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Levi had always imagined that Hange’s untimely death would be the result of titans, or some haywire science project. He never imagined it would be like this.
It’s her black leather jacket that he has slung around his shoulders, and even though it’s becoming hot again and he really shouldn’t wear it, he still is because it still smells like her and makes him think this isn’t real. It’s her scouting uniform that he holds in his hands, folded neatly so that the emblem on the back is rearing its ugly head, a constant reminder of how she should have gone.
The procession is slow, a little too slow for the impatient man’s likings. His commander, a blonde man with heavy eyebrows, watches his every minute reaction to the events of today, like a hawk observing its prey. From the sidelines, he sees the usual trio of kids that used to hang around her, the blonde boy with tears running freely down his face. The horse-faced boy, a usually cocky fellow, even looks somber.
Levi had always imagined that his lover’s death would be her own fault, maybe a lapse in concentration, but he had never imagined it would be by her own hand.
He’s at the casket now, open for his eyes. Her face is quite peaceful, really, and he hasn’t seen her hair down in a long time. Her goggles and silver spectacles lay next to her, along with a couple other trinkets that he assumes others have left that he isn’t quite sure the context on. He lays her clothing at her feet, then fishes in her pockets for his offerings to the dead.
The first is a simple vial, maybe the size of his pinky finger. It’s filled with a red substance unlike any other: the first documented stable titan blood, a side project that she spent months on figuring out. She would have studied it, if not for this. He lays it in her hand, closing the stiff fingers around it.
The second is a piece of neatly folded paper, ink staining the edges. She’s never seen this paper because she never had to. It begins with a line about how shitty her glasses are, and ends with him asking her to the military police ball. Fortunately, he was able to ask in person through a series of fortunate events. He’s made an addendum to it now though.
If the owner of shitty glasses would be so kind to find me one day, wherever she is in passing, and have a dance in spirit of the military police ball, her lover would be very pleased.
The third is a ring. It’s not got a massive gemstone on it, but rather a simple silver band with a roughly carved heart on it. He gently slides it onto her left hand, fourth finger from the thumb.
“Levi,” his commander jerks him out of his revere.
He’s not really sure when his eyes became watery, but he blinks them away and steps away from the casket. Someone reads her will, Nabana he thinks, and soon she’s being lowered. Everyone grabs a shovel and ceremonially throws dirt over the casket, slowly moving back to headquarters, back to their daily lives.
It is only when the sun begins to set over her grave and his commander sits by his side that he lets the tears finally fall, which soon turn to the sobs. Levi’s not sure how long he sobs, or how long her smell is stuck up his nose, or how many times the image of her body hanging from rope flashes through her head. At one point his commander stands up to leave, informing him that he is excused from tomorrow’s duties. The sounds of humanity’s strongest breaking into tiny pieces echo across the field, even audible from headquarters.
When the sun finally sets and the crickets begin to chirp, Levi turns his back to the grave marked Hange Zoe: humanity’s strongest scientist and looks forward to a new day.