Battle for Trost

The Battle of Trost forever remains as one of the darkest folklores of mankind. But for those remaining in Trost, it's not just folklore—it's a reality, and life must go on.


The clanging of a hammer on hot steel echoed throughout the spacious smithy while Garcia wiped a bead of sweat off his brow. He stood above his son, his robust figure accentuated by his sturdy, crossed arms. He stared at the searing hot iron as it slowly began to meld into a blade. He remained silent, letting nothing but the sound of his son's work fill the shop. The can that hung in front of the smithy's entrance only clanked so loudly if an unwelcome visitor came to claim his own.

Gant ran his fingers through his drenched hair and huffed in a feeble attempt to cool down. He stared at the short sword in front of him and made a face before tossing the hammer in resignation. There was only so much worthlessness a person could take.

Gant wore his hair long. His hair had ended to the end of his neck, whilst shorter strands stuck to his face, dripping with sweat. He had an attractively sleek face: dark rounded eyes that, resembling those of his father, with cheekbones and a refined jawline—a definition resulting from the constant hours he had put in the smithy. The baby fat that clung to his face and stomach had finally subsided. His teenage years continued to shape him into a fine man.

"You haven't drawn the blade out enough," Garcia said, his fingers combing through his scruffy chin while he inspected the blade.
The sound of his father's voice was like the buzz of a fly that he could never catch. It was always there, unwavering in its ignorance. Admirable, really. How one could stay so stuck up in his ideals, and not even consider an alternative.

"Dad," Gant huffed, his head hunched over. His shoulders continued to rise and fall with every huff that he took. "This is so pointless."

"No. For the tenth time, it isn't," Garcia responded as he walked closer towards the welding table. Garcia was in his late thirties, although the wrinkles around his eyes and the sprinkling of grey in his hair and facial hair made him look like he was well in his forties. His dark brown eyes had lost its rounded shape, his eyelids drooping as a consequence of age, but it still kept its solemn edge.

His eyes remained fixated on the blade, while Gant remained head downcast. Disappointment stuck in his head as he stared at the blade, like a piece of gum stuck on the bottom of a shoe. But he needed to stay civil, avoid using the word or any word resembling it. Gant couldn't afford to fail any longer.

"You're going to tell me that this thing is usable?" Gant scoffed as he looked up at his father, his long brown hair stuck to the sides of his sweaty face.

"Look, you need to draw it out a little more. Right now it's a little stubby…" Garcia started, as he grabbed the short sword and continued to examine it. "So what you gotta do is take this fuller here and…"

Gant clenched his fists as he dropped his head.

"I don't care," he mumbled.

"…really draw it out while it's hot. See how it's still got that white-ish—"

"I don't care!" Gant shouted, staring at his father.

Garcia threw the welded blade in frustration, a resounding clang providing the only response. The failed weapon was another addition to the useless blades sprawled on the ground. The petulance of youth was truly the hardest battle to fight.

"You're not going to become a soldier to die for nothing!" he shouted back to Gant.

"I'm living for nothing working on these shitty blades!"

"Watch your mouth," Garcia said, sticking out his index finger towards Gant.

"Look at this!" Gant said, taking a step back. The awkward should-have-been swords were sprawled on the floor. "You're going to make me keep doing this? How many times have I failed? Honestly? I've lost track."

"You're going to keep doing it until you get it right!"

Gant raised his head and let out an exasperated sigh.

"What, you're going to look over me for the rest of my life while I make dildos for titans?"

Garcia's right arm launched over the welding table and grabbed Gant by the collar. Gant instinctively grabbed his father's burly forearm with a sweat-drenched hand.

"You're not joining the army, and that's final."

"Why? Because you prefer living in this dump instead?"

Garcia squinted his eyes as he stared at his son.

"You prefer living in this fucking titan made shithole?"
Garcia paused. He strengthened his grip.

Garcia Kampfer, Trost's renown blacksmith. The first son of a blacksmith, and the third in his family. Two generations later, the smithy became Garcia's, and the orders never ceased to arrive thick and fast. The military heralded the Kampfer's for their quality and punctuality, the name reaching even Wall Sina. The Kampfer's mark was the crossing of the axe and the sword, a symbol representative of an honorable heritage, and a standard for quality. The smithy was no different.

"This 'titan made shithole' is our home." Garcia said slowly. He wanted that to sink in, for Gant to truly understand what he meant by 'home.'

Gant stared at his father, narrowing his gaze. Staying in Trost was akin to staying homeless, or staying poor, or living beyond poverty. The Scout Regiment had abandoned them. The Garrison Regiment had abandoned them. The Military Police hadn't even considered them. He wondered if his father understood that. He wondered how long they'd manage to remain in Trost, until there was no more to live off of. He wondered if the thought had even crossed his mind. The more Gant had thought about it, the more he considered it suicidal to stay within Trost, let alone Wall Sina.

"Let me join the army," Gant said. "Let me join the army. I'll make the marks to join the Military Police. We won't have to worry anymore."

His unwavering voice stood testament to his conviction. Gant eyed his father, standing tall, unwilling to let his father's grasp perturb him.

Garcia scoffed and released his grip on Gant's collar. Gant stumbled backwards as his body no longer required to be leaning over the welding table.

"You think we'll be safe within Wall Sina," Garcia replied as he crouched to pick up the still-hot blade.

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Gant hissed through grit teeth.

"What did I say about that mouth of yours, boy?" Garcia snarled as he shot up and pointed the now-disfigured blade at his son.

Gant let out an agitated sigh.

"Is that going to be it then? 'Watch my mouth?' What a great response. You know what, dad? You got me—I've completely changed my m—"

The distant sounds of clinking cans echoed from the entrance of the forge.

Garcia quickly whipped his head toward the entrance hallway as Gant's eyes remained fixated in the same direction.

"What the hell did I tell you to tell your friends if they want to see you," Garcia said, still staring.

"I'm not expecting anybody," Gant quickly retorted, his gaze still fixated at the hallway.

"Axe," Garcia demanded immediately as he placed the blade on the welding table.

Gant turned around to face the forge and picked up the steel axe that rested besides the fireplace before tossing it over to his father, who gripped it immediately upon feeling its handle on his fingertips.

Garcia crept towards the hallway leading to the main entrance before he paused and stared at the door in front of him. He felt the coolness of the concrete on his back as he approached the door.

There was no explicable reason for Garcia to feel any sort of sympathy for whomever he may see beyond the wooden door that stood before him and his street. He kept a white-knuckled grip on his axe.

Slowly, he turned the doorknob and opened the door in front of him, leaving just enough space for him to peer the street that extended to the left and right of the smithy. He saw the cans that hung between the two ferns besides the entrance.

There was nobody in sight.

Garcia looked left, right, then left again, just to make sure. There was nobody on the streets. Why would there be? A lonely passerby was a victim for the now lawless streets of Trost. Walking down the street with a sense of urgency, direction, or presence, wasn't enough for many.

Garcia brought himself back into the smithy before locking the door behind him. He made his way back over to the forge where Gant remained waiting, unmoved.

"Nobody," he shrugged. He tossed his axe back at Gant, who grabbed it in the air with the professionalism of a blacksmith's son.

"Nobody?" Gant asked, placing the axe back next to the forge.

"Nobody." Garcia repeated as he walked back towards his son.

"You're not expecting anybody?" Gant asked as he stared at his father.

"I never said that," Garcia said with a satisfied smile. "But Eileen knows better than to let cans make us aware of her presence."

Gant shrugged. He picked up the disfigured blade on the welding table and examined it. He only just noticed that his heart rate had quickened. It was hard. To forget what would happen in Trost nowadays. He always took big, main streets. He always kept his head down, his eyes focused on his beaten and dusty shoes, matching the cracked and littered roads caked in dirt and blood. He never went out alone. And walking in the dark was suicidal.

Gant looked down at the welding table and took another look at the sword he had just forged.

"You know, dad, this is a real piece of shit," he said, as he inspected the blade, turning it around and examining all sides of it. He stuck the blade back into the forge to heat the iron.

Gant wasn't cut out to be a soldier. Garcia knew that. Anyone who knew Gant knew that. His long hair that he refused to cut, and his slender figure made Gant look like belonged in a library, not a battlefield. He had the finesse to come out the victor in a debate too, but not in a fight. Garcia hated him sometimes. It was impossible to ever win in an argument against his own kid. Every word had a 'nuance,' according to him-whatever the hell that meant. He could only tell in an argument what it meant, since it was that nuance that always skinned him alive.

"You only get better with practice, Gant," Garcia chuckled, relieved. "Like I told you, you've gotta really draw out the blade. Right now it's…what'd you call it…a 'titan's dildo'?"

"Jeez, dad," Gant said, rolling his eyes. "You can't keep hold it against me when I'm caught up in the moment."

"Give me a break—like I'd get the luxury if I pulled that excuse," Garcia scoffed, ruffling his son's hair.

"Ugh," Gant pulled back. "I'm almost seventeen now you can't be doing that to me."

Garcia laughed, pulling his arm away.

Two knocks, a pause, and three knocks later, Garcia faced the hallway again, then back at Gant with a smile.

"That must be Eileen. We're gonna be eating right for at least the next couple of weeks," he said with a smile as he walked towards mantelpiece above the forge. There hung a curved blade resting in a scabbard.

"You're not serious," Gant said, staring at his father as he approached the sword.

"Totally serious."

"No—I mean you're not actually selling that to Eileen."

Garcia didn't respond as he grabbed the hanging blade.

"Dad," Gant repeated uneasily.

Garcia stared at the blade as he unsheathed the sword. He squinted as it caught sunlight and flashed brilliantly in his eye. He moved his hand instinctively and examined the spotless weapon. It had a curved edge to it, and the hilt provided a faint red glow that illuminated until the middle of the blade.

"Pretty, ain't she?" he asked, as if addressing the smithy, rather than his son. Her sword, and his axe. That's how it used to be. The Garrison bastards never touched them—nor the smithy. They knew better. But she was the one who really let her blade do all the talking. Her finesse rivaled that of the legendary recruit that single handedly saved Trost. The half-Asian. The one that could control that Titan. Ironic how his wife was also half-Asian. He wondered if that had anything to do with her ability with a blade.

He sheathed the sword again and began walking towards the entrance of the smithy.

"Dad!" Gant shouted.

Garcia looked back at his son.

"That's not yours to sell."

"You don't get to decide that," Garcia responded, almost immediately.

"And neither do you!" Gant shouted, slamming his palm on the forging table. "That was mom's, and you're half the swordsman she was!"

"There's sawdust in our bread and you're going to tell me what we can and can't sell?" Garcia hissed.

There was another knock on the door before Gant could open his mouth.

"Coming!" Garcia shouted, turning his back on his son.

"Dad!"

Garcia held the scabbarded blade in his left hand as he walked back towards the entrance of the forge. He remembered Fye's skill—her technique and her speed. He remembered how easy it was for her to cut someone down. He was weak, he remembered her telling him. Killing someone wasn't about the strength that you had, it was about the willingness to point a blade at someone, and think of nothing but coming out the victor…

There was another impatient knock at the door.

"Coming!" Garcia repeated, gripping the doorknob.

He swung the door open and stared at the brown haired girl in front of him, tears welling in her eyes.

"Eileen?"

A choking on tears and a small hiccup. "I'm sorry, Garcia," she whispered.

A figure in long khakis, a button up, and a small brown jacket that ended above her waist stood behind Eileen. Garcia looked up the officer, a tall woman who stood a head higher than Eileen's short, slender figure. She stared head-to-head with Garcia, one hand holding a piece of parchment for Garcia to see, the second hand hanging onto the cuffs used to tie Eileen's hands behind her back.

"Mr. Kampfer," she started. Her voice was crisp and held an even tone. "Can we come in?"