back to short ones!
hehe headcanon: you'll see.
Disclaimer: yadda yadda you know the drill.
Three Warriors
xxx. wings .xxx
He has, by his estimation, approximately three minutes before the wrath of the devil, no of Shadis, will descend upon him.
With this knowledge in mind, he whips out a knife and hacks away at the stiff, winter-frozen earth. His work is quick and efficient, his strokes deep and effective. Once the hole is of an adequate size, its dimensions wide enough for his object of choice to fit inside, he risks a glance over his shoulder. He has a minute left.
Reiner stuffs his notebook — or, rather, it is a quaint assembly of misshapen papers cut in the strangest geometric forms — into the hole he has created. It is not a grave, he tells himself, but a time capsule. Here, he thinks, as he pats the soil back down thoroughly, letting the copse of trees and underbrush fall back into place around it, is where his emotions lie. Safekeeping? Not quite. Time capsule for someone else? Perhaps.
"Braun," comes the chilling drawl of the one and only drill instructor. Shadis has deemed any further questions unnecessary, because Reiner spins on his heels and salutes with such prideful fervor that it is enough to send him off with a warning. The warrior trudges away, watching Shadis patrol the area; though he knows that the man will never find what he has hidden.
He'll never find that notes in which, very carefully, very secretly, Reiner has jotted down poetry and prose of the walls falling. The pages of thought and identity, things to jog his memory as to who he is. Little scribbled annotations, including the wry resemblance of Shadis to the broken, quaking commander of the Scouting Legion five years ago. Reiner has seen that face, and he knows very well what has become of that man. A respectable discharge — no, a respectable new determination. Reiner, as a warrior, honestly feels a degree of respect for this man who, though once shattered to the core by the guilt of his uselessness outside the walls, has devoted himself to the cause in order to create the best and only the best. To pass on the duty and the dream of what he couldn't do to a younger, more promising, more hopeful generation.
Hope.
He has written that word somewhere in his notebook.
Or, perhaps he is mistaken, and the word that truly resounds like a death bell tolling is something else.
Perhaps, it is home.
/chapter
ep: 1 - commander of the scouting legion
eps later: Keith Shadis, suspiciously similar to that very man, only now with a beard and a bald head... *ominous music here*
Popular headcanon, that one is.
oh my gOD I NEED TO STUDY