III. Morgan
A/N: This was an absolutely huge chapter. I spent far more time working on this chapter than I did on the last two combined. I had to think a lot about the direction this story, unlike when I wrote the first chapter, and because of that, I had to revise a lot. If you're one of the few that's been here from the start, I won't tell you that you have to go back and read the first chapter-the most important change that I made was that the soldier asks to enter the smithy, rather than declare that Garcia's under arrest, but I certainly won't be stopping you if you'd like to go back and reread heheh. I've also made some subtle changes to help with the flow and character building. Hopefully it won't happen again, but knowing me, it probably will.
Anyway, if you've come this far in my story, I am sincerely grateful. I fully intend on making it to the end, but any comment or review (or criticism!) would be seriously appreciated. Feedback of any sort really motivates me to keep going.
Thanks for reading, hope you like the chapter.
The wall stood forever as a humbling reminder of what could have been to the Trost district of Wall Rose. It was sealed—sealed by a titan, of all things. Apparently, that titan fought for mankind. Apparently, lowly recruits on their very first assignment spearheaded the operation to save yet another chunk of mankind. But the titans were ever-present. In the early morning, the scratching of nails on stone echoed through the streets of Trost, crescendoing into grunts of audible agitation. By midday, the ground would shake as they slammed against the wall, expressing their irritation. The city, or what was left of it, would persevere by making jokes or ignoring it altogether, but that issue was never addressed as humanity turned its back on Trost.
Garcia stared down the street amongst houses and rubble and felt the earth tremble underneath his feet with the titans' thrashing. He saw the boulder nudge behind Eileen and the Regiment officer. The smithy was close to the wall, but mercifully distant enough that it still managed to stand.
"Who-who are you?" he stammered. His eyes raced between the officer, Eileen, and the piece of parchment. He thought of the last order he had received, but it had been so long ago he could not remember the details. He hadn't received any type of royal order in a while. In fact, he had been waiting for one. There was no other reason the Garrison Regiment would be at his door. There couldn't be. It was impossible.
"Morgan Devot," the soldier responded. Her sharp demeanor permeated through her tone, which was also present in her features. Her short black hair came down to her neck, and her bangs remained level with her eyebrows, but her piercing blue eyes were what provided the sharpness in her demeanor. Her perfect posture stood in stark contrast to her surroundings. Wholly unruffled in her physical appearance, Morgan wore her shirt completely buttoned to her neck and her suspenders underneath her jacket, which kept her spotless 3D Maneuvering Device strapped to her legs. The polished leather straps still caught sunlight as they wrapped around Morgan's khakis. The hilt of the blades rested on top of the device, and the two roses of the Garrison Regiment were proudly stitched onto her brown leather jacket. Her shoulders almost rivaled in size with Garcia's.
Garcia couldn't help but stare in awe—not only due to her size, but also due to her appearance. Her boots glistened. Her button up seemed freshly ironed—no creases, no wrinkles. Nobody dressed like that anymore in Trost.
Eileen looked up at Garcia for a split second, before looking away. He had missed her gaze, and she was grateful for that. She kept her head down while her arms hung loosely behind her back.
Eileen's long light brown hair obstructed others from ever catching her gaze, and despite her father's vocal protest, Eileen's bangs usually rested in front of her eyes. Facing adversity was always easier when one didn't have to physically face it.
Eileen had a slender build and stood at an appealing height. Despite her figure, which complimented her slim face and large, light brown eyes, her head usually remained downcast—generating a withdrawn demeanor that masked what could be an attractively jovial appearance. For a girl who seemed suited for marriage, she was never interested. Nor courtship in general. Nor education. She had learned how to read, and that seemed sufficient for her desires, although lack of dialogue did little to quell her self-doubt or sense of belonging. If she wasn't reading, she was working at her father's bar, which persevered as the town's sole local entertainment. But that didn't change its capricious atmosphere. Some days, locals would stand up against the drunken belligerents. Other days, there would be no one but drunken belligerents. The security of an open book was its most enticing factor. A world within pages remained far more appealing than the licentious world of a lawless pub.
"Morgan Devot," Garcia repeated, picking his words out carefully. "I'm sorry, I don't seem to understand."
Morgan smiled a thin-lipped smile that curled at one end.
"May we come in?" she repeated. She pocketed the piece of parchment and pushed Eileen's backside, prompting her to approach. Garcia shifted uneasily to the right and closed the door behind them.
The Garrison Regiment had abandoned Trost. To those living close to the wall, that was a running joke that had unified them. The closer you lived to the wall, the farther the Garrison's presence in your everyday life. He could not remember the last time he had seen a Garrison soldier in his streets, or at least one doing its duty. The last time he had seen a number of them, they had been at Douglas' bar, drinking to their hearts content, and calling their 'service' a fair enough payment. The pillaging was left unanswered. The famine was left unanswered. The grime was left unanswered. So why was one here now? With a handcuffed Eileen? He looked over at her. Her watched her long light brown hair messily in front of her face. She stood there by the door, silent, immobile.
"Nice place," Morgan started as she continued to walk down the corridor.
The clicking of Morgan's boots to the tiled floor was the only sound that resonated as she took her time observing the austere entrance hall. Down the hall to the left stood the entrance to the smithy, and directly at the end hung two white curtains, separating the hall from the more private kitchen and dining room.
"Dad, what's taking so—"
Gant peeked his head out from the end of the hall to see an unfamiliar face with Eileen, whose long light brown bangs prevented any eye contact. He did a double take as he saw the two roses of the Garrison Regiment, and his peeked head emerged out of the smithy to stand at the end of the hall. He stood tall, to make his shoulders seem just as broad as the soldier's. Her constitution caught him by surprise. He stared at her for a moment, before glancing at Eileen, who was motionlessly looking at her feet.
"Hello," he paused, but no other words would come out.
Morgan continued to gait slowly down the entrance hall. She brushed her fingers against the orange concrete wall as she walked closer to the entrance of the smithy. Gant took a couple steps away from the smithy entrance. His back was touching the curtains. Morgan looked up at Gant.
"Could you fix your father and me something to drink? Oh—and take Eileen with you. You two are familiar, are you not?"
Garcia watched Gant nod without a word and step back through the curtains before turning to his left towards the stove.
Eileen walked up to Morgan, and turned around. On cue, Morgan took a key from her back pocket and uncuffed her. The shackles jingled, then fell with a resounding thud on the ground. As Morgan went to pick them up, Eileen walked straight through the curtains. Only then did she brush her bangs out of her eyes.
Morgan turned to face Garcia, who continued to stand by the front door. She observed his wary demeanor. His hands were balled up, his brows furrowed, and his chin just slightly tucked in. His dark brown eyes were locked on Morgan; his lips pursed just enough for her to notice. She wasn't welcome. She took one step back and gestured with her left hand towards the entrance of the smithy with a curt smile. Garcia took one final look at Morgan before treading cautiously. It would be unwise to be uncouth. Morgan followed him into the smithy.
Kampfer's steel was a smithy recognized throughout the district of Trost, and it wasn't until she entered the smithy that Morgan could understand why. A modest candled chandelier hung from the ceiling of the smithy. At the far end of the smithy stood a large, black coal forge, a fire still crackling within the hearth. She saw the multitude of coals that kept the ember burning, caught underneath by a firepot that had an unconventionally tidy black matte finishing to it. Catching the smoke above stood a smart stone chimney, the stones smoothed out and stacked together to guide the smog. A mantelpiece was fastened to the root of the chimney where two pegs jutted above it. The tools were laid out either near the forge or on the workbench. The anvil rested besides the bench, the floor littered with short swords and other blades. She spotted the tongs that lay on the workbench besides another short sword that still burned red from recent heating, although it no longer emanated that white-hot hue that would allow its lengthening. The bellows rested besides the forge along with tongs, a fuller, and a chisel—all located within a couple feet of each other.
It was a smithy with an air of professionalism, but the austerity made it feel like more than just a workplace. A large window on the left brought sunlight within the smithy, two translucent white curtains hanging on both sides, and a small clay flowerpot rested on the windowsill filled with nothing but dried dirt. Morgan saw the sunlight reach the other end of the room, but the iron bars fastened in front of the windows created shadows that pillared the stone floor. Despite her positive first impression, Morgan couldn't help but think of a prison.
Garcia walked towards the forge and placed the scabbarded blade above the mantelpiece. He turned and walked to his right towards a round wooden table and sat at on one a stump-turned seat.
"Nice place," Morgan said, following Garcia. She slowly stepped towards the table before taking her seat and absentmindedly tossing the shackles on the round table.
"Thanks," Garcia responded gruffly.
Morgan slipped her hands from the table onto her knees as she stared at Garcia. His stare remained as unrelenting as it had been upon her entrance. He had one arm resting on the table, but his body had been turned just enough from Morgan to physically express his disinterest and skepticism. His right leg rested away from her and shook impatiently as he waited for Morgan to speak.
"Mr. Kampfer—Garcia—may I call you that?" she started.
"No," Garcia replied, without missing a beat.
Morgan closed her eyes. "Mr. Kampfer," she started again. "I'll get straight to the point, seeing as I don't want to be anymore of any inconvenience than I already am."
Garcia gave no indication of sympathy from her statement. His locked stare was enough of an unwelcoming invitation for Morgan to continue.
"The Military Police wants you arrested."
Morgan half expected for Garcia to scoff, or for him to come across and grasp her by the collar. Garcia stiffened. His hand curled into a fist as he maintained his composure. A man who could contain his composure. Perhaps this conversation wouldn't go as poorly as she expected.
"Excuse me?" he said, his tone deep with disbelief.
Morgan looked down at her lap and composed herself before she continued. The next words that would come out of her mouth would have to be sharp and concise.
"The Garrison Regiment requested one hundred and twenty five fresh blades of hardened carbon steel about six months ago, an order that's been requested at this smithy numerous times before," Morgan said, "and upheld numerous times before."
Garcia's eye twitched as he listened to Morgan speak. He did not recall an order six months past from the Garrison Regiment. He had worked with them before, and he had the inherent talent of remembering his orders, an asset that only made him a better blacksmith. But as much as he tried, he could not remember any detailed order from six months past. And naturally so. The Attack on Trost happened just four months ago. No; he had been waiting—that's right, he had been waiting for an order from the military. He couldn't afford to be remiss in his duties.
The nerve of the regiment; did they truly summon a soldier to his front door to arrest him for an order they hadn't provided? They brought a soldier to his smithy, yet they couldn't afford to provide any for Trost itself after being reduced to rubble?
Morgan took Garcia's silence to continue speaking. She could hear the kettle whistling in the next room.
"Instead, what the Garrison Regiment received was an attack on HQ north of Trost two days ago, where fourteen of our men and women died from scum bearing weapons with your mark."
"My mark?" Garcia repeated. The shock in his voice betrayed the stone-cold demeanor he had upheld since Morgan had stepped within his smithy.
"The embroidered crossing of the axe and the sword, is it not?" Morgan asked.
He heard enough to break his silence.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Garcia said as he shook his head. "I had no idea of this attack on Trost, and I certainly did not supply any wayside rebellion with arms to support their—"
Garcia stopped as he caught Gant's shadow from the corner of his eye. Gant entered the smithy with a tray of two cups and a black teapot. He placed a cup in front of Garcia and Morgan before placing the teapot in the middle.
"Hope the tea is decent. You may not have had it before—green tea—it's eastern," he said, looking over at Morgan.
"I'm sure I'll enjoy it," Morgan flashed a smile. She hadn't even heard Gant enter the smithy. She turned back to face Garcia, but Gant had spoken up again.
"I've always wanted to be a soldier," he started, almost as if addressing the room, rather than Morgan herself. She looked over at Gant, sheepish in his directionless admittance. Garcia looked over at Gant as well, his ears turning scarlet red, but he kept his composure. Perhaps Gant would learn something from this interaction and save Garcia a lecture or two.
"I've always wanted to be a soldier too," Morgan replied. "I was born in the Ehrmich District of Wall Sina, not too far from Trost, really…"
Gant's embarrassed look transformed into one of genuine enquiry. He was fixated in place, his hands still gripping the tray as he listened. She poured herself some tea before placing the kettle back on the table. The steam lifted out the cup as she spoke.
"My father was always against it. A 'woman should be preparing for courtship, not swordplay,' he'd tell me. He'd force me to read, but I'd go off fighting instead," she laughed. "It always seemed easier. Quicker too. Solved a lot of problems that way."
She took a sip from her cup.
"My father had a small stand in the marketplace by the plaza, selling buckles and books. A couple of street rats, about your age, came by, and took a fistful of whatever they could hold on to. It was a busy day, but I caught them, and soon after, my dad too. I ran after them. I was pretty fast back then. I managed to get myself on one of their backs."
She took another sip from her cup.
"Did you get them?" Gant asked.
"Oh, I got absolutely clobbered," she smiled, revealing several chipped teeth. "But that was my way of doing right. By the time my father found he, he told me if I was to fight, I ought to do it right. Turned out to be the same for soldiers. I signed up to be a recruit the year I was eligible, and been serving the people since."
Gant beamed.
"Maybe I should sign up too."
"Maybe you should."
"Thanks, Gant," Garcia said, nodding his head. He had heard enough pro-soldier propaganda to last him a lifetime. He could do without this.
Gant looked at his father, a grimace pulling on the end of his lips. But he had heard enough. He took his leave.
Morgan watched as Gant exited the smithy. She turned to face Garcia.
"Fine son of yours,"
Garcia ignored her.
"No one ever came to my smithy and ordered one hundred and twenty five blades. I would have remembered an order like that."
"Mr. Kampfer," she started. "To be absolutely frank with you, the Military Police doesn't care. They want you within Wall Sina, and they want you in chains. They want you to answer to your crimes—"
"There are no—"Garcia started bitterly.
"There are no crimes," Morgan finished.
Garcia paused midsentence and stared at Morgan.
"You have committed no crime in the eyes of the Garrison Regiment. You were requested an order before the attack on Trost, and it's a miracle that this smithy remains standing. I see that, the Garrison Regiment sees that, anyone who's been in Trost before and after the attack can see that. I have no interest in turning you in to officials who have no idea what the people of Trost have to endure, Mr. Kampfer."
With that, Morgan took another large gulp of green tea, and let out a refreshed sigh. Garcia remained frozen in place, looking away momentarily, his eyes wandered briefly as if searching for the motivation behind Morgan's sensibility. He shifted in his seat, brought his leg back underneath the table and faced Morgan. He poured himself some tea, but not before refilling Morgan's cup.
"So why are you here then?" Garcia asked. His initial skepticism had changed into confusion.
Morgan crossed her hands and leaned on her forearms. She wore a large, chipped, smirk that crossed from ear to ear. Her piercing blue eyes glinted with anticipation. This was the moment she had been waiting for.
"If you give us eighteen blades, Mr. Kampfer, we'll handle the rest."