Chapter Text
That very notebook, which had constantly been with her from the day he had known her, was now laying, abandoned, on the old wooden desk in front of him, on its worn-out, dark brown cover marred with dried blood. Reiner pressed his lips together — she had drawn in this notebook for years, he had watched her carefully engraving there line by line. It was more than a notebook, more than just the collection of sketches and arts, more than memories — that was her whole soul. And now, this stain of blood defiled that sacred relic.
That notebook was meant to be his when her time runs out, she bequeathed it to him. But it had come into his hands far too soon. It wasn’t right and he didn’t find in himself any strength to open it, instead he was sitting, hovering over it for half of the night already, desperately trying to wrap his head around everything which happened just a few days ago — the raid on Liberio left in shambles the city, his soul and mind.
He needed answers, needed at least the smallest, tiniest grain of peace. Of hope. Of everything she used to be for him. Thus, letting out a heavy sigh, Reiner Braun finally opened the notebook.
The page turned yellowish with time, the ink lost its blackness, and at the top of it was a small note, written in neat, yet unmistakably childish letters.
This notebook belongs to Emilia Frank. If you have found it by accident, please, return it and do not look inside! Please! It is very important! This notebook is meant for my dearest friend, Reiner, after I am gone, so if you’re not him, don’t look inside. But if it’s you, Reiner, reading this — I hope you like my drawings. I tried really hard. Look till the end, the newer ones should be better.
5th of July, 845
However, this inscription was crossed one, below it was written another one, the ink of which also started to fade, but the writing, this time, definitely belonged to a mature hand.
This notebook is the property of Emilia Frank. If it has come into your possession by chance, I kindly ask that you return it to the rightful owner, for what is contained within is not meant from prying, stranger’s eyes.
This notebook I bequeath upon my death to my beloved and dearest friend, Reiner Braun.
If you are reading this, Reiner, it means I am no longer walking this earth. And yet, I hope that this notebook remains in your hands until we meet again on the other side. I beg you, for whatever time remains to you, keep it as a memory of me, as a proof that my heart, my mind, my soul, my body and even this humble talent of mine to draw some lines belonged to you. I have always loved you, this paper has it engraved, and I am waiting for you — but, do not you dare to hasten to join me. We will have the whole eternity together, stay while you can.
27th of February, 854
This wasn’t right to read it, this wasn’t the right time to read, he wasn’t supposed to do it right now. She wasn’t gone, she just… disappeared. And the notebook was all that was left of her. His eyes scanned the text over and over again, almost desperately, until they noticed another note at the bottom of the page.
He had to bring the gas lamp closer, since this one was uneven, written with a pencil, which seemed to barely touch the surface of the page, letters small and shaky.
Do not believe them. And forgive me for what I am doing, I do it for us! Trust me this time, I beg you, I do it out of love. I want to at least try and change something. I love you, don’t let them make you believe otherwise.
23/09
Written just a week before everything happened.
He shut the notebook and buried his face into his palms. He had spent years feeling how his soul was getting heavier and right now it seemed like more stones were added making this burden impossible, yet inevitable to carry.
Ridiculous, how for years he was longing to look into her sketchbook, to see this world through her eyes, but now, as this long-desired thing was in his hands, he wished nothing, but to return it back to her. He just wasn’t sure it was still possible.
He pushed her notebook away, and instead dragged his own closer. His was a little thinner — a few times he tore a few pages from it, when there was nothing else to write letters on — and less worn out. For him this little notebook was the last resort, something he took care of as if of the priceless treasure, always carrying it in the inner pocket, close to heart. It was a present for his 19th birthday from her. On the first page, with neat letters, there was written down To my beloved friend Reiner B. from Emilia F.
Reiner quickly turned the first page, unable to watch at her note for even a second longer. Engraved forever in the paper until the fire separates them, there were his thoughts, light and dark, unsent letters, rare small notes. He kept turning the pages until finally stopped at the untouched one and wrapped his fingers around the pen.
The first word had always been the hardest to write. He still hadn’t learnt it, didn’t get used to dedicating his thoughts to the paper with the same grace and easiness she used to do it. But he kept trying.
1st of October, year 854
Once you’ve told me that it feels lighter when you put your thoughts on the paper. I sincerely want to believe that it was not a lie. I am afraid I am a broken human being, because I do not feel any lighter. I want to leave these thoughts to the paper, but they keep living in my mind and coming to me in my dream. And yet, I want to believe what you have once said, that is why I write.
Recently, I've been seeing the same dream over and over again. A moment from my childhood, so maybe it would be right to call it a nightmare instead. The day of that last trial before we were supposed to be selected to become warrior candidates.That day I was sinking knees deep in mud, a boulder-heavy backpack hanging off my shoulders seemed to bury only deeper in it, raindrops were hitting my face feeling like tiny rocks against my skin. I knew that if I would finish it the last — which was inevitably going to happen — I would ever become someone my mother wanted me to be, I knew I would become the biggest disappointment and the reason for the rivers of her tears. So I ran, ran as quickly as I could, but that was not enough and the finish was nowhere to be seen. And then fell. Every time this dream feels so real, I can almost feel the mud on my palms. And every time you extend your hand to help me, every time I try to understand what made you return to help me. I still wonder how we ended up with the yellow armbands.
At the same time, I don't want to think what would have happened if the things had gone different way, since otherwise you would not probably become the part of my life.
No. This word choice is not right.
The note was left unfinished.
***
October, 840
Unlike the usually warm Marleyan Octobers, this one was drawing in rains, enveloped by winds, which struck you through the thickest clothes and creeped up your back with its cold strokes. Exactly on such a day had to happen the final trial which would change everything for those who pass it successfully — the one which would decide whose arms would be garnished with the desired yellow armband.
Like a couple of dozen other children, Reiner Braun stood in a line, trying not to shiver from the gust, petting the back of his neck and his soaked hair. His young heart was hammering, as if trying to escape his chest, as his palms were getting sweaty. Was it the rain or the untamed worry, but something was making his gaze blurry and his hearing was barely perceiving the harsh instructions from captain Magath. In last, desperate attempt to compose himself, the boy clenched his small fists — small enough to struggle to be wrapped around the rifle properly, small enough to doubt whether this was the right place for something that child-like and fragile.
Today he had no right to make a mistake, no right for a weakness. One wrong move and he would only be able to see the desired yellow armband in his dreams. He had no right to fail his mom like this. He could almost see her red from tears eyes, her disappointed look. No, of course, he could not allow this to happen.
He had to get that yellow armband. Had to get the red one afterwards. Had to become a Warrior. A Hero. Then everything will be good. His mom would be forever happy, his dad would come back to their home, the whole world would live in peace. That was what he had always been told. The only truth he had always known. And he just had to do everything he could.
Had to. Had to. Had to.
But could he? But what if he doesn’t manage to do so?
The boy’s worried, wide-open hazel eyes threw a quick, subtle glance at the other potential candidates in the line, and shyly averted them again. The problem was that unlike many of them Reiner Braun was a mediocrity. Unremarkable, of average talent and even more than average luck — he couldn’t count much neither on himself nor on destiny. Too good to be the worst, not good enough to be even close to the best. A little better in one thing, a little worse in another, but absolutely surely not better than those who were already excluded from this race for the armband which was meant to change their whole lives.
For this whole year, ever since his name was written down in the program, Reiner felt like he was climbing a mountain — a craggy, steep and way too high for someone like him. Totally unreachable. The path to that mountain was rocky, he was constantly stumbling along the way, every beating his knees till they bleed, but was still getting up and kept going.
Because he had to become a Warrior.
And when the time came, he ran. Ran as if his life depended on it. A backpack laid heavily on his shoulders, making his feet sink deeper into the mud. His lungs burned, desperate to grasp just a little more air, legs hurt, threatening to give up. The world around looked blurred beneath the veil of rain, which hid his tears. The patter of raindrops merged with the squelching of mud beneath the childs’ boots and the barely audible shouts of captain Magath.
And yet, Reiner Braun ran. Ran, and ran.
His gaze involuntarily fell upon the riders, proudly towering above the stream of exhausted, desperate children. Beside the captain Magath stood those, whose sole presence made every young heart flutter in admiration — the Chief of the Warrior Unit himself, the holder of the Jaw Titan, Volker Frank and officer Klaus Kleppel, the holder of the Armoured titan.
The boy’s eyes brightened up. He had seen them from afar so many times, as they were watching the children like him training, and he had been dreaming of being noticed. Today was his chance. His chance to show that he was worthy — worthy of becoming a Warrior, worthy of the red armband on his sleeve and the word hero mentioned alongside his name.
His gaze lingered on Klaus Keppler for a split second. The Armoured Titan. Everyone spoke of his name with pride and admiration. Everyone loved Klaus Kleppel. Reiner wanted to be like him. Exactly like him.
For a fleeting moment, the only thought of it seemed to give him the second wind. However, just a second later, the realization struck him — turning away, even for an instant, had been a terrible mistake.
One wrong move, his leg gave way, a wave of pain immediately struck through it. The only thing he managed to do was to extend his arms, not to fall face down into the puddle right in front of him. His heart pumped in his chest, its accelerated rhythm resonated in his ears, pulsated behind his eyeballs. The feet of the fellow candidates were passing by, as quickly as his chances to get the yellow armband on his arm. He couldn’t fail like that. Yet, neither could he force himself to get back on his feet and the backpack seemed to only press him down to the ground.
And when he finally lifted his head in last desperate attempt to get up, there was a hand in front of his eyes.
“Reiner, get up,” the girl said, her voice muffled by the sound of rain and boots running through the mud.
The boy reached out of her hand, as if it was his whole lifeline, before he even managed to comprehend that this helping hand belonged to Emilia Frank. Of course, he knew who she was — one of the most promising trainees in the program, and, even more, the daughter of captain Volker Frank himself. Everyone understood that this girl was doomed to be chosen. And because of that Reiner didn’t know what confused him more: that she returned to help him, putting her results in danger, or that someone like her knew the name of someone like him.
“Did you sprain your ankle?” she asked with unhidden concern in her voice.
“I don’t know,” the boy mumbled, getting up on his feet, one of which burned with pain.
“We should go, we are falling behind. Run in small steps, then your feet don’t sink in the mud that much.”
Reiner only nodded and started to absent-mindedly mirror the movements of his unexpected saviour, still trying to wrap his mind around everything that happened.
He didn’t know that much about Emilia Frank. Even though she clearly had a reason to shine, she surely was not doing it. The girl was quiet, barely-noticeable, easy to blend in the crowd of their young comrades if it wasn’t for her gleaming in the sunlight golden hair. Within this year of training. Even during the breaks was usually found curled over her notebook somewhere in the corner, away from the others. Nevertheless, only a blind wouldn’t be able to see her talent in classes and agility in the training. Even though Reiner barely exchanged a couple of words with the girl, he would be lying if he didn’t admire her from afar — something in her mysteriousness was undeniably intriguing.
And now the girl, who was first in the line to receive the yellow armband, was lagging back together with him.
So… why did she return? Act of kindness? For who — for him? But why? They weren’t friends, he didn’t even think she could know his name.
Misunderstanding was bothering him so much that it muffled the burning feeling in his lungs and pain in his leg. He didn’t know why she did it, but he was incredibly grateful.
The realization of what actually had happened settled down in his mind only when they finally reached the finish. They came last. But if it wasn’t for her helping hand, he wasn’t sure he would get there at all.
“Thank you,” Reiner said as soon as he caught his breath. Fresh air still cut his lungs and made his throat burn, his heart seemed to still run that race, but at least he felt like he found a little plateau to rest on the way to that unconquerable mountain. And strangely on this plateau he was not alone.
“Don’t mention it,” she replied. “I am Emilia.”
“I know,” he mumbled. He looked at her, as he brushed a wet lock of hair, which fell off her tied hair, and for this moment caught himself that her name sounded… beautiful. Such a thought felt so foreign to his mind, made the heat rise in his cheeks. “I am Reiner.”
“I know,” she replied calmly with a little nod.
“Yeah, that’s right,” the boy said, awkwardly scratching the back of his head. He could feel cold raindrops pelting his flushed cheeks. How foolish he must have looked. Probably, the moment she would laugh at clumsy, awkward Braun, as soon as she turned away — he was getting used to mockery from some of the fellow trainees for his awkwardness, for his weaknesses.
However, the mockery didn’t follow. Instead, her lips stretched in a smile. At first, it seemed like this shining smile didn’t fit the gloomy day like this one, yet strangely made it a little brighter, and Braun, involuntarily, returned the smile.
The wind kept creeping under his soaked jacket, but, for some reason he could not quite understand, he felt warm.
“Emilia.” The sound of the low, male voice interrupted the momentary idyll, catching children’s attention. Reiner almost jumped on the place, his heartbeat started a new race, as over them towered captain Volker Frank.
For a split second, Reiner Braun froze. It was the first time the hero he had seen so many times from afar was now in front of him. And, strangely, from close distance his presence felt rather intimidating than purely heroic. Yet, nonetheless, the boy’s eyes brightened up in admiration, his hand quickly saluted the respected Warrior as he quickly presented himself. So did the girl as well, though in a more relaxed way.
Captain’s broad palm also rose to greet them, but fell down just as quickly, in a reluctant manner. “Congratulations, Braun,” the man said. His cold gaze pierced through Reiner, studying him, almost like an eagle would study a mouse he had just caught.
The boy’s hand slowly fell to his side. “I am sorry, captain, sir,” he mumbled, unable to find the confusion from his voice, “but I did not complete this trial successfully.”
“Hm, you didn’t?” the man asked, his cold, almost unnatural steady voice not betraying a single emotion. “I have seen you crossing the finish line. Not everyone did. Sometimes, there is no need to rush to meet the end.”
The boy’s hearing must be failing him — the words seemed confusing and fulfilling at the same time — or, maybe, he still couldn't quite believe this was really happening. Volker Frank himself, the War Chief, the holder of the Jaw Titan, was talking to him. Greeting him on completing the trail. What if it was just his imagination? Maybe he was actually still laying in that puddle and that deliberately calm voice of the captain was just a creature of his imagination?
No, it couldn’t be just his imagination — the girl, whose helping hand came to save him from inevitable failure, was still there. And there still was that gentle smile on her face.
The whole way home that smile didn’t leave his thoughts. He knew he should not be thinking about that, his mother would be angry. War Chief Frank spoke to him, he reached the finish line, he had to worry about his future, had to worry about receiving the armband, about the studies, about the training — that was what had to occupy his mind. But instead, he thought of her smile. Beautiful, was the thought he went to bed with that night.
And a few days later, he returned home with a yellow armband of a warrior candidate.
***
The man was standing in front of the mirror in the dimly lit bathroom, deliberately buttoning up the buttons on his sleeves torturously slowly — anything just to avoid looking up at his own reflection. And yet, he lifted his eyes.
A wave of bile rose in his throat at the sight of his own reflection. His own dark-blue, icy, cold, lifeless eyes were staring back at him — the eyes which concealed a crooked, rotting soul of a monster.
He adjusted the collar of his beige coat, brushed his palm through his blonde hair to make it look neater. The bloody red armband on his left arm meant that the human in the reflection had been through hell — in fact, was still there — and the shiny, little medals over his chest meant he was a hero of his nation, who had earnt them with the cost of hundreds, thousands, lives taken.
This was who the War Chief, Captain Volker Frank truly was — a walking corpse, whose hands were soaked in blood, engraved in his skin, the Butcher of the South and East, the Jaws of Death, the Scourge of Nations. But here, at home, he was mostly known as simply a hero, a holder of the Jaws Titan. This was him to whom belonged the whole idea of the project Young Blood, more known among the people as Warrior Candidate Program.
This was him who came to the conclusion that they needed a soft clay — something easily molded in the crooked, disgusting perfection. New, perfectly fitting screws into the destroyful machine of the Empire. Clear, young minds open to be corrupted by everything one would force into their head, believing with unwavering faith each and every word.
What an abhorrent idea. Repulsive. Utterly disgusting. That was the creature of his mind — more than once his own mind filled him with self-detest. Vile and black, the order of the start of this project was signed by bloodstained hands, his own chief among them. And the first name inscribed in the program was his own daughter’s.
He kept watching in his own reflection, but couldn’t see a human there. What kind of wretched father would do that to his child? Would send his child to a tonment like this?
She was not made for this. She will not handle it, sounded the weak, fatherly voice in his head.
She will, echoed the voice colder and calculated. Unfortunately, this one belonged to him as well.
He loved his daughter. More than anything in the world. And that’s why he had no other choice. That was what should have happened. She had to go through it, for her own good. He knew that, he had seen that.
Volker closed his eyes and propped his arms against the sink. May she hate me, but may she end up where I want her to end up – in the New World, he thought. Everything has already been determined. Nothing can be changed. What were a few human lives compared to the salvation of the whole human being. Small price. A little evil to prevent a greater one.
The man opened his eyes, but didn’t date to look back in the reflection. He had spent years convincing himself he was doing the right thing, but every time ended up being questioned by his own judgemental gaze in the first place.
He didn’t know what was worse — the gaze he was giving himself, the hateful glares of his comrades, the way his sworn brother was silently averting his eyes from him, his wife’s pleading looks, her beginnings to cross the name of their only child out of that doomed list. Or, perhaps, the worst thing was that whole horde of parents, who willingly and happily wrote down their tots’ names in the program, knowing clearly well, their offsprings wouldn't be able to see their 25th birthday were they chosen to be warriors.
Therefore, Volker Frank was not the only crooked soul living in this world. Those people, driven by vanity and petty desperation — pathetic, disgusting creatures — were not better than him. With time his heart must have hardened, yet, the enthusiasm with which some of them signed the death sentences for their children scared even someone like him. Yet, at the end of the day, deep inside he knew that this conviction was nothing more than a comfortable excuse.
The man let out a heavy breath, his gaze fell on the cheap handwatch, the one he had brought home years ago from one of the missions from the East. Everytime he looked at them, he wondered whether the vendor who had sold it to him the day before his hometown was ruined by Marleyan forces survived and still sells those useless little things.
His lips twitched in a bitter smile. Endearing reminder of death. A watch slowly counting minutes and seconds till the end of his term.
Volker Frank finally lifted his eyes at the mirror again. His reflection in the mirror stared at him with the same cold, indifferent eyes. He had to go.
The man had barely left the bathroom, as his wife immediately approached him. Her gentle hands wrapped around his arm and it took him immense willpower to turn his gaze at her. Not many things pained him as much as the thought of constantly hurting her with his decisions and he wished he didn’t have to do it. His beloved wife, Cécile, was a lovely, kind-hearted woman, with a soul pure enough to even brighten up the darkness of his own — the only soul who, for some unexplainable reasons, had a place in her heart for a human like him. To her own detriment.
“Volker,” she only mumbled. She didn’t even need to say anything more — her eyes were begging loud enough.
“Cécile,” he said firmly, but his look involuntarily softened. “You know it’s an honour. And not everyone gets an honour to serve their country like this.”
“Please, don’t let them choose her. I know you can…”
“Cécile,” he cut her off. “Trust me. This is the right thing to do.”
She let go off his arm. This scene had been a déjà vu way too many times during the last year, and he could see her faith slowly, but surely fading. He leaned to her and pressed his lips against her forehead — the only apology he could master. He could have said sorry, but what is worth of the empty words if he could not fulfill them.
“Did you wish her good luck?” he asked, pulling away. His hand gently brushed over her waist — another wordless plea to accept what not a single mother in the world should, and could, ever accept.
“I didn’t,” the woman slightly shook her head and exhaled heavily.
“Cécile,” he feigned disapproval. “You should next time.”
***
He watched as, just a few meters away, children struggled to run, their feet sinking in the mud under the weight of their field packs — the very same children, whose fate was either to have their life shortened by thirteen years or to perish as cannon fodder within approximately the same span, the only difference would be that their hands, hearts and minds would be cleaner — unless hunger and poverty clouded them sooner.
Volker recognised his daughter’s small figure with ease. The girl was not strong by any means, but nimble and, even more importantly, clever enough to take smaller, shallower steps as she ran, not letting her boots stuck in dirt. A fair, almost imperceptible smile of pride flickered across his face, but faded just a moment later. His gaze fell upon a boy, who was already lagging behind quite much, and now, as if to make his situation only worse, had just tumbled down near a puddle with such a loud splash that several children even turned their heads to look. Among them was his daughter. However, unlike the others, who probably just felt like the yellow armband was getting a little closer to them, she turned and hurried back in the same deft steps towards the fallen boy, offering him her helping hand.
The horse beneath him must have felt the tension of its rider and nervously shifted its weight from foot to foot, but Volker only tightened his grip on the reins, quickly calming it down. Not a single muscle twitched on his stone-like face, as he watched his daughter helping the clumsy boy to his feet.
It took him a moment to recognise the boy — Reiner Braun. An unremarkable mediocrity, at first glance. But Volker Frank studied each and every candidate with the utmost meticulous precision and knew clearly well that in front of him was a hidden gem, rough, but full of promise. Brilliant in the classroom, perceptive, obliging, diligent and hardworking.
Volker already knew a person like that — at the moment he was standing by his right hand, his broad shoulders slumped from the heavy burden of being the Armoured Titan: Klaus Keppler. And just like his daughter did right now, ten years ago, Volker returned to the battlefield to drag his wounded brother-in-arm Klaus back to their trenches.
A mocking scoff coming from captain Magath cut the air.
“Do not judge too harshly, Captain,” Volker started. “On the battlefield every soldier faces only two paths — life or death. All or nothing. Such an act could very well doom them both, or… they might both return to their trenches to continue their loyal service to their generous Motherland.”
At first his words were met with silence, but as the lagging behind children disappeared from their sight, Magath finally replied. “I do not appreciate the amount of times I have to agree with your words, Captain Frank,” he grunted and shook the reins of his horse to move further along the trial route.
“The sky cries days long,” muttered Klaus, as soon as Magath pulled slightly ahead, leaving the two warriors behind. “The Lord is displeased. This is no place for children.”
Volker pressed his lips together, his empty eyes slowly shifted to his comrade. Klaus Keppler was a tall, towering figure, a huge man, yet his shoulders had slumped beneath the weight of the armour he had to carry to fulfill his duty. However, he had not always been this way.
They were barely twenty when Volker, and a year later Klaus, donned the warriors’ uniforms and pulled the red armband up their arms. Eleven years had passed since then and the man Volker once called his brother — though not by blood — was not little more than a shadow of a hero he used to be, a faded shadow, patiently awaiting his own end.
“Is he? On the day we razed the city of Felicca to the ground, the sun was shining bright, the birds were singing. You lord must have been overjoyed,” Volker scoffed in reply. “Better tell me where your close friend Klara is? Because she is supposed to be there, what a pity that my sight is failing me and I cannot see, Klaus,” the man grunted through the clenched teeth.
Instead of a reply, Klaus only let out a heavy sigh. Not that words were actually needed — Volker Frank knew clearly well why she was not here.
Klara Febel,the holder of the Female Titan, had been one of the fiercest opponents of the Warrior Candidate Program and, unlike many men, had bigger balls to go against the system, openly defying the start of the program. From the very beginning of their work they had never seen eye to eye, always standing on two opposite sides of the bridge and, instead of taking a step to meet the other, they always set that bridge on fire. Of course, her attempts did not succeed, but Volker would lie if he didn’t find her, strangely, admirable — Klara Febel was a rival worth having. She was undeniably smart, worth dozens of men, more observant than the best intelligence unit, brave, decisive and stubborn. Yet, unfortunately, quite often too reckless and frivolous.
That was her mistake. This woman had been diligently digging her own grave for years, and the only thing that truly gnawed at him was only the fact that she would drag Klaus down with her.
“Tell her to stop, Klaus,” Volker added quieter, his voice devoid of usual coldness, instead tinged with the hints of concern. “She will not change anything, candidates will be chosen today. In fact, had already been chosen, this trial is rather a formality. Her rebellion would only cause problems, for her, and for you,” he turned his case to his sworn brother. “She is fighting a ten-headed hydra and she will not defeat it — not alone, not with you, not anyhow. Help her to finally understand. Or I will.” Though his words might have sounded harsh, there was no real threat in them. “Resign yourselves. I did,” he mumbled and shook the reins and the horse quickened the pace, leaving the other rider behind. The last thing which reached his hearing was the barely audible “I can’t” coming from his Klaus Keppler.
***
The girl’s dirt-streaked uniform laid crumpled in the corner of the bathroom, while her small, childlike figure stood in front of the mirror, wrapped in a warm robe — the one she had never outgrown since she was six.
Volker, having just brought the towel from the room, carefully dried his daughter’s freshly washed from the filth of this world hair — thick and fair, just like his own.
He lifted his eyes to the mirror in which this morning he saw a disgusting reflection of his own, but now in the very same mirror he saw her beaming, charming smile, her adoring eyes — this kind of eyes only loyal dogs and children, whose soul hadn't been corrupted yet, had. Her gaze was the only one who had never seen him as a monster.
At least not yet.
A wave of nausea creeped to his throat, as he thought of how much time he was left to walk this earth. Two years was not much. Too little to have enough of that beautiful smile of hers, which she definitely took after her mother.
Volker stopped drying her hair and playfully tossed the towel over the girl’s head. Hidden beneath the fabric, she burst into laughter.
His throat tightened, tears involuntarily welled in his eyes. She is still just a little one, he thought, as his face twisted, fighting to hold back a single, reluctant tear.
But when she lifted the towel from her face, the mirror reflected only the familiar visage of her beloved father.
The man chuckled in reply and returned to drying her hair, when, all of a sudden, the girl’s face turned concerned. “Did I do the right thing?” she mumbled, nervously fidgeting with the belt of the robe with her fingers.
“Helping the Braun-boy? What do you think, Emilia?” Volker asked, deliberately calm, putting the damp towel aside.
The girl shrugged her shoulders, mumbling the silent “I don’t know”, and looked in the mirror reflection, her eyes glued to her father’s face, trying to find answers there.
“Why did you help him then?”
“Because we have to help each other,” she replied, without even a second of consideration, like a well-learnt mantra, but it was obvious that she had more on the tip of her tongue. “And also he once gave me his bottle of water, even though he was short on it as well. And…” she paused and turned to face her father, “... and I heard that he needs to get it, because his dad would return to him and his mom would be happy. It sounds very important,” she said, as if trying to convince the man that her action was justified. “And I didn’t eavesdrop — I heard it accidentally, I think he didn’t notice me, and he sometimes speaks a bit loud. So… yeah,” she pursed her lips and looked up at Volker, her puppy-eyes round and seeking his validation.
“Does that mean it was the right thing to do to give him a helping hand?” Volker continued in the same manner.
This time Emilia nodded more confidently. “I think, yes.”
“I think so, too,” Volker Frank nodded in reply, letting a light smile protrude that mask of calmness.