Liebesbrief mit kein Wiederkehr
Summary: Letters, she had written and delivered—with all hope of returning to a home with a family. A love, to him that she had worshipped for far too long, she had not told.
A/N: I'm having second thoughts on posting this here on FFN, simply because yeah. I practically got devoured by the LeviTra shippers a few weeks ago for something I didn't really mean to do. I might take this down if I get negative feedback (again).
Also, I don't know Petra's age. OTL Plus, because of the majority of the characters having Germanic names, most think the SnK universe is set somewhere in Europe, specifically, in Germany, or even France. Thus, Eren's usage of 'Herr' (German for 'Mr.') in this fic.
"A mighty pain to love it is,
And 'tis a pain that pain to miss;
But of all pains, the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain."
–Abraham Cowley
She remembers how she first saw the one who has captured her heart entirely.
Donned with a green cape, with the emblem of freedom emblazoned upon his back, a man sat atop of a horseback, his face pale and his expression stern, cold, and emotionless, narrow eyes forever set on the path in front of him.
She deems herself to be old enough to tackle the world ahead. And like a typical girl in her teenage years, she longs for love, pines for it with an idealistic mindset.
Short is her time to gaze upon men. A fleeting glance to several of them around her age, she lingers her eyes to them not for very long.
She squints in the morning sun, yet that doesn't dampen her enthusiasm in seeing the one she tries to see.
Someone from her distant right yells, a distinct, "Thirty seconds until the gate opens!" echoes throughout the streets. The chatter of the people slowly simmers in hushed silence. Some of the enthusiastic ones yell out a cheer for the Legion to return safely with the promise of humanity's freedom.
Her eyes close for a second, a quick prayer passes through her mind. From the outside, she is calm. From the inside, she fights her will not to go out in the open and drag one of the men—the only one she has been fancying on—on the horseback and take him home.
Her mind reels of impossibilities. Of thoughts and ideas that she knows will never happen. She looks at the stoic man, and she imprints his appearance in her memory for many months to come.
Pristine clothes and a cravat. A green cape upon his back, almost dwarfing him with its size. His hair, as black as a raven's. His eyes, a shade of blue and silver melded together into two pools. His stance, regal and elegant and graceful.
She longs for him. Pines for him. The want to follow him grows stronger and stronger the more she looks at him.
The gates open. The horses neigh. The sounds of cheering soldiers echo throughout the land.
The soldiers depart. All of them never looking back.
A then young Petra remembers the fluttering capes, and her heart soars upon the memories of her feelings, of undying hope for his victorious return.
She closes her eyes for a fleeting moment, and opens them once more, and before she realizes what she has really done for the past few years, the sound of her beating heart thrums a melody as she gives a stern salute, with the promise of offering her very soul to humanity.
Her eyes, all round and wide and full of hope and bravery, only look in front, and never in her left or right, to where the top ten stand all around her.
She will not falter. Not even in the midst of her comrades.
She looks at him. Only at him. He, who stands proud and regal in front of the stage, standing beside the Commander of the Legion, and her heart soars once more when the small man's gaze passes by hers. A small gesture that it is, she thinks not of that fact, and settles her feelings with that of pure admiration and worship.
She longs for him. Pines for him.
Dearest Father,
Today I have finally entered the Legion. I am now a true soldier, like how I had planned it all to be.
She follows every order, hangs on to every word, and when the day turns to night, she writes some more. Hidden within the confines of her pocket is a tattered notebook with several parchments tucked in between different pages, scrawled with notes and drawings from her early days as a trainee. In there, she jots down her thoughts, arranges and rearranges them, until she is satisfied, and she will write her father a letter.
Dearest Father,
Fear will not make me cower in this world. I will cling onto the hope of someday seeing humanity's bonds breaking free from these walls. I'll see to it.
Until then—
Petra gets along with her fellow soldiers, a few of them becoming her close friends after being with them for three years. She meets a few men, too, yet she keeps her distance, somewhat.
Her eyes wander for a moment's notice one day, her vision being filled by the man who came to be known as the corporal. He passes by her, and she wholeheartedly salutes.
Their eyes meet for a split second. He nods, acknowledging her with a somehow approving glance for the first time, and he turns his back to her. His cape flutters in the wind, and she follows his steps with her eyes.
She smiles to herself as another woman comes up to the corporal. Major Hange Zoë, she is. An admirable woman among the ranks, she represents everything that resembles insanity, or so the others say. But Petra shrugs the comments off. From what she is seeing alone, Petra sees that she is a trustworthy person, one who wants a change for the future.
If he trusts her, then Petra must trust her also. At the back of her mind, she, too, wants to be at his side, but looking at him from afar, for her, is enough.
Whatever and whoever he lays his eyes upon, she will follow. A blind admiration for him, it has grown, a seed that bears a tiny blossom, and his presence is her rain and sun.
She does not tell him that, though.
She bites back a laugh as she sees his hair being licked by his horse. He hears the muffled laughter, and he immediately snaps his eyes to them, to her, and Petra stiffens and mumbles an apology and bows. He says nothing, merely huffs and crosses his arms as he trudges over to them. And all those who has laughed receives a punishment in the form of his hand smoothing over his horse saliva-slicked hair, and he smears his hand on their hair.
Petra closes her eyes shut and bows further, waits for the inevitable that is sure to come. Moments pass, and she feels nothing, not even the telltale graze of fingertips on her head, and she dares to open her eyes and sees him looking and blinking at her with his palm faced upwards, lips formed in a thin line. She reflexively mimics his blinks, and he frowns. And she unconsciously does the same. His hand moves, and she flinches, realizing that she doesn't really want horse spit on her already dirty, sweat-drenched hair.
Something cold prickles her nose for the briefest of seconds, and she opens her eyes to see his index touching the tip of her nose with the faintest trace of a smile on his face.
Her eyes widen as he opens his mouth to speak. Low and sultry is his voice, and her ears long to hear more of him and his melody.
"Got you," he says simply. And she fights back a blush.
Those are the first words he ever uttered to her.
Her heart soars, even when he removes his finger away from her nose. She fights back a smile as he places his hand on his hip and inconspicuously wipes his damp hand on the belt. For someone who calls himself meticulously neat, he sure can be messy at times.
He departs from her with a tilt of his chin—his manner of acknowledging someone, it seems—and Petra bites her lip to stop herself from grinning.
She is so young.
Her eyes run after him, watching his every step and sway.
All the while, she forces herself not to bury her hands in her palms from the utter exhilaration enveloping her. The world spins around her, and everything suddenly becomes all too light, too clear, too warm—
She longs for him. Pines for him.
Dearest Father,
Today, I finally got the chance to see him up close. You might not believe me, but he is rather short—
But his heart is, I think, as large as the sky.
Today is a day like any other, except for the fact today is the day that the corporal's squad will have to be formed once more.
The previous squad died in mission a few days ago.
And now he will have to pick soldiers once more, all for the purpose of protecting a certain someone among the ranks.
Petra gulps as she stands firmly on her feet, willing her resolve not to crumble from nervousness.
Dearest Father,
Today is the day that he chooses his own squad.
Commander Smith stands at the far edge of the stage, while Corporal Levi stands in front of the lines of soldiers with his arms crossed, face as irate as always, but Petra, who can clearly see him from where she stands, takes it as one of his notable charms. The soldiers from the front hear him curse under his breath, whispering to himself about today not being his best of days.
Petra frowns, and nods in understanding.
To him, handpicking soldiers for his squad has always been an ill omen. Picking them, the new recruits—it has always been painful for the stoic corporal, even though he never expresses it in any way. Nevertheless, the soldiers who are standing today are firm on their stand—
They have been restless the day before, often placing bets on who among the new ones will be chosen by the admired Corporal.
Petra's eyes harden at the memory, and now, she tries hard to hold in her nervousness (and pee) as the soft and deliberate sounds of footsteps meet the ground.
He paces in front of them, looking at every soldier in the eye with a raised eyebrow and a passive face. He says nothing as he walks by.
No soldier dares to even breathe or look at him in the eye, all of them far too scared of meeting his intense stare.
And suddenly, Levi gestures an action Petra knows all too well. A cock of his chin, an arching of one eyebrow, and he walks towards another soldier.
Petra's gaze burn at the back of the soldier that Levi just acknowledged, and she sees those stiff shoulders sag in relief.
She gulps as he tilts his chin once more at another soldier, and she tries not to bite her lip, as he passes by another soldier with a nod. He goes to the row where she stands, and her breath comes out shallow as the sounds of his footsteps grow heavier. She briefly glances at the ground, idly checking to see if her boots are polished right, idly checking to see if her feet are aligned properly, idly checking to see if her knees are not buckling—
She gulps once more, and the sound of footsteps stops.
She feels her mouth dry and her blood run cold as she hears him speak.
"You."
Her eyes snap up, to where she meets the hardened gaze of one scowling Corporal Levi.
In the wake of her disbelief, she stammers and squeaks, "M-me?"
He tilts his chin, and passes by her.
It is just for a brief millisecond, a blink of an eye—
—but she is entirely sure that she just saw him smile with approval in his silver eyes.
Her eyes follow him, and a smile blooms on her face.
She is so young. And she pines for him. Longs for him.
Dearest Father,
I finally got into the Ops Squad! I promise I will make you proud, Father! Once this war is over, I will bring you to that place where the wild trees grow! So that we could finally have our own farm and hopefully raise enough livestock to last us a lifetime! Oh, and I think you might be a bit alarmed by this, but it turns out I am the only female in his squad. Pretty neat, huh?
She gets along well with her squad mates, and makes it a task to keep up with the corporal's heaven-high standards—
"Watch it, Petra. You still got a long way on being my wife."
"Oh, stop it, Oluo. I don't get it why you always—oh, bother! Why bite your tongue right now, of all times!"
She fusses over him, throws him his cravat that he discarded a few minutes ago, and wipes it on his mouth as he babbles incoherencies, cringing as she does so. "When will you ever learn!" she complains with a whine and a stomp, and from beside her, Gunther chuckles while Eld tries his best to ignore them. She pouts.
She will never understand the depths of a man's thinking.
"Maybe I will learn once I tie the knot with ya," he finally lets out once his mouth has been freed from his own blood.
With a grimace and a twitch of her eye, she snorts and sticks her nose in the air, huffing. "I'd rather tie that knot around that tongue of yours. Ah, good day, Corporal!" And she runs up to him with an earnest salute and a stern face, and the corporal nods at her.
"Get your horses. We're on patrol."
At the command, she gives him a loud affirmation, and Oluo idly notes her extreme reverence for Levi.
She gives him a kick to the shins in return.
Dearest Father,
Today is officially my first mission as a member of the Legion. I am sure I will make it back alive! Looking forward on killing more titans! I really hope I could see what titan flesh is made out of. Sometimes I feel like the Major's wild ideas are rubbing off on me. I idly wonder, whenever I am out taking them down, if titan meat takes like cow meat, or pork.
Never mind, all this thinking about food makes me hungry! Father, don't starve yourself while I am away, all right?
She survives her first mission, although at the stake of her dignity being ripped to shreds.
"Gyahaha! You should have seen it! I swear there was piss all over the place! If—gyahah—if only we knew who it was that sprinkled all over the forest! Oh sh—my stomach—hahah!" A soldier bellows out a hearty laugh, slapping his hand on another soldier's shoulder as cachinnation grew louder, some of them guffawing, the loud whooping of belly-laughs resounding in the lively halls. From the far corner of the mess hall, Eld and Gunther gather around a moping Oluo and Petra, both of who are furiously whispering and bickering.
"It's your fault!" she mutters harshly, and Oluo bites his tongue. She scoffs, and despite her brash attitude towards him, she knows she cares for him. Wrinkling her nose, she tugs the cravat from his neck and quickly shoves it in his mouth, wiping away the blood and snot gathered there. Gunther and Eld laugh despite Oluo's obvious discomfort.
They are comrades through and through.
And they, being the best of friends, have grown an ocean's worth of trust—an unbreakable bond.
Dearest Father,
I have finally found true friends among my ranks, plus, my first mission outside the walls was a success! Attached to this letter is a sketch of us, drawn by the Deputy Leader, Moblit Berner. Also attached to this letter is a sketch of him. You don't know how much I begged for the Deputy to draw him, seeing as the corporal is a very busy man. Don't tell anyone, but Deputy sneakily drew him the day he took a break one day, thus the drawing of him sleeping under a tree.
Father, he's beautiful, isn't he?
In her rare times of leisure, when there are no missions to take, she simply makes tea for the corporal. Black tea. No sweeteners of any kind. Accompanied by eintopf, that is, a mixture of broth, vegetables, potatoes, and meat, all put in a pot as stew.
It is his personal favorite food, though he does not voice it. But Petra knows, judging by the way his eyes widen just the slightest upon seeing her enter his office every time she has a tray full of the stew.
Truly, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.
She observes him as soon as she lays down the tray in front of him, and smiles as he puts away his quill with practiced ease. He leans back on his chair with his eyes closed, silently inhaling the aroma of the tea and the eintopf, and she watches him open his eyes and starts his meal by taking a sip of his tea, always the tea. And she watches him purse his lips and gestures to her with a nod, and she practically beams every time he nods in approval. She chews on her lip as he takes a spoonful of the stew, and her eyes light up as she sees him close his eyes for a fraction of a second, and she hears him hum, low and almost inaudible to her ears.
"Is it to your liking, sir?" she asks as timidly as possible, not wanting to sound too excited, fearing he might find it irritating for whatever reason.
"It is good," he simply says, and those three words bring happiness to her whole being. He looks at her, and her body stiffens on instinct. He senses her tension, and his brows curl downwards. "At ease, Petra. You are off-duty."
For the first time, she hears him call her name, and to her, it is the most beautiful sound. Say it again, she wants to say to him, but cannot. It is too forward, and she doesn't want to come off as disobedient in front of her superior.
"Something wrong, Petra?" he asks, and her heart clenches and constricts and feels her whole body bursting from the inside. From happiness. From admiration—
—from love.
Dearest Father,
I think I have fallen for him.
Say it again, she wants to say, but no words come out. His brows furrow, and he takes another spoonful of his food, but does not eat it. Instead, he offers it up. To her.
"Have you even eaten yet?"
She feels her heart stop.
He is beautiful. Truly beautiful. And kind beneath his cold exterior. She sees him as perfect beneath all his flaws—rather, she sees his flaws as his charms. Always as his charms.
Dearest Father,
I am twenty-two years old, I have killed plenty of titans, the largest number among my female peers, survived and cheated death a lot of times, rose through the ranks to be where I am now.
Yet I know nothing of what this thing called love is. How fickle and fragile and vulnerable it is in my inexperienced hands. If this is so...
What should I do?
She stammers out a reply, her hands waving furiously in front of her, not wanting to impose—"I have already eaten, really," she lets out as her feet shift restlessly. And she feels her face paling as he stands up.
Despite being so small, his stance alone greatly commands absolute authority.
He rounds the desk, still with the spoonful of stew poised outwards in between his slender fingers, and Petra is truly at a loss of what to do.
He offers it up to her with the same passive face and furrowed brows, and Petra, for a fleeting moment, sees the etches of expression lines across his face, sees them through the gentle dance of the candlelight, and her mouth parts just the slightest, in awe, she decides.
"Don't lie. You are hungry, I can see it. When you opened that door, your balance wavered slightly. And that only happens when you are hungry. Here. It will get cold," he mutters hoarsely, and it takes a second for Petra to realize that she is still there, standing in front of the Corporal.
She offers up to say something, anything, but her mind draws a blank, and she can only look at his face filled with apathy. But she knows—beneath his façade of strength lies a man who is fragile. She can see it in his eyes.
"B-but Corporal, as your subordinate, I cannot—mmph!"
Her words are cut off by a spoon invading her mouth, and her lips clamp around it as she tastes the stew, and she lets it sit in her tongue for a while, to relish its taste, and she swallows quite audibly.
He removes the spoon from her mouth, and his brows curl.
All the while, she never strays her eyes from his face.
"It's good, isn't it. You made this, right." His tone holds no malice, and, dare she say it, but the corporal looks almost amused.
She blinks away her nervousness, wills herself to calm down, and when she sees him smirk, she almost, almost, loses her composure as he deftly puts the spoon in his mouth, and he smirks.
It is the closest thing she can ever see as happiness on his face.
"It's nice. Have eintopf prepared thrice a week from now on," he says through the spoon in between his teeth. And he saunters off, back to his desk—the little simper never leaving his youthful face.
Petra gulps, chews on her cheek, and tries to stifle the wide smile threatening to make its way to her lips. And she salutes, and feels the thumping of her hammering heart on her fist.
"Yes, Captain!"
Dearest Father,
I have decided to offer up my heart to him. To join him in his cause to regain humanity's honor.
She watches him fondly with a small smile.
She longs for him. Pines for him.
She is too young to fall in love.
Weeks pass by, and the word about a human turning into a titan and back—a shifter—has made its way through the Legion.
"Tch. I bet the shifter is as old as a fart," Oluo comments one night in the mess hall, and Petra, looking quite scandalized at his words, berates him.
"Oluo! Don't talk badly about people! From what I've heard, the shifter is a teen. Much younger than you."
Oluo, in turn, clicks his tongue and turns away from her, cradling his chin on the heel of his palm as he does so. And she is sure she hears him mutter an intelligible apology. Gunther and Eld laugh about it, and Oluo curses them.
The door to the mess hall opens with a loud bang, and in comes the corporal with the usual scowl on his face.
Everyone's eyes instantly land on him, and all of them stood up and give a salute—
"At ease, men," he orders, and everyone shuffles and return to what they were doing, eating and chatting their idle time away.
The sound of his pattering boots echo in the hall, and several pairs of eyes look at the Corporal striding down with an air of grace. He stops in front of his squad's table, crossing his arms as he taps his index on his elbow. Eld, Gunther, Oluo, and Petra stand up and salute him, and Levi merely raises his brows.
The four of them sit silently, all of them looking at their captain.
"We are to officially meet the kid tomorrow," he mutters with disinterest, and Oluo chokes on his spit as he scrambles words to say.
"The shifter is a kid? Just a kid?" he stammers, and Levi almost looks offended at his statement while Petra looks at him with annoyance.
"Oluo, wipe off that blood from your mouth. And no, the shifter's not really a kid. More like a brat if you ask me."
His comment earns a chuckle from his squad, and Levi rolls his eyes.
"Captain," Petra says, "do you want us to look after him, then?" She blinks, her smile wide and her eyes hopeful.
Levi straightens his back more, tilts his chin back the slightest, and eyes her carefully. At least, she thinks he's eyeing her—
"Petra, you arrange the dungeon he will sleep in." It is his first command to her for the night, and she beams with a fervent nod. Levi turns his eyes to the rest of the squad, "Oluo. You're in charge of the dining hall—or no. I'll give that to Eld. Oluo. You're in charge of the gardens. Make sure everything is up to my standards. Gunther. You're in charge of guarding the brat. That's all." And with that, he nods, more so to himself, and he leaves.
Petra watches him go, and smiles to herself. As she repositions herself in her seat, something soft brushes her fingertips. She looks down, and there, sitting beside her, is a lone white clover, freshly plucked, it seems.
She quickly glances at the door, where she sees the glimpse of sharp, silver eyes of a retreating Levi.
She blinks, and just like that, he is gone, the soft shutting of the door serving as the shadow of his presence.
Without thinking, her shaky fingertips touch the fragile blooms, lets the stem roll around her palm as she observes it on her lap with a smile.
Right before the corporal left, Petra could have sworn she has seen tiny white petals on his breast pocket.
She lets out a tiny giggle, and bites her lip to keep herself from smiling too brightly—and she remembers something about a book she has read. Something about the meanings of flowers.
In the language of flowers, a white clover means: "Think of me".
A wide smile finally breaks free from her.
"Hey, Petra. Why are you smiling while looking on your lap?" Oluo pipes up, and she shushes him with a lighthearted insult as she stands and bids her squad mates good night.
Dearest Father,
I have fallen for a man. And I will do anything and everything to keep him safe from harm.
Even—
Today marks the third week of the shifter's stay in the former Legion's headquarters, and Petra has been treating him like how an older sister should treat her brother.
"Eren, these documents—you place them here, far from the bottle of ink. We don't want you to get into trouble like what happened to Oluo the other day. He placed them next to the inkbottle and accidentally bumped it with his elbow. And you know what happened after that."
Eren jolts and cringes, as though he is recalling an awful memory, and Petra silently notes he has been doing that ever since he has met the Legion. She cannot blame him, though. The Legion is full of strange people.
"Herr Oluo. He, um, he got yelled at by the corporal," Eren lets out in a breathless squeak, and Petra agrees with a nod. She pats Eren on the back, and silently notes that yes, Eren is definitely afraid of everyone in the Legion. She hums with a smile and looks at him in the eye. Firmly grabbing his shoulders, she breathes in, bracing herself for the words about to be uttered.
"I don't want that to happen to you. That day when you—when we yelled at you—I don't want a repeat of that. That was a huge mistake on our part, something I still regret up to this day and—I don't really want you to get on the corporal's bad side. Trust me on that."
Eren blinks, and she feels his shoulders sag beneath her palms, "You got yelled at by the Captain?"
In turn, Petra blinks and cocks her head, processing his question. She looks away from him, thoughtful for a moment, and her face brightens up once more, "Not really yelled at, I'd say. More like, he gave me a very disapproving look once. It was on my first day in duty and I don't know what he likes or dislikes and no one told me a briefing on how he likes his tea. So here I was preparing his tea, and I delivered to him and just when I was about to leave, he slammed the cup down on the table so loudly, I jumped. And there I was, suddenly staring at him face to face and I thought my knees would buckle from all of his staring and—"
Eren cringes once more, and looks at her with sympathy, "I know that feel."
Petra laughs, "I know, right. Anyway, he didn't outright yell at me, or anything. He was just, standing there, staring, well, more like glaring, and then he was all—" Petra clears her throat huffs out her chest, and in a funny attempt at deepening her voice, Eren tries not to guffaw as she does her sad mimicry of the corporal. "'Petra. This tea is too fucking sweet. I want my tea black next time.'" And Eren laughs out loud, and Petra feels relief overcome her as she finally makes the shifter feel at ease, and before she knew it, she herself is laughing her words away. "I swear, I swear! He was just—please don't tell him I told you this—but he's the most adorable little thing! I think Major Hange told him that one time, and the ending for her was hilarious! Oh dear—!"
They laugh, and both exchange stories of embarrassment and awkward moments that riddled their lives since their trainee days.
Petra observes the way Eren laughs, childlike and carefree, and in that moment, she realizes that he is what he is—a normal boy with a not-so-normal curse and blessing.
Dearest Father,
Today I have seen the shifter smile like how he's supposed to. Contrary to what people say, he's a very sweet boy, corrupted only by the way this world cages us. Father, I assure you, he is humanity's last hope, not a debauched creature made by a madman. If you hear people there saying he is otherwise, don't believe them. They know nothing of the boy.
I will give it my all to protect him—and him that I love.
The fifty-seventh expedition outside the walls serves as another step in humanity's counterattack. With the outcry from Erwin, the Legion charges outside the walls and steps into the stolen land.
Even after the deaths of their comrades, the Legion remains moving forward.
Even after the Female Titan runs hot on their heels, the Levi squad looks forward. Even after Eren's much hesitation about killing it there and then—
"Eren, trust us!"
Petra pleas for the shifter to restrain his anger until the proper moment comes and—
The Female Titan is captured, and they are finally free from its terror—
"Eld, you take over while I—"
Petra hears no more, and in her mind, she fervently prays for him to return, safe and sound.
They make their way to rest on top of tree branches, waiting for their signal to return. Petra hears Eld about Levi not trusting certain comrades, and irks her and throws a fit. Eld explains, and Petra is placated.
The sight and sound of the smoke guns then echo in the forest, and the squad moves. Petra smiles to herself. Everything will soon be fine.
Dearest Father,
We have captured a Female Titan. An intelligent. We will get it to it, and we will take a step towards freedom.
Eld jokingly tells Eren about the squad's first mission, of how Petra and Oluo urinated while they were flying through the air, and Petra screams and throws another tantrum, glaring holes behind Eld.
"What if Eren won't respect me anymore! It'll be your fault! Eld!"
Dearest Father,
Some men really are jerks—
A cloaked figure passes them by, and Gunther sees the figure, thinking that it must be their Captain.
—but those jerks, no matter what—
"Who are you!" Gunther screams, and in a blink of an eye, the wires of his gear are effortlessly cut off—
—those jerks will always be—
—and his body slams onto a nearby tree, killing him instantly.
—my friends.
"Herr Gunther!" Eren screams and tries to reach out for him—
"Eren, get away!" Eld hauls him off, ignoring Eren's protests of returning to Gunther. Petra turns at the assailant, her eyes now wide and livid.
"Show yourself, you coward! I'll slice you to pieces!"
Dearest Father,
This is it.
Humanity's step to freedom.
The Female Titan emerges, and the squad decides to finally fight it—
Eld orders Eren to return at the headquarters, the shifter hesitates—
"Don't you trust us?" Petra asks once more, her voice cracking and pleading for Eren to "Please trust us."
Eren hesitates once more, and looks at Petra's eyes. He heaves, and shuts his eyes with an almost broken cry, "Please return safely!"
And the Levi squad smiles as Eren turns his back to them, the shifter's voice serving as a ray of hope.
"I know my squad will come out victorious!"
The squad goes in for the kill, the three of them simultaneously cutting off the Titan's joints, effectively making it immobile against a tree. Eren, unbeknownst to them, watches them from afar.
Petra, Eld, and Oluo dive in for the final attack—
Dearest Father,
We have—
The Titan moves, and chomps Eld, killing him.
—failure!
"It hasn't even been 30 seconds—how could it—"
Petra's eyes are wide with fear, she shakes her head in disbelief, and finally looks away to escape, escape, escape—!
Dearest Father,
Please send him my—
The Titan swoops in, and stomps on Petra in one blow.
She was too young.
~!~!
Levi wordlessly walks by his ranks, his ears and very soul deaf to the cries of the anguished people.
He looks and walks like a corpse, it is usual for him after a battle outside the walls, he assures himself, but when a weak voice calls out to him, he feels his blood leaves his body—
"Sir Corporal Levi!"
Levi gulps, yet he shows no emotion as a man comes up to him with a nervous smile. A man that Levi has never met before.
"Sir Corporal Levi," the man heaves a breath and repeats with the same forced smile, "My daughter is in your squad." The man dutifully patterns Levi's steps with the forced laughter as he talks, and Levi tries not to look at him. Beads of sweat are seen on the man's face.
"I am Petra's father, you see," he says her name in a quiet gasp as his brows quirk upwards with an inaudible gulp, his eyes mindlessly searching for his daughter among the wounded soldiers. "B-before she sees me, I wanted to talk to you, if I could," he gauges Levi's indifference as a cue to continue, nervously, he speaks. "She sent me this letter, you see. She said that you respected her skills enough to let her join your squad."
He tries to see something in Levi's dead pools of silver, and finds none. The man talks on, "She said that she was going to devote herself to you, sir. Well, I think her head is currently too far in the clouds for her to consider how her father feels." Petra's father forces out a laugh as he glances at Levi's expressionless face once more, and he looks away as he speaks, "Well, that is—uh—as her father, I think it's too early for her to marry. I mean—she's still so young, with many things to experience and—"
Petra's father steps in Levi's way, and Levi stops in his tracks, albeit his face still remains passive even as the man shakes the corporal's shoulders with force.
"Pardon me, but please—hear me out, sir...! She—Petra, she—specifically wanted me to give these to you—letters that weren't made for me—but for you."
A small, leather-bound bundle with a ribbon tied around the middle has been thrust into the corporal's cold hands, and with a bow, the man makes for his departure, but is stopped by Levi's cold tone.
"Wait."
Petra's father gulps at the acknowledgment, and he now finally realizes his daughter's words—that Corporal Levi is an intimidating man.
Something rough and crinkly is put on the man's hands. A small bundle of wrinkled papers, tied delicately by a makeshift knot—something green and crudely ripped off, and suspiciously stained with something red—is put into the man's suddenly shaking hands.
With no words to say, Levi departs—
—he looks and walks like a corpse.
From behind him, he hears a soft mumble amongst the angry crowd. The soft thud of knees buckling to the ground as a whimper breaks through. The voice is weak, trembling, and Levi feels his cold heart crack at the words.
"My daughter was so young..."
Moonlight seeps through the cold, cloudless night. In the headquarters, Levi sits by the windowsill, seeing everything and nothing in the glow of the night.
The small bundle of letters given to him earlier is bunched up in his hands, his fingers cold as he idly thumbs the parchment.
He has read through all of her letters. Letters for her father. And letters written for him.
He sighs, and for a moment, his brows furrow, a pang of regret jutting through his insides as he recalls what he has done. At the time, it has seemed right for Levi to give her father her unsent letters—it will serve him a memento of sorts. But now, Levi feels guilt swallow him whole. And in his wallowing, he laughs dryly, emptily.
"I shouldn't even be feeling remorse anymore," he whispers to himself with a crack of a broken smile.
For a moment, he feels selfishness seep in. He wants to return to the town and search for Petra's father, to plead—beg!—to have those letters and the cloth ripped from her own cloak be returned to him. And it will be his once more—but no.
One letter from her stands out among the rest. A letter sent to her father, but it is meant for him.
Dearest Father,
Today I have seen something that I think I shouldn't have seen—a book about authors who have lived in the past. The past where everything used to be free. Please don't tell anyone! I was just curious of what they wrote about emotions, I swear!
I'm going to write it down here, because I think it reflects what I feel.
Levi's shoulders shake as his jaw clenches, and he firmly clutches the letter in his fist, and a soundless sob escapes his lips.
"We were never lovers, and we never will be, now. I do not regret that, however. I regret the conversations we never had, the time we did not spend together. I regret that I never told him that he made me happy, when I was in his company. The world was the better for his being in it. These things alone do I now regret: things left unsaid. And he is gone, and I am—"
The last word is blurry, dampened by tears, he is sure. The word written is almost unreadable.
He refuses to read it again, but the words are now sealed in his screaming mind, his thoughts clambering to get out, to fester his unseen and untold wounds. Regrets hiss and claw at his insides, screams of 'I should have beens' and 'I shouldn't have beens' cry in his conscious.
A tear slips from his eye, and the impenetrable wall that is his heart is cracked open for the waning moon to see.
A broken resonance of a soundless lament echoes through his quivering lips and breaking heart.
He longs for her. Pines for her.
And now, she is—
"...gone."
"I wanted to tell her everything, maybe if I'd been able to, we could have lived differently, maybe I'd be there with you now instead of here. Maybe if I said, 'I'm so afraid of losing something I love that I refuse to love anything,' maybe that would have made the impossible possible. Maybe, but I couldn't do it, I had buried too much too deeply inside. And here I am, instead of there."
—Jonathan Safran Foer
A/N: The quote written in Petra's last letter was by Neil Galman. Not mine. In other news, my oneshots are getting longer—24 pages. My previous record was 20. :))