Contrition

A letter came for me in the mail today, dated July 30, 846, sent by my mother in Karanes. The envelope was stained somewhat and the address a little blurred, not doubt it had gotten a little damp on its journey to Trost. Petra had come back from her shopping trip ecstatic about a bag of potatoes she'd haggled a low price for and crying she was going to make potato pancakes for everyone. Oruo and Eld begged her, for the love of Sina, not to, but she insisted, scolding them both for their lack of faith in her. That's when I noticed the envelope poking out of her bag and glimpsed the first few letters of my name.

Pinching it between my hands, I pulled it out and saw the name of the sender. Petra saw and sobered up, saying she'd picked it up at the post that day. I thanked her, then sat back in my chair. The envelope was thick, at least three pages, plus an object I could identify without looking. I smoothed turned it over and over in my hands, smoothed my thumb over the address and stamp, picked at the wax seal, but couldn't bring myself to open it.

Petra had resumed her argument, now threatening her comrades with a potato. Oruo ruffled her hair, teasing her about all her failed attempts at curry, bread, and pasta. She slaps his hand away, retorting it's the effort that counts. Tell that to my stomach, Eld points out, patting his middle. It bears a grudge against her, according to him.

I try to laugh, but the sound doesn't it make it past my throat and my eyes keep drifting to Mother's letter. I set it down on the table, pick it up again, pick at the seal, think about cramming it in my pocket. Or setting it alight in the fireplace. I know I shouldn't. It's wrong to throw it away without looking at it.

But I can't take my mother's pleas. She writes without Father's knowledge, sneaking parchment and ink past him while he sleeps. I haven't spoken to them in years. Not since I sent them word of my enlisting in the Survey Corps. My father sent me a brief note weeks later, consisting of one sentence that made my eyes sting. I grit my teeth at the memory.

Levi glances across the table at me, frowns, then looks the other way, pretending he didn't see anything. I take a breath and broke the seal, but it was a few minutes more before I removed the four pieces of parchment, covered in Mother's familiar but tiny handwriting.

My dear son….

She wishes me a happy birthday straightaway, hoping I had a good one. Then I take my time, slowly taking in her report of herself and the home I grew up in. No mention of Father, just a long, cheerful account of the neighbors I'd grown up with, my old classmates, our lazy old dog. Frau Engel's garden was thriving this year, Liana was pregnant with her second child now, and Old Samson was enjoying the last of the summer days happily sprawled out on our porch. She tells me all about her knitting and the embroidered, lace gloves she makes for the wealthy ladies in the Interior. Yarn is becoming harder to find, and the price won't stop rising.

I can picture her smiling as she recounts stories from my childhood: How I used to sit and read to her while she worked, the time at school I shared my meager lunch with two brothers who'd forgotten theirs, when I rescued a baby bird and climbed back up to its nest to bring it home. Such a good, kind boy I was, she tells me, and I almost smile.

Autumn's fast approaching, she writes, and she can feel the chill in her bones, so she keeps close to the hearth now. Warming her old hands so they don't stiffen up, she says. I swallow. She talks about the weather, asks if I'll come home this winter, wonders if I have plenty of warm clothes for autumn. Do I need more? Would I like more? She'll even send some scarves and mittens to the friends I've made if would they'd like. She hears the harvest this year hasn't been particularly prosperous and predicts another harsh winter ahead.

My head shoots up as I hear Petra shriek, and she punches Oruo in the gut, screaming something about her kill count. Eld moves in to break up the fight, but Levi ignores the whole thing and rummages around in the bag our female comrade brought back. My eyes go back to the letter.

It breaks her heart to see children suffer, so she's been sending extra money to the refugee settlements when she can, as well as hats and scarves, and some homemade bread when she can spare it. Other times, she pays a visit in person. She listens to the stories of the orphaned children, the widows, the widowers, the broken souls who've lost everyone, and she prays for each and everyone of them. She's led prayer circles with the survivors, too, and I can imagine her standing amongst the tattered and ragged Wall Marians. Her serene face and peaceful voice bringing them some level of comfort.

She asks if I've been following God. A lump forms in my throat, but I continue. It saddened her greatly when I left to fight the titans, though she calls them Nephilim. The monstrous children of human women and angels, giants who devoured humanity when humanity could no longer feed them. I take this moment to empty the envelope completely, dumping her cherished rosary in my hand. My fingers clench around the painted beads and silver cross. Every time she hears of an expedition's departure, she prays for my safety, she says. Mine and my comrades.

Then she moves on to the local news at home, avoiding a subject I know she'll reach eventually. It's old news mostly, the gossip she hears from the market and her church group. The same, boring scandal revolving around the Earl of Karanes and one of his MP guards, male or female isn't specified. A Garrison man caught smuggling illegal goods. The peculiar death of an arms dealer the MPs are treating as a suicide.

Eld has Petra and Oruo calmed down now, though one wrong word would probably have them at it again with the way they're glaring at each other. Our resident peacemaker presses a potato into Petra's hands, grinning and offering to help prepare them. She scowls at Oruo but agrees, dumping her bag across the table. There's a few other items the others had requested: rolled up newspaper, loaf of bread, soap, tea, other necessities. Levi's inspecting the soap, sniffing at it with a dubious expression and sending Petra a baleful look. She tells him to stick it, which makes the other two laugh.

I try to laugh again, too, but I can't and resume reading my letter. It's about Father now, and how he refuses to speak of me. There is nothing to remember me by in the house any longer, she writes. I took most of my belongings with me, the ones I left behind were locked away in the cellar my old room is as bare as a barren tree in winter, and the family portrait has been turned to the wall.

She's begging me to come home now, and there are small, dark dots in the paper where her tears fell. To make amends with the old geezer and ask his forgiveness. Give up the life I left them for and take care of the family business like I was meant to. The Nephilim are wicked, let God strike them down and deliver us, don't involve myself any longer. My hands clench, then I bunch the paper up and throw it away.

The others look at me, shocked. I stand and turn to leave. I've always respected Mother's beliefs. How could I not? They used to be mine. And in some way, they still are: after all, I can't explain the titans. For all I know, they could be the abominable children of men and angels. But no amount of praying will rid our world them. If kneeling with our hands folded would vanquish our enemy, then there would have been no need for the Walls to begin with.

There would have been no need for the countless sacrifices we've had to make, no reason for my friends to die, if some higher power was capable of annihilating those monsters.

Someone calls after me as I step outside, but I don't answer. The sun's setting, dyeing the sky a burnt orange hue, and a few specks of light can be seen in the darkening east. The porch steps creak in protest as I step down, making my way across the grass. I don't know where I'm going. Maybe I should have thought of that before I stormed out.

She means well, I know. I am her only child, and she's concerned. It broke her heart when I left, and even more when my Wallist father cast me out, calling me ungrateful, reckless, and irresponsible. A heretic. I realize the rosary is still in my hand hurl it to the ground in a fit of anger, only to realize my childish behavior and pick it up again. No harm was done. It's only dusty now. I shouldn't have thrown it like that. For as long as I can remember, Mother has always carried this with her. It is her special treasure, passed down through her family since before the Walls.

To send it to me….

My jaw tightens and my eyes begin to sting.

-0-0-0-

Author's Notes: The idea that Gunther comes from a Christian home came out of nowhere. I don't know if Christianity even survived in the Walls. I assume the Wallists are related (closely or distantly) to it since the priests state several times the Walls were a gift from God.

As for the Nephilim, I'm trying to show a variety of culture. Kinda like the difference between dragon and wyrm; they're the same thing, just a different name for it. The basic description of the Christian Nephilim is they are vicious, man-eating giants.

Also, if this one seemed to end abruptly, I'm considering this a Part 1 and will be continuing at a later time.

And since I can't reply through a PM, thank you for reading, Kitty. I hope to continue this series for a long as I can.

Hajime Isayama owns Attack on Titan/Shingeki no Kyojin.