Chapter 2 – Year 833

Return to Wall Sina

Members of the 87th regiment received ten days of leave after graduation. Though some recruits forewent their holiday, most returned to their districts. For an unfortunate few, it would be the last time that they saw their families.

The journey to Wall Sina took three days by carriage. Consequently, Iris had precious little time to visit her family. When the horse-drawn wagon arrived at her childhood home, she disembarked and paid the coachman handsomely.

The Wagner residence hadn't changed a bit in her absence. It was a Tudor-style townhouse built of brick, wood, and stucco. The gardens, as always, were well maintained. Tendrils of English ivy clung to the walls, hiding what few imperfections lie beneath. For Iris, the house was a nostalgic reminder of what had been.

She climbed the front steps with seabag in hand. Upon reaching the door, she knocked thrice, stepped back, and awaited the parlor maid. Like many households in Stohess District, theirs had round-the-clock staff. With that in mind, it struck her as odd that no one answered.

Once again, Iris knocked on the door. Emily, their parlor maid, prided herself on punctuality; why did she tarry now? "Hello!" she called. "Emily? It's Iris! Can you let me in?"

The knob turned. Funnily enough, it was her brother, Frederick, who stood in the doorway. The first words out of his mouth were, "You're so stupid." Fred wrapped his sister in a hug before she could retaliate. As Iris' elder sibling, he was quite familiar with her temper. She would sooner strike him than ignore a slight.

"What the hell, Fred? Let go!" she yelled, dropping the duffel. Her arms were trapped; she couldn't hit him even if she wanted to.

He sighed and slowly released her. "I can't believe you…what were you thinking?"

Word travelled quickly. He knows, she thought. To feign ignorance, Iris clasped her hands behind her back and said, "What'd I do?"

The door was still open. Fred took his sister by the wrist and pulled her inside before closing it. Their neighbors – gossips all – were not privy to their conversation. "Don't do that," he scolded. "You know damn well 'what.' The Scouts, Iris? Really?" His face fell. "You just signed your own death warrant…"

Her stomach did a somersault. She was well aware of the repercussions; the last thing she needed was a lecture – and a redundant one, at that. To save face, Iris shrugged and walked into the parlor.

"We aren't done here," he said flatly. Fred followed her through the French doors, seeking an explanation. "Why would you do something so rash?"

The couch sighed when she sat on it. "It's fine," she insisted. "You joined too."

"No!" Fred thumped his fist against the wall. The paintings behind him rattled in their frames. "That was different, Iris! I made the cut – top three in my platoon. But from what I heard, you graduated by the skin of your teeth."

Her cheeks flushed crimson. "Says who?"

"Doesn't matter," he replied. "Point is, you'd better have a damn good reason for enlisting."

"I-I…" She fidgeted with a loose thread on the cushion. The truth of the matter was that she didn't have a good reason.

Luckily, she wouldn't have to devise one – not yet anyway. The front door swung open, and her parents filed in. Iris rocketed off the couch and rushed to meet them. Though the topic could resurface during supper, their arrival bought her time; she could surely think of a lie before then.

"Oh, darling!" Iris' mother caught her with ease. "What a surprise!"

Jonas, her father, was more reserved than his wife. He placed a hand on Iris' head and smoothed her hair. "Welcome home," he said.

Fred slunk out of the parlor with hands set firmly in his pockets. He didn't want to spoil their reunion, so he schlepped upstairs. He had an event of his own to prepare for anyway.

The grandfather clock chimed seven. Having heard the hour, Iris descended the staircase in finery. She wore a floor-length dress, slingback heels, and one string of freshwater pearls. Her fiery hair was drawn into a chignon – a style that she hadn't worn in years. When her chamber maid selected the outfit, she thought nothing of it. Dinnertime was – and had always been – an event all its own.

To her surprise, there were a handful of guests in the foyer. She scanned the room as she made her entrance, ever curious about the occasion. Why hadn't her parents mentioned a soirée? Please, she thought, don't let this be for me.

"There she is, Jenny."

Iris turned her head when she heard Fred's voice. Standing beside him was a brunette with doll-like eyes. The woman smiled sweetly and offered a courteous "Hello."

"This is Genevieve," he said. "My fiancée."

"But," she added, "you can call me 'Jenny' if you'd like."

To say she was relieved was an understatement. "Pleased to meet you, Jenny." Wow. Fred's been busy, hasn't he? "Congratulations!" Though she meant every word, Iris didn't sound sincere. She simply could not fathom why Fred would get married. As a scout, his days were numbered.

"By the way," Fred began, "I invited a few friends. You should introduce yourself." He cocked his head in the direction of the drawing room. "Best make a good impression."

"Why?"

"Iris," he sighed, "just do it."

"Fine."

On her way to the drawing room, Iris swiped a flute of champagne from one of the servers. She held it to her lips as she passed through a set of French doors. It was then that she realized the value of her brother's advice; his "friends" were members of the Survey Corps.

"I never thought he'd settle down."

"I didn't either, Mike – but I think she's good for him."

They seemed to be engrossed in conversation. For the moment, Iris was content to watch from afar. She positioned herself in front of a painting before stealing one last glance. I love a man in uniform. That'll never get old…

"Erwin." Mike bobbed his head. "Isn't that-"

"Fred's sister." Erwin finished his sentence with ease.

"Cleans up nice," he added.

Erwin nodded instead of voicing his opinion. He couldn't help but agree. "Anyway," he said, lifting his flute, "I'm due for a refill. Would you like one?"

Mike raised a brow. "You're using that as an excuse to talk to her, aren't you?"

"She's 15," he reminded.

"Who're you trying to convince?" Mike teased. "Me or you?"

"I'll take that as a 'no,' then." Erwin placed his empty glass on a tray and excused himself. "I'll be back."

Iris averted her gaze as soon as he turned in her direction. Had he caught her staring? Her cheeks warmed at the thought.

Floorboards groaned and snapped beneath his weight as he drew near. Iris studied the painting more intently now, hoping that he might pass her by. Even then, a small part of her yearned for his attention. It was a pitiful crush – a girlhood fantasy.

The sleeve of his trench coat glided over her bare back. Iris' breath hitched; had he meant to brush past? "Excuse me," she said, stepping aside.

"The error was mine," he said. "I apologize." Erwin stood beside her now, admiring the work that garnered her interest. "There's a certain melancholy to this piece, don't you think?"

Iris turned her head toward him. "I suppose there i-" The words slipped away when their eyes met; they had run into each other before. "I know you," she said at last.

"Do you?" he replied. A small grin tugged at his lips. "I don't remember introducing myself in the mess hall."

The dress uniform suited him perfectly. Iris tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and broke eye contact. "Well," she murmured, "I didn't give you much of a chance."

"True," he agreed. "In any case, my name is Erwin Smith." The man offered his hand.

She took it to be polite. Hers was so small in comparison. "Iris Wagner."

Their meeting was cut short when Mike clapped Erwin on the back. "Sorry to interrupt," he said. "We should find Fred and say our goodbyes, Erwin; we're due back in the morning."

"I suppose your right." Erwin released her hand and stepped away. "Goodnight, Iris; I expect to see you bright and early on Monday."

A sudden feeling of warmth filled her chest as he walked away. When last they met, she harbored nothing but contempt. Iris felt different about him now; she was absolutely smitten.

Mike led the charge as he and Erwin departed. "What was that?"

"A conversation."

"She has it bad for you." Mike's nose twitched. "I could smell it on her…like a bitch in heat."

Erwin curled his lip. He considered the habit an invasion of privacy. "Again," he asserted, "she's 15, not to mention a subordinate." After a brief pause, he added, "I'm not interested."

Mike shrugged. "Whatever you say."

After Iris turned down the covers that evening, she slipped into bed with her favorite book. How had she gotten so lucky? In addition to the conversation she shared with Erwin, she also managed to avoid further inquiry about enlistment.

But morning would come quickly – and with it, many questions. Given that, Iris shimmied under the sheets and dimmed the lamp on her bedside table. The book, she knew, could wait until tomorrow.