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The court whispers that Erwin Smith—titled or not—is strange, unorthodox in his methods, mad in his goals. There's also fear in those gossipy breaths, the way that all people fear the unknown.
*
"Gory stories make their blood rush," Levi scoffs as he adjusts Erwin's starched collar and dashing bolo tie, ignoring his own cravat which is flecked with crimson. "Nobles are pathetic."
Erwin smiles his enigmatic little smile. "I appreciate your assessment, Levi, and I must agree."
Levi makes a dismissive sound, smoothing Erwin's collar into place before turning to tidy up his own haphazard appearance.
He's not seen much with the man he serves, at least not in public, but just in case, he likes to clean up when he comes back from an errand for Lord Smith.
"Hope did it go?"
Levi snorts as he pours warm water into the wash basin. "The usual."
"Should I plan to send flowers to Lady Zackly?" Erwin deadpans.
Levi raises an eyebrow in thought as he scrubs at the blood on his forearms. "Just make sure they're not expensive."
Now it's Erwin's turn to snort. "I see."
Levi glances over his shoulder at his impeccably dressed lord. Lord, liege; lord, valet. He doesn't know when he stopped believing in the underwhelming potential of human nature and started believing in something else.
The light glints on Erwin's blond hair. "Is the carriage ready for tonight's fundraiser?"
Levi smiles, a snake in the royal grass.
*
Levi is breathing hard when he returns to the barracks, blood in his throat he refuses to cough up.
"Take my horse," he tells one of the stable boys, willing his hand not to shake as he offers the reins. "He needs to be fed and watered."
And then there's Erwin—lord, commander, leader—at the edge of the muddy, frozen training yard under the awning of the barracks, his eyes so blue and alert in the dark.
"Come here," he says simply, holding out his hand.
Levi strides toward him purposefully but stops, holding himself up by sheer will alone. "It's nothing the medics can't deal with."
"You hurt your ankle," Erwin says, his keen gaze flitting down to Levi's swollen joint.
"We hurt lots of things," Levi says with a roll of his eyes. "Pain is part of the process."
Erwin hums meditatively at that before replying, "A fair assessment." He frowns in thought, holding out his hand again. "Come."
When he turns away, as if expecting Levi to follow without even confirming it, Levi does. And he knows he always will.
*
Levi believes he was born a killer. He killed his mother with his helplessness; he killed his friends with his uselessness; and he has killed every single footman dreaming of his position when they volunteer to go on his "errands" with him and don't come back.
Gunther modeled his movements on Levi's, trained his hands to move with the same grace and stealth, whether to properly pour tea in polite company or to seek out the tenderest veins in the neck. It did him no good in the end.
When Levi finds him strangled and silent in retribution for one of their errands, he closes his eyes—both his own and his comrade's—and presses his regency crescent of Erwin Smith's house against Gunther's stilled heart.
It doesn't leave an imprint and Levi buries him underneath a big tree, hoping the roots will lend their embrace.
*
When the first coup comes, Levi is not surprised. He's been able to taste its likelihood in the back of his throat like acid, waiting to erupt.
But he's not expecting his lord to be arrested and banished to the dungeons like a commoner. Dark and dingy and armless after he's been punished for his crimes.
"You know," he says to Levi who's managed to sneak in by way of the sewers, "I think my father sat right here in a similar predicament."
"Stop talking and save your strength," Levi breathes through the grate, scowling at Erwin's hubris. "We'll get you out of here, even if I have to kill them all."
Erwin is quiet for a moment, but then he looks up, his unfocused pupils somehow still so intent as he replies quietly, "You've killed so much for me, Levi."
"Yeah," Levi says, forcing the emotion out of his voice, "and what a waste that'd be if you sit here in this shit hole and die because you had to self-flagellate and lose any strength you have left."
There's a chuckle—more of a cough—but amusement nonetheless. "You're right," Erwin concedes hoarsely. "You're always right."
Levi's lips curve and he brushes his hand over the freshly sharpened knife strapped to his thigh.
Guards, kings, soldiers, and nobles all have one thing in common: No one expects what either of them are willing to do to simply be free.