning a white blouse too large for him, covered by arms so thin and fragile.
If only he knew that this pathetic moment would be one of his earliest and only few warm and comforting moments, he would have wished that he had died that day.
————
It was the year 845, Wall Maria had been conquered by an unknown.
The hundred year long period of peace was just long enough to let humanity seed a small hope in their hearts, that the terror was over. Alas, the thunderous roar of shards of broken walls flying at their small land shaken the insides of their insignificant masses was enough to break their feeble belief in tranquility. Even thinking about living a happy life was stupid.
Rations were down to one bread and one potato per day. Two if you were lucky. It got to the point where people were killed over stolen mouths of bread and broken pieces of potato. Lives were cheap and living was dire, yet despite whatever the course of time or nature or whatever act of God had bludgeoned them, the will for survival became even stronger. It was as if people participated in a laughable competition to prevail. Humanity resorted to desperate means in order to, one way or another, stay alive. Even if it meant stealing another’s freedom.
For a period of time, the talk of death and crime was all that came out of another’s mouth. You could even predict it. People spat rumours and gossip through broken, browned teeth about who had died and who was about to. If not from the rubble that crushed their earth when the wall fell or the never-ending famine, it was from the diseases festering in the land, harvested from the maggot-infested bodies of fallen comrades that had yet to be cleared on the streets. People boasted pitifully about the paltry sizes of potatoes they had eaten or stolen, as if it was the most scrumptious of meals they ever took. That very civilization had woefully forgotten what wheat and barley had tasted like before, and if they were slightly richer and lucky, what meat had tasted like. What was a mediocre, everyday event had become a beautiful pleasant dream in which they can only try to remember the sweet taste of malt on the tips of their blackened tongues.
Perhaps if it wasn’t due to the incompetence of the internal government, or the unreadiness of the Garrison troops during the time of crises, people wouldn’t have been viable to such wretchedness— no, if it hadn’t been for the reign of the unknown monstrous titans…..no— even before anyone knew of that….If it hadn’t been for the fact that he, or anyone was born into this wretched, cruel world, no one would have had to suffer through such tragedy and were forced live such cheap and fleeting lives, with only the will to outlive another plunging them forward to an unforeseeable and bleak future.
But that's how it constantly has been, hasn't it? They were born, and that was a cold, hard fact that couldn’t be reverted to. Locked behind thick, evil walls that had since the start of time blocked out the plentiful sunlight, taunting their sight by never disappearing, never dissipating. However, the despairing fact was that these unsightly walls were the only thing protecting them from the dangers of the outside world. The vast, plentiful, spacious, possible, unsafe, outside world. Cowardice and implemented way of lives had made them unwilling to leave the agricultural wasteland of a civilisation, made them unable to dream of a better view to wake up to everyday, unable to sleep on softer beds, and unable to imagine the better unknown…
—On and on his train of thought ran as he sat on his upper bunk bed with his legs crossed and chin propped up with his right hand. The sheets were crumpled and off-white, it somewhat perturbed him, as he tried his best to avoid the disturbing rat-chewed holes and mysterious speckled browns on the bed sheet. He peered out of the small corner window next to him. The sky was dark and one could see a glimmer of small stars in the far away sky right above the dastardly towering, grey walls.
The thick, solid smell of kerosene from the overhanging lamps clogged up his nostrils and creeped down his throat. The lights were about to go out.
He had joined the troops solely for the fact that they fed them better. Or at least, supplies to fill the stomach were guaranteed. After giving it some thought a few days later, he suddenly felt stupid for falling for such an obvious bait to retrieve desperate fools that were willing to become fellow pawns for the unwilling government, just so that they can stuff a little more morsels of potatoes down their own throats. How ironic was it to agree to throw away your lives and die in the front lines eventually just so that they could eat at this moment to live another day?
Well there's no point in regrets at this stage, he thought. There was no time for rethinking, no space in his heart for if-onlys and what-ifs. After all, he was also, like any other, a human who was slave to their own painful hunger.
The chatter in the room died down slowly as each kerosene lamp dimmed out one by one. He laid down on his hard mattress and shut his eyes. All he should be thinking of now was how he was going to need at least seven hours of pleasant sleep for tomorrow.
—
The test was much easier than he had anticipated it to be. There was no doubt in his mind that he could, very easily, make it to the top ten in his platoon. In fact, he could very well be the best cadet that year, or whatever year it could have been.
He hadn't known or cared much about the streaming into of the three differing legions, and was even more so indifferent about the respective benefits each could bring. However, just days into the training, the instructors had shared with an air of solemnity about the apparent conditions the recruits required to meet in order to join each respective regiment. “The top ten best-performing cadets, standards monitored by us…are the only ones who have a choice of choosing to join the military police.”
The announcement had been brief, and yet was impactful enough to send most of the cadets into a spiral of despair, confusion, anger.
“This is unfair,” he heard some mutter. Some had tears streaming down their faces as they tried little to hide their raging fear shown on their faces. Rousing cacophony of cackles or hiccups had shaken up something inside of even the most once brilliant-faced cadets. He had, for some reason, remembered the pitiful tone behind the thunderous command of the instructor’s voice, something lamentable, as if revealing a hidden sense of remorse for the ones unlucky enough to not have been bestowed by some sort of physical ardour, as if they had simply lost the chance to have peaceful lives and were sentenced to have their young lives extinguished in the most deplorable of ways.
He did not know the existence of such coveted roles of being chosen for the military police, but was determined to be one to reap its benefits. He felt a tinge of relief that he had caught onto the subtle hint and was determined to find out just why and how he could make himself in such a position worthy of choice.
However, he soon found out that he had nothing to worry about. He overheard the instructors’ surprisingly ardent conversations about his apparent “neo-human” abilities, and that he’d be such a valuable asset to the regiments, so on and so forth. He didn’t bother much about what he had unintentionally eavesdropped on. He simply thought of it as nothing. All he wanted to do was put in just enough effort to get him into the military police, where he could spend the rest of his life relishing in whatever better comfort this world could offer him at the expense of his duty to protect the incompetent lords. He thought that he had at least deserved it, these tangible means of happiness, after a decade and more of living the life he had as a figure of the underground. Oh, how he tried to wash away his past, how he wished he could be reborn— no, even better, never born at all. He was subjected to filth. Filth. Blood. Dust. Blood.
He closed his eyes. Gone were the days he pitied himself.
‘I just have to go through this’, he repeats over and over again, ‘after I do this, I can finally rest.’ He tried to imagine himself carrying out the rest of his days in the comfortable interior, sleeping in a room of splendour and pondering on a plush chair, observing the birds at the balcony and feeling the cool, fresh wind in his hair. What would it feel like? Just how would his transient freedom taste? He tried to imagine the aroma of the freshest teas, the quality of wines and the sweetness of milk and honey, but alas nothing came to his mind, for he never once even saw people living in the sweet tang of luxury. He fell short of even conjuring the thought of it, and for that he got reminded of the immense destitute he faced, and he hated himself for not being able to even begin picturing a life of subpar satisfaction. He clenched his fists, as if to quieten the consoling musings in his heart telling him that he was forced upon such unfairness, hence allowing him the right of blame.
But then again, this world, he thought as he released his clenched fists, was simply unfair.
Everywhere he went he would see other cadets lift their hands to cover their mouths in a manner of discreetness, trying to further muffle their sounds of hushed sibilance and airy dialogue. They spoke of him either highly in awe or with eyes filled with scorn and voices full of jealousy. Not that he’d cared — he was too preoccupied with his own musings and was known not to show much, if not, any interest in others’ opinions. There was no point to it, he thought. He'd only wished that these pitiful soldiers would put in as much effort in their training rather than spreading unnecessary information about him or literally anyone else.
He had always taken pleasure in abiding in solitude. He would have no one to share his already measly rations with, and no one to disturb him while he was within his own mind and dwelling in his thoughts. He was always alone; during mealtimes, the short-lived moments before going to bed. With this, he was able to enjoy his scarce, ephemeral peace all to himself.
To share your space with another is to let them into parts of your life. Those who came in have no choice but to be burdened by the seemingly unnecessary role of knowing parts about you, learning bits and pieces of the life you've lived thus far, and you yourself are now endowed with the role of reciprocation. He didn't like the idea of doing so. He didn't like the idea of people having to learn about his past or the fact that he had to share moments meant for personal respite with others. To say that he was aloof is a mere assumption. He simply wanted to eliminate any chance of him being vulnerable to anyone – yes, vulnerability, that was what he feared. He never wanted people to ever get an opportunity to take advantage of him. He had seen people make that mistake, over and over again since his days in the underground. He had witnessed husbands kill their wives over measly mishaps, friends turning on each other during times of need, children with only a mouth full of milk teeth stealing from each other. Humans, as it seems to him, are burdened with a curse to have no choice but to entrust their lives to the hands of another, no matter how bloodied they could have been. It is also humans that are so ready to throw the precious life of another friend into the fire, even if it only meant a scrap of beneficiaries.
He remembered how it felt like, the first time he was kidnapped. He was but a young boy, lured by a whimsy promise of a job that provided him basic needs. But alas, there he was left, incapable of defending himself against the number of men of sizes that seemed unhuman to a creature as small as he was. As much as he had tried to wipe it from his memory, he couldn't forget the extreme pounding in his heart, the massive fear he felt, how his shoulder kept ramming into the dense brown wood of the carriage floor, the thumping of the wooden carriage he was thrown in as it sped through a rocky street. It was the first time he had been so fearful of anything, even more so than when he had first seen a titan. He had let them have their way with him. The nasty, disturbing, painful things they did. But it was that incident that had awakened something in him, unleashed a strength he never knew he was able to achieve, and by monopolising that unlikely miracle, he pulled himself out of the hell he was besieged in, all by himself. He had learnt never to trust ever again.
—
He had slain his first titan today.
He had cut so deep that he had severed part of the spine. He felt the sensation of his swords dig into the flesh, and he had likened it to the feeling of as if he had used a spoon to scoop at what seemed to be a viscous liquid, thicker than tar, the metal device breaking the thick surface tension and releasing a chunk of matter from its origin. He heard the scraping of the harsh metal against the titan’s bones as well as the ripping of the gaunt skin and muscles. Bright red flesh and chunks of yellow fat had escaped with the slice and fell heavily on the ground next to him. Crimson rain sprayed the air, and landed everywhere, on his skin, hair, eyes and clothes, dyeing everything a deep scarlet. He looked down and saw the way the red seeped through the grass, spreading through the soil, making the land beneath him sopping wet along with its metallic scent. He pressed his boots into the ground, feeling the squish of the ground and looking at the blood bubbling up onto the surface. He slowly lifted up his foot and saw the trail of red liquid pooling down his soles. It nearly gave him a sick sense of satisfaction.
It was scorching, the blood, as steam arose from the remains of the fallen predator. It burned his face and hands and stuck to his clothes. The initial satisfaction he felt was quickly replaced by repulsion and disdain. He felt pain and numbness at the same time. How many times has he killed? The sight of blood that now looks so similar to that of a human had brought him visions of the past he had long tried to forget. The sensations, the declining warmth, made his mind become blurred. Despite what seemed like an act deserving of raucous praise, the sight of the slaughtered titan wasn't nearly enough to quell his need for revenge. Revenge on the beings that ravaged their land, culled their hordes and trampled their earth till it was nothing but a hard, compact ground further made infertile by the dust and cinder they've brought along in their destruction.
He didn't see anyone or anything creep up behind him. He felt in his heart that was glad to have been alone when he performed the killing.
In a quick motion, he replaced his blades and sheathed them. He turned around to return to his base and to his surprise, he caught sight of a man on his horse. The man was staring at him intently. Donning the same uniform as he had on but with a deep green cloak around and over his shoulders, he seemed much bigger than he was. His shoulders were wide and strong, and he had a handsome, fighting chin. The man spoke in a firm, deep voice.
“Movements were superfluous,” he brought his hand to his chin, “ it was sloppy too. You're wasting your energy, soldier. Save it." He said with a slight smile.
He felt the words reverberate in his skull and found himself unable to retort. At that point, he wasn't expecting anyone to tell him what he did wrong or right. He was simply still numb. He thought about the lingering burden in his heart, and told himself to ignore it. He would think about it later, this situation, this kill. With clothes still leaden with blood and other digestive fluids from the titan, he said nothing, turned around and left without taking another look at the man or the disintegrating titan, both of which were both starting to be shrouded by steam.