The Diary of A Young Girl
By Ymir Fritz
Entry #8
The people in Heinrich and Viktor's truck remained dead silent until the boxy private finished his express nap after a few minutes. His body shook when waking up, and he shielded his face with his arms to protect his eyes from the light flowing through the back of the truck.
He asked, trying to summon moisture into his mouth again, "Do any of you know where Commander Magath and those two warriors are?"
"I have no clue." His friend answered. "Why are you asking? Are you getting cold feet about this mission? Getting scared?"
"No, I'm not. I'm just curious if we could see the armored titan in action today. If they're still back at our trenches, I don't think we'll get to see it transform at all."
"We'll probably get to see it, but don't forget about the cart titan."
"I don't give a shit about that thing. It's uglier than my sister."
"Sure, the cart is an eyesore, but that Pieck is definitely hotter than your sister."
The boxy private reddened and diverted the topic, "I feel bad for Pieck. She's probably the only female soldier in Marley our age, besides the younger warrior candidates. But those are kids."
"What a gentleman you are. I'm sure she'll appreciate your consideration."
It was relieving to hear a normal conversation for once, not something tormented with sorrow and an existential crisis. But these side comments about females in the military would never come to pass in the olden times when armies used spears and shields. As per our evolutionary role, women were homemakers and child bearers, so my place as a titan shifter was revolutionary with the raw power I could harness.
"So, what do you think about that Reiner guy, huh?" The friend asked.
"Don't call him 'Reiner guy.' Someone up front will get you in trouble for that." The boxy private replied.
"It's not like they'll care. They probably don't like him either."
"Look, I don't hate the guy. But like most people, he's just kind of fishy. I don't know if I should believe everything he says."
"Maybe he could prove himself out here today, or tomorrow, or whenever those ME bastards come rushing over with their dumbass hats."
It intrigued me how Heinrich's and Reiner's paths kept converging at crucial moments, but unbeknownst to Heinrich, the treacherous con-artist Journalist that brought them together died peculiarly. But what further intrigued me was the constant crossing paths of Heinrich's present and that memory where he pulled a trigger for the first time. It kept returning like an irritating cabbage seller.
As seen in the journal, Heinrich's encounter with the journalist and Reiner was a plaque he could not remove. A plaque on his teeth that his tongue could never pick off. A plaque resilient to the careful stabs of a dentist's tool. This stain on the frazzled handkerchief that was Heinrich's life was invincible to the sneezes, spits, and coughs directed towards him— it was undefeated. It tainted him, but most importantly, it taught him what people could be.
I came across this Journalist in other Eldians' memories. He was sown between their lifelines, thieving money from one and food from another. The scarcity mindset must have fueled his actions and the thought that he could lose everything and anything in a waking moment. Everything was scarce in the internment zone, so his mindset was warranted, but he went about the wrong way feeding it.
Scarcity led him to paranoia, specifically, the paranoia of what this Reiner Braun could have been doing on Paradis. After all, Reiner left as a human and came back as an alien, foreign to many, yet from the same planet. The Journalist decided an assassination would be the best plan to resolve the paranoia, and the day he met Heinrich, he was about to bring it to fruition.
Heinrich had learned the fate of this Journalist when Reiner and Commander Magath came to his home to recruit him: deceased. They did not mention the cause of death, and Heinrich never did figure it out.
The truth is I killed that Journalist.
Or, more accurately, I wish I did.
The cusp of the moment when Heinrich and this thief encountered Reiner was another moment where I wanted to warn Heinrich of the future event. The truth scalded me while keeping it inside, like searing coal. I felt the future gunshot lingering on the tips of the present; the fingernails were unkempt and unpolished, swelling and throbbing. The thief's lies spilled and extended to perpetuate his false front as a journalist. Reiner's misery manifested a perpetual front of defeat.
The bullet would soon arrive.
It would spread its iron wings, the wings of freedom, if you can consider death freedom.
The Journalist nudged Heinrich into setting up the traditional camera for a "picture," and the young lad listened. Reiner stood against the wall, uninterested and unfazed by the strangers.
'Don't touch it, Heinrich!' I wanted to say, but Heinrich placed the camera legs two and a half meters across from Reiner. He then put his hand in the chamber where the lens and mirror contraptions lay.
I looked at Reiner and discovered a detail: his head was angled directly at the camera's opening. A perfect angle to see the barrel of the pistol from. Heinrich had unknowingly shoved the gun too far out after being unaware that a gun was there in the first place.
Reiner was unfazed.
He no longer gripped onto life as much as it gripped onto him.
Heinrich took the "picture," firing the shot, which was a gloriously bloody photo. A point of Reiner's abdomen spread like ruptured raspberries clawing for freedom. The image could not capture the sound, but it must have been stored in Heinrich's mind, carved onto a wax phonograph cylinder that would weaken with time.
The journalist hurried off from the scene of his crime. Like a man with no name, he left no trace of his presence except that camera.
Heinrich rushed to aid Reiner and shoved his apologies into the warrior's wound instead of a bandage. The first aid skills he would gain from military training would come in handy. However, I did not stand by observing Reiner's crumbling words and waiting for Falco's appearance. There was something I had to do. There was a thief I wanted to kill, for I felt my wrath in its totality, boiling within my metaphysical form.
I went beyond the realm of Heinrich's memories into a nearby setting he was not involved in. This was stretching the rules of my memory watching. Despite my position as the founder of the paths, that realm was no longer entirely in my command, even though I had the final say in disbanding the network.
Heinrich did not know how the journalist perished, nor I. This was a hole in my knowledge. Nonetheless, I wanted to be the reason for it.
I wanted to be the cause of that despicable human's death.
So, I trailed the diabolical journalist, keenly glaring at the pop in his step and cunning smiles exacerbated by his victory. His lungs were irritated from all the previous sprints and last cigarettes. He buzzed around like a partially swatted fly, moving inorganically here and there, much how punctuation interrupts a sentence.
The nearby people were alarmed for a brief moment by the clap of the bullet, but they returned to their commotion after assuming it was the construction work nearby.
The journalist approached a new intersection that was not hampered by construction. The buzzing of cars and the potential danger of crossing did not dissuade his smiles. He stood on the street side, not even caring to use a safe walkway, looking at the stream of combustion and gasoline-binging engines. Carbon soaked his nose and the noses of cyclers nearby.
He loved to test fate. Probability. That was what he tried for when forcing Heinrich across a bustling street. He also wanted to test the likelihood of Reiner dying.
So, the wearer of abundant conning masks, the criminal stepped onto the street and was greeted from afar by a horn. It blared, pushing all other sounds away like a playground bully.
I attempted to reveal myself to the criminal so that he could get distracted by me and stop in his tracks. But it was no use since I was within the realm of Heinrich's memories— I could only reveal myself to that boy at that moment.
I tried, again and again, to make something happen, to the point that the only thing I could do was will this man to die. I could not wait for the rumbling to take him away. I yearned for him to die so painfully that it became a momentarily resolve— ambition— hope— will.
The cards of probability laid their hands, one card falling onto the criminal journalist, marking the climax of his mortality. A vegetable truck trying its damndest to slow down plowed the disdainful human, bringing a universal level of luck against him.
The new corpse attracted some stares from strangers, but they shrugged it off like it was a typical occurrence and moved along. It was another wilted blade of grass among a field of many more.
Back to that truck ride to Camp Barnsil, Heinrich looked at the boxy private and his friend discussing simple topics without drama. Was he envious of those two being able to discuss simple things without having the overlooking negativity swallow them whole?
I revealed myself to Heinrich and said, "You can't escape that gunshot day, can you? You keep running into Reiner like he's an old girlfriend that won't leave you the hell alone."
"Everytime someone brings up his name I can't really forget it."
-X-X-X-X-X-
Within thirty minutes of departure, the ten trucks arrived at the abandoned Mid-East trenches Heinrich and Viktor initially passed through at the beginning of the mission. Those trenches were still as cratered as the day the original trio skipped over its paths; the cavities were formed by explosions triggered by hidden trip wires that some dogs ran over in aggression toward the boys.
The trucks faced little to no resistance getting there. Fortunately for them, the Marleyan groups that set out before them cleared out any opposition from the stations along the way. But a minor issue did arise, not from humans but the equipment left behind.
Barbed wire.
Like tumbleweeds tied to the Earth, bushes with horns, and vengeful worms, the barbed wire was as abundant as the water in a river. It swirled around the grim field, broken in many places, but other places carried debris that was once alive. The ashen worms ran in and out of the waste with their horns like failed piping.
The barbed wire threatened the trucks' tires, so the group filed into a line and went around the trap-ridden Mid-East trenches. It was unknown to Heinrich and Viktor how a new set of Mid-East infantry would use these trenches again if they were to mount an attack. However, despite the occasional craters, these surface-level tunnels were salvageable enough for later use.
"The Barnsil people did not do a great job clearing these bodies out," Viktor muttered, peering out the back of the truck.
"Aren't they supposed to bury them right where they die?" Heinrich asked.
"Doing that for each person seems inefficient."
"Well, so is sending us out without a truck."
The cruising through the No Man's Land leading to Barnsil trenches marked another walk down memories, and similar to before, it was unpleasant. It was so distasteful that it sparked some sensations in Heinrich like echoes of the discomforts from a day or two back. He picked at his ear when coming across the crater from his reckless grenade plan.
"You still feel the sting of that grenade explosion from our stupid idea?" Viktor asked.
"Of course I do. I felt ten more of those grenade explosions afterward, but I'm not counting." He continued picking, "It just reinforced that ringing." Adding to this unpleasant sensation was their truck jerking up and down like the warped dirt threw consistent uppercuts to the tires as an instinctual move to anything touching it. It bruised the underbelly of the truck.
"Ow, my ears are starting to ring too," Kurt complained. "I thought they were okay after the nurses checked us out, but of course they're not. Why would they be okay? Nothing's okay."
The ten trucks circled the trenches to the entrance where tents were set up. Communication machines and other equipment I am unfamiliar with sat in one tent with people tapping at them. Their users were focused, honed into buzzes like they were words and twisting knobs like they were pickle jar lids. The covers of the most critical tent nearby made way for overbearing bald men with their scalps gleaming with authority. Each speck of remaining hair on the sides of the heads lifted the daylight and diverted it to the desert of hibernating follicles.
The group of bald authorities approached a clearing where the ten trucks paused for the fleshy cargo to unload. Heinrich and Viktor, two pieces of this fleshy cargo, groaned as they tapped their knees and waited for the older privates to shuffle out of the cramped closet they called a vehicle.
"We're finally back now," Heinrich said solemnly, stepping out.
"Yeah," Viktor said simply.
The friends looked upon the newest truck of the batch, unloading Commander Magath and the two warriors. These three were undoubtedly important personnel, but how they exuded hierarchy irritated me. The main factor that showcased this was the blankness of their skin; aside from blemishes and scars, the foul breath of dust did not linger on their pores since they did not go into battle as much as their juniors. Aside from that, they were magnets attracting the oxidized aluminum that came as pretentious military officers whose introductions rusted with over-usage. Magath and the two warriors were carried with so much tact and cautiousness that it would make an average low-rank tossed into a rat-cage-like truck weaken in deep envy. That is the fact with the military—lives are not all worth the same.
Like a puppy whose master had arrived, Sergeant Kaslow whizzed through the huddle of bald vultures and shook Commander Magath's hand. Kaslow's submissiveness shocked Heinrich and Viktor since they were unaccustomed to their harsh drill sergeant softening into a follower instead of staying as a tyrannical group leader.
"I've never seen Kaslow, so…so…what is the word? I can't think of it." Heinrich said.
"So, excited," Viktor replied.
Magath received Kaslow well, nodding his head respectfully, but he grew stern after Kaslow continued shaking his hand for over three seconds. The sergeant's pebble eyes enlarged in embarrassment as he moved aside, and Magath made conversation with the other officials. I was surprised how quickly Magath got to the point instead of roaming around in small talk, but to his credit, there was no time for small talk.
Kaslow's stare crossed ten yards and punctured Heinrich and Viktor. He made up for the distance and walked over, "You two actually did it. I'll be damned," he sneered. "By the way, I haven't been able to find Kurt. He chased after you two, didn't he?"
Boys nodded.
Kaslow looked around, "Alright then, where is he?" He put his hand over above his eyes like a visor and searched, surprisingly putting in an ounce of effort. But his focus ultimately rested on the friends again, and he found the answer to his question. "Rest his soul, Eldian Circus Monkey." He sighed and quickly healed. "Anyway, I forgot to get breakfast and it's almost noon, I think. It's time to eat that refreshing slop they call oatmeal."
Heinrich bit his lip in restraint from saying something too sharp, "Don't you want to know how he died, sarge?"
"Not really."
"But—"
"It doesn't matter how he died. The result is all that matters." He turned his back on the boys and crossed the five of the yards again before sharply stopping and saying, "You two need some oatmeal." Was that a sign of pity from the sarge?
-X-X-X-X-X-
The boys followed Kaslow to a line of pots that replaced a clean and sustainable dining area. Steam danced in slow, somber whisps over bubbling liquid in some of the pots. I wondered what the food smelled like, but it must not have been anything special since Kaslow and the boys did not react after sniffing it. This was how hot food was produced in the olden days, but for these folk, it was too primitive.
Kaslow found a bowl and put it out to the cooking soldiers as if expecting oatmeal to appear in it magically.
"We're done serving breakfast, sir," said one of the pseudo-chefs.
"No, you're not," Kaslow reflected.
"Yes, we are, sir."
"No, you're not."
The pseudo-chef stayed quiet, unsure of how to respond.
"This is a battle I cannot win."
"We do have lunch, however." The pseudo-chef mentioned.
Kaslow looked at the food pots as clumps of soldiers were carried over by the lunch's anonymous scent. I wish I had a functioning nose to enjoy the smell or be repulsed by it.
"Yum, chicken stew," Kaslow retorted, observing one of the cooking soldiers dropping an animal leg in and stirring.
"It's goat, sir."
"It's all meat either way, and it's going to end up in my stomach either way."
Heinrich and Viktor's mouths drooled in anticipation, but surprisingly, their stomachs were so starved they forgot to growl in hunger. They had not eaten well in a day.
Kaslow and the boys were first in line for the stew as lines of ashy men piled behind them. After getting a bowl, the boys went to sit by a tree, but when they sat down on the roots, Kaslow uttered a warning: "I pissed on that tree yesterday night."
The friends bounced up, their stews nearly spilling over, and they moved to another tree.
"I pissed on that one too," Kaslow said without remorse while walking away to socialize with some other looney officers.
The boys gave up on finding a tree and hunkered onto a piece of the ground that had not been infested by insects. They sat cross-legged and lifted the spoons for their stews. They then swiftly disregarded the utensils and lifted the bowls to their mouths to consume their food like it was water. While it was partially water, it was scalding hot water.
They gagged, putting their whole backs into it, and unknowingly knocking half of the stews out of their bowls. A few ants swiftly raised from ground cracks as if summoned and capitalized on the situation, feasting on the tiny chunks of meat that landed on the decrepit soil. Even when one thinks there are no insects in an area, they arrive when least necessary.
The boys groaned and returned to the food line. Their fits of hunger had been cheated out of something they had been waiting an entire day for.
"Look who we have here. Our two lovely combat medics."
Arriving at the food line, the boys came across the unforgettable and eternally despicable Milo. His face, that utterly punchable mollusk of a human exterior, raised the ambition of violence in Heinch and Viktor whenever they came across him. Of course, he would produce the violence first.
"Hey, Milo," Heinrich said, sounding indifferent.
Milo's conniving grin silenced, "You guys….seem different. It's been only two days or one day. I can't tell anymore." The grin reappeared, "Boohoo, you guys sound so tragic. Should I cry?"
The boys ignored their bully.
"Where did you two go? I haven't seen you two and Kurt in a while."
The boys put their bowls out for a replacement serving of stew and ignored Milo. One of the cooking soldiers raised an eyebrow as if quietly judging the friends for getting seconds.
Milo continued, "Hey, are you even listening to me?" He took his food and stepped in front of the boys after they got out of the line. "Come on. You two shitheads have to give me something. Why the long faces?"
The boys stepped around Milo and proceeded to return to the spot of ground they spilled the first bit of stew before. But Milo followed them and insisted, "I'm going to keep asking until I get a damn answer. I see all this ash and sweat on you, and you think I won't say anything?"
Heinrich blew over the stew, attempting to cool it down. He took a spoonful and sipped it, but his eyelids tensed as if it was still scalding hot. He expelled his irritation with his words, "Leave us alone, Milo."
"Like I'd ever do that. I haven't let you two alone for the entirety of the training camp. What makes you think I'll do it now?" This insistence to know what happened could be mistaken for caring, but I believed it aligned more with curiosity. He glared at all the new trucks and soldiers and likely wanted some answers.
"We weren't in the trenches for the past day," Heinrich answered.
"That doesn't even surprise me. Where the hell were you then?"
"We ran through No Man's Land and enemy stations to get to the Cullens. Some of the soldiers there came back with us on those trucks."
"Bullshit."
"You wanted to know what happened, so I told you what happened. It doesn't make a difference to me if you don't believe it."
Milo paused, "Actually, I think you might be saying the truth, since something terrible must have happened to you to make you even consider talking rudely to me," the arrogance oozed from his statement.
"Multiple terrible things. Not just one."
"So, what happened to Kurt then?"
"He was one of those multiple…." Heinrich ate some more of his stew before hesitantly retelling the events of his adventures. Milo was silent through the duration of it, surprisingly not interrupting once to throw in a worthless comment. He may have sympathized with the tragedies, but that is not a remarkable feat for a human. We are all wired to feel some sadness when tragic things pass, so feeling some tragedy is not unique. He just followed his biological instructions.
Milo was not the only one listening, however. I caught a glimpse of Kaslow approaching, trying to be as stealthy as possible, a rarity for that man.
At the end of it, Viktor asked, "You said yesterday you wanted to be a hero, right?"
Milo said, hushed, "I never said that. I just said I would be able to cross No Man's Land without either of your guys' help." The confidence was not on the same level as the day before.
"Fine, you didn't say it, but I know you still wanted it." Viktor asked, "Do you think Heinrich and I are heroes?"
"You two?" He paused, "Of course not. You let all those soldiers die—"
"Thanks for saying that," Viktor interrupted.
Milo and Heinrich winced in confusion.
Viktor continued, "I don't want anyone ever to tell me that it was okay and it's not my fault since I'm young and I don't know anything. I want them to tell me that I was horrible so I will always remember to never let it happen again."
Milo smiled mockingly but somehow with less cruel intent than usual, "Heinrich, Viktor. You two are horrible human beings." He scoffed, "And you barely finished puberty yet. That is quite an achievement."
Kaslow looked over Milo's shoulder; all three young soldiers were oblivious to their sergeant's presence. I knew he was there, however. I did not want to say anything.
"You have to stop overthinking it, Dassler. The truth of the matter is, you just have to learn how not to give a shit about killing people," Kaslow said. "The more you focus on what you did, the more you keep giving power to that action, you're going to make a tragedy out of it— you're going to over-dramatize it in your mind to the point that you'll become a cutesy little wall-flower that sits against the trench wall crying in your self-centered guilt…Wall-flowers are useless to us."
"But, sarge—" Viktor tried to intrude.
"Shut up! What I tell you now is the truth. Whatever sad event you made happen ended a day ago. Why do you keep time-traveling back to that day in your head? Do you think that will somehow reconfigure that event to make it better?" He did not wait for an answer, "Get out of your self-centered guilt, you brat, so we don't become tragedies. You're a combat medic, so show some compassion to those of us still alive."
Kaslow set his finished bowl in Viktor's and said his last point, "That's what all the radio news is for. It's to dehumanize the MEs so it's easier for us to kill them on the battlefield. But you kids somehow bypassed that. If you just stuck with the program, it would be easier." He walked off to an unknown destination.
Without an ounce of arguing, the boys and Milo washed their bowls and returned them to the cooking soldiers. They went back to their bunks and waited for their next orders, and it made we wonder; despite Milo's incessant rudeness, he always seemed to know when to turn in off. A conscientious bully is one that torments for joy.
-X-X-X-X-X-
A whole day had passed without a trace of new information. The soldiers from the Cullens' trenches brought some communications instruments that were functional unlike the Barnsil's which struggled to be useful despite all the hasty repairs. No messengers had arrived either to detail either's sides statuses.
Radio silence.
Messenger silence.
These are the most gut-wrenching versions of silence.
The only signal for the ME's approach would be the outlines of their bodies on the edge of the horizon— the nibble of time between their arrival and the bloodshed would be razor-thin.
In all its daftness and treachery, time is another item of great importance. As I have mentioned before, I have an excellent strategy for killing time, but I did not note that there are different kinds of time, with each breed holding different values. Like different brands of cigarettes, different breeds of times have different strengths. Some minutes blow by like a gust of wind, while others lay heavy like humidity on a shirt. They are not made equal, just like the soldiers that are differentiated by a strict hierarchy.
It also makes me wonder what thought process someone used to define the length of a second. It seems like an arbitrary measurement with little reasoning. But I digress.
Kaslow had an interesting comment about one unit of time: a minute. He proclaimed something that fascinated my ears, and I could not help but listen closely.
First, Kaslow dragged the privates he was responsible for out of the bunks and onto the front line into the overcast weather. This thick carpet of clouds was foreign to the ME lands, which would be generously coated with sun most times. The gathering of clouds mimicked the invasion of foreigners, like a parliament of gray with licks of light peeking through.
"Listen, you subordinate mutts!" Kaslow shouted at Heinrich and his peers, assembling themselves. "With all this poor communication lately, we haven't heard an update about this region's enemies. As I've mentioned yesterday, at least one-hundred men from The Cullens' trenches and two titans, are here to fortify us in case MEs have bypassed the rest of the Cullens stationed throughout the old ME stations. All we can do now is play the waiting game." He paused, "A wait that will be the hardest to push through."
"But in a battle, after we push through the wait, and have the enemy right in front of us, we have the warrior's minute. It's the minute where everything happens all at once—it defines your near future, and if you're unfortunate enough, it will define your long-term future as well."
"I have experienced a few of these warriors' minutes before. When I am in them, the future doesn't exist to me and neither does my past. Only the present exists. It's a funny little thing. But in all the other, regular, minutes you live your life, it isn't the same…" he looked at Viktor. "You will be time traveling in regular minutes, jumping everywhere, except seeing what's in front of you."
Kaslow raised his finger and pointed out into the No Man's Land haunting his back. "When you see those ME bastards charging us, don't think about your growling stomachs or your parents and girlfriend worried sick about you. The girls probably found different men now, anyway. The only women you need are your rifles. Caress them and love them, because they are the only things making you shitbags dangerous. Otherwise, you're all kittens."
"While those MEs come panting towards you like dogs, think about the bullet you can put in their hearts before they pierce yours. While you all may be the spawn of scum, the MEs are the dirt you walk on. So, keep walking on them. Rub their faces with your boots if that rifle didn't do the job all the way."
"Be ruthless. Be cunning. Be the devils that you all are."
After Kaslow finished his rousing speech (which ignited bare minimum applause), he ordered Heinrich and Viktor to an inner trench away from the front line. Combat medics would be in danger in a charging attack since they would not have the time to weave between the nonsense and reach their comrades to heal them—a person's skills tend to be useless when they perish. Heinrich and Viktor's deaths would mean two fewer people to administer first-aid.
It makes me scratch my head. If a combat medic's life is so valuable, why would a captain make them risk their lives sending a letter?
Why do I bother to think like this? It is not like anyone will listen anyway.
But that warrior's minute hung on the horizon as the irritation of waiting reached new heights of intolerability. It reached its inception the dawn after Kaslow's speech where two soldiers on the front line were so fed up they mocked authority.
The taller one said, "I can't believe this mission first started out as us storming No Man's Land to take control of that one Mid-East trench over there, and it turns out the opposite is going to happen."
The shorter one said, "I know. They'll be coming to storm us now."
"Oh man, sometimes I have no clue how battle strategy works."
"It seems like the brass have no clue either. It's like they promote anyone these days."
"You should be careful saying that outloud."
These two had a strong point. Heinrich and Viktor's mission would have ended if there were a competent number of soldiers at various checkpoints to shoot them down. Would it not have been more successful for the enemy to have those ME stations sprinkled between the Cullens and the Barnsil camp filled with enough soldiers so that the messengers would be more likely to get killed?
Was it desperation that caused such poorly made strategic decisions, or were clowns leading both sides of the conflict? Maybe it was a mixture of both. Too many clowns that hunger to see disaster unfold are recruited to places they do not belong. It is like handing an infant a grenade.
Regardless of these circus fools, a message arrived at the intelligence tent where the staff fumbled about when their machines' beeping presented something critical. The Cullens' more secure equipment finally proved helpful. Like a bucket passed between a long line of fishermen, the message swiftly made its way around the trenches from officers to corporals to privates.
"The MEs are coming! The MEs are coming!" This message ravaged through all sets of ears.
The Cullens, Kaslow's men, and the Barnsil soldiers were pulled out of their morning slumber, and their anticipation reached the tightest point. The warrior's minute still hung in the air, ready to be experienced.
A few hours later, the homeland's people returned to their once abandoned trenches and spat themselves out of their front line. They covered meters efficiently, unbothered by the swaths of barbed wiring.
Their first wave plunged through No Man's Land with a ferocity that showcased their undeniable will to protect using the undeniable damage of iron. These MEs were natives to this land, so they were very much in their right to defend it.
I watched this sight from next to Heinrich, and eventhough he could not see them approaching from his position, he must have known their ambition. The thought was more than enough to rattle him.
The limbs that once held spears now held guns. From disheveled people scrounging in caves without languages to winged hunks of metal usurping the throne as kings of the sky, marvels of thought and engineering have arisen through the progression of time—it is devastatingly magnificent. But aside from this progress, I see a commonality.
That one disdainful day when I watched King Fritz and his Eldians block a piece of the horizon as they crossed the valley to my village. They charged too like the MEs.
This charging, this raiding, that was the same, even if the intents varied.
The Real Author's Note
Happy birthday to me! This is my gift to you all!