Does it ever get easier?
Time slips through their fingers, distancing them from yesterday and the future casts a bleak shadow over their path. Amidst this tempest, Floch finds himself standing on the precipice of desperation, his sanity teetering on the fragile threads of metaphorical fabric.
Maybe it was all by design? Maybe, some were truly just born to suffer.
The inevitability of conflict is on the front of everyone's mind now, despite their best efforts, none could control the course of the events that unfold around them. In the midst of this bleakness, there is a sense of acceptance and even resignation. He sees it on their faces, whether it is some of the fresh recruits or the hardened veterans, no matter their age, they recognize that their short lived peace is fleeting. Some can't cope with the stress, some conceal it, and some keep moving forward, taking solace in the knowledge that they are not alone in this struggle.
Unrest permeates the streets of Paradis, its civilians gripped by a deep sense of concern, while the government labors methodically, endeavoring to gently reveal the somber truth that looms over the forthcoming months. In an attempt to assuage the mounting unease, a carefully crafted tale about Eren and Mikasa is disseminated throughout the kingdom, its efficacy yet to be determined, yet the attempt to gradually acclimate the citizens is made. Whispered conversations of worry linger in the air like a haunting melody, the populace, ever watchful, casts uneasy glances at the unraveling state of affairs. Nevertheless, in this moment, the sole preoccupation for Eldia is fortifying its military might.
In the realm of official records, Floch may have been reduced to the lowly rank of a recruit, but his true essence transcended those words. They thrusted him into the role of an instructor, imparting wisdom to the younger generation of recruits, unravelling the intricacies of their operation playbooks, squad tactics and weaving tales of strategic brilliance from previous commanders and officers. Each day, he faithfully stood within the classroom's walls sporting a five o'clock shadow and bloodshot eyes, his weary eyes briefly wandering over the youthful countenances Before him.
Within those unblemished faces, devoid of the burdens that weighed him down, Floch glimpsed a reflection of his own forgotten past. Anxious anticipation danced in their eyes, tempered by a blissful ignorance that still clung to their tender hearts. They grasped onto the fragile remnants of their childhood innocence, blissfully unaware of the unspeakable horrors that had ravaged the lives of those who came before them.
Connie had the more enjoyable task of leading them for practical training excercises in urban environments, where many observers noticed the instructors seamlessly incorporating both anti-personnel and anti-titan aspects into the drills. On the other hand, Sasha took the responsibility of training the recruits out in the wilderness and navigating treacherous terrains, while still honoring some of the age-old traditions of the regiment. Given her remarkable marksmanship skills, Commander Hange recognized her aptitude for overseeing the training of new recruits in the handling of their newly received bolt-action rifles.
Jean ensured that everyone remained in optimal physical fitness, including him.
"You're too fucking slow you know that?"
Floch deftly dodges one of Jean's jabs, narrowly escaping its impact, and briefly creates a gap between them. A bruise marks the right side of his cheek as evidence of their intense exchange, slightly lightheaded. A chorus of scouts on the sidelines erupts with enthusiastic cheers, captivated by their spar, Floch winces as their shouting worsens his headache. This activity has become a prevailing pastime ever since their precious Marleyan comrades became an integral part of their lives. Both combatants don matching leather boxing gloves, sleek black long-tights, and sturdy boxing boots. While Floch adorns a navy-blue, sleeveless undershirt that clings to his form, Jean chooses to expose his chiseled torso, proudly exhibiting the muscles he has forged through arduous training and unwavering dedication.
"What? You're tired already? I thought you would be enjoying this more." Jean taunts him as he takes a few jabs at him, Floch's jaw clenches as he blocks them. "-Or are you just not used to your opponent punching back?"
"That, and them being a fucking headache." Floch returns in a clipped tone, which makes Jean scoff at him.
"Oh but you're used to headaches, how about you get used to this for a change!"
Jean bounces on his toes, his lean frame exuding confidence and speed. His eyes, sharp like a predator stalking its prey, assessing his every move. His footwork, mesmerizing and precise, keeps Floch on his feet. With a flick of his jab, he tests the waters, probing for weaknesses in his defense. Though Floch's movements were somewhat sluggish, he still manages to absorb the probing jabs, the energy rippling through his body, but as time went on it became apparent to Jean that he was a sitting duck.
"Come on then, don't make me wait all day!" Jean jeers.
Floch darts in, weaving and bobbing with a form so sloppy it almost seems amateurish, his head a mere whisper away from Jean's crushing hooks. The crowd roars as they witness this display, content with watching him struggle. With a thunderous grunt, Jean unleashes a devastating right hook, Floch's head snaps back violently, his senses momentarily dazed by the sheer force of the impact. The taste of copper fills his mouth, the acrid sting of pain and the adrenaline momentarily wakes him up.
"So, what's going on with you and Hitch?" Jean begins, capturing his attention, the other scouts unable to hear the conversation over the sounds of their cheering. "Last I remember she fucking hates your guts, and yet when we met the other day she asked about you, why's that?"
Floch narrows his eyes, eyebrow slightly shooting up in question. "My, what has the world come to? A scout captain gossiping like some Mitrasonian housewife." He mocks feigning anguish, before spitting saliva mixed with blood off to the side. "What's it matter to you anyway? Have nothing important going on?"
Jean retaliates with a barrage of body shots, each punch delivered with venemous intent. Floch, though momentarily staggered, anchors himself, abosrbing the blows like a champ against the relentless tide. He manages to catch the taller man over-extending and finally returns a jab, clocking Jean in the cheek, briefly sending him stumbling backwards in shock before he regains his footing.
"Fuck." Jean hisses through bloody lips, roars erupting around them from the crowd.
"Let's just say I'm reflecting on past mistakes." Floch says, satisfied with his work.
Jean briefly chuckles, spitting blood at the ground. "That's rich, when did an ass like you become so remorseful?"
"When it became apparent that I had no other choice."
He blocks a jab from Jean, Floch winces from the impact as the scout speaks up. "You're three years too late for that, sorry to say but the ship has sailed."
Floch clicks his tongue, deciding to rile up Jean a little. "At least I had a chance to get closure, can't say the same about you, can I?" He smirks, seeing Jean's face shift with emotion. "The girl you liked ran off somewhere with your rival, off to spend the rest of their lives together while your sorry ass is left behind knee deep in shit. Every day you spend out under the sun covered in sweat and grime, he's out there ploughing her from behind."
Jean takes the bait and jumps at him, eliciting a brief smile of satisfaction from the redhead.
Floch pushes forward, his movements weighted with exahustion, fatigue clinging to his every muscle, dragging him down like an invisible anchor. He feints, drawing Jean into a false sense of security, as if he were merely going through the motions. A left hook, sluggish yet deliberate, sails through the air, seeking to connect with the opponent's unguarded face. Jean evades the blow by a hair's breadth, the air wooshes with the sound of missed opportunity, Floch's advantage slipping through his weary fingers like sand. With a swift pivot, Jean launchs a right hook and catches Floch right in the cheek.
Floch staggers back and balances himself, his smirk widens into a wide, bloody grin. "If it makes you feel better, you can close your eyes and imagine she's screaming your name instead. Oh yes! Jeanboy! Jeanboy!."
The nimble Jean retaliates again, launching a rapid-fire combination of jabs and hooks. The staccato thuds of leather meeting flesh reverberate throughout the grounds, many bystanders wincing as they watch it unfold. The tired Floch, caught off guard, could do nothing against the onslaught. Blow after blow connects, each strike chipping away at his already dwindling stamina. Time becomes a blur as the spar draws to a close, bodies heave with exertion, muscles screaming in protest, Floch with his back on the dirt dazed and gazing up at the sky.
"Alright, that's enough standing around!" Jeans barks at the other scouts, the sounds of their disappointment reach his ears. "Everybody back to training, move your asses!"
"Damn, you knocked his lights out." He hears Connie whistle, seeing him and Sasha move in closer to Jean from the corner of his vision. "Is he okay?" He glances down at him worriedly.
Jean crouches next to him obstructing the sun, prompting Floch to glare at him. "Yup, still alive." He notes, before offering a hand. Floch takes it and sits up with some difficulty, as Sasha hands him a canteen filled with water. "Here."
"Thanks." He mutters, eagerly swallowing the liquid before giving a content sigh.
With her help he manages to get back on his feet, leaning against the woman for support as he gazes back at Jean. He quickly takes notice of the hard look in his eyes and frowns, thinking that the comment about Mikasa and Eren might have been too far. "Listen, I don't really care what you do in your free time, but make sure it doesn't interfere with work. I'm not an idiot, Floch, I can tell you're hungover, even now you reek of booze." Jean chastises him, worry subtely making it's way to his face.
Floch's face lights up with surrpise as he averts his gaze to the side, face shifting with irritation. "And you still decided to spar? Trying to teach me a lesson or something? It's not a big deal, I can function just fine."
Jean places a hand on his shoulder, Floch glances at it before he looks up at his eyes. "It is a big deal when you've been consistently getting shitfaced for the last three weeks, and you won't be destroying yourself under my watch, your actions reflect on the rest of us." Jean pauses, a sigh escapes his lips as he momentarily massages the bridge of his nose. "Look, I'm not saying this as your CO, I'm saying this is as a friend. It's not worth it to go down that path, for your sake."
Floch takes a deep breath, wincing as pain briefly licks at him from the bruises on his face. "Sure, whatever."
Jean removes his hand and looks at him with a hint of saddness and understanding, before his face morphs into a neutral expression. "Alright, don't say I didn't warn you."
Floch raises an eyebrow questioningly, seeing Sasha and Connie grinning at him, the girl chuckling into her hand as she looked away mischievously.
"Huh?"
Well.
Little did he expect that Jean would practically drag his ass all the way to Trost the following morning, hell-bent on keeping him under strict surveillance and miles away from any drop of alcohol. As a tight-knit group, they embarked on a weekend retreat to be with their families, shedding their military attire for casual threads. Sasha, always the adventurous spirit, broke away first, opting for a horseback ride towards Dauper. That left him in the company of Jean and Connie, until Connie disembarked at a lonely station nestled between Ehrmich and Trost, continuing his solo journey towards Ragako.
The two stood by the ferry boat's railing, engulfed in a silence that seems to echo louder than the bustling passengers surrounding them. Floch's gaze wanders from the side of Jean's face, drifting over the sprawling pastures that stretched into the distance. With each passing moment, his features soften as his thoughts whisk him away, momentarily freeing him from the grip of his present surroundings. The absence of alcohol deprives him of his usual escape, leaving him alone with his contemplations.
"Hmm, at least now you don't look homeless when you're brooding off like that." Jean comments, examining Floch's now clean-shaved face.
"Hn." Floch grunts back at him, aware the man was smirking at him.
He suddenly frowns, it had been an eternity since he last set foot near his neighborhood, avoiding it like the plague even during his previous visits to Trost by seeking solace in the sheltered confines of an inn. And now, Jean was compelling him, through sheer force, to confront the ghosts of his past by virtue of living close to each other. With a weary sigh, Floch resigns himself to the inevitable. As far as he was concerned, this day couldn't possibly deteriorate any further.
"You know, It wasn't easy letting go of that crush,"
"What?" Floch's eyebrows furrow, his attention fully captured by the unexpected admission.
Floch turns to face Jean, their eyes locking. "Mikasa... I haven't been able to stop thinking about her in that way." Jean admits, his voice tinged with a blend of longing and resignation.
His confusion transforms into cautious curiosity. "...Okay?"
As if a dam has burst, Jean opens up, pouring forth his struggles and desires. "It was tough dealing with what I felt, let me tell you. Like Connie and Sasha say, I had it bad for her, ever since we started boot camp. Always did feel jealous of the way she treated Eren, yearning for that same connection. It pissed me off so much when he took it for granted." Jean's voice trembles with frustration and heartache. "But somewhere along the way, I realized that what I wished for was just not possible. Not many people have what they did. And when they threw everything away and ran, that last flicker of hope within me, it just died." He sighs, the weight of his unrequited feelings evident in his words.
"That's unfortunate," Floch offers.
"I guess them being childhood friends kind of left me with no chance,"
Floch's eyes widen slightly, "Childhood friends, huh?" he murmurs, testing the words on his tongue. His gaze drops towards the water, mirroring the weight of his thoughts. An undercurrent of wistfulness colors his voice as he continues, "I can't say I fully understand what you're feeling. I've never felt that way about anyone before, let alone entertained the thought of a relationship, especially considering the way things are going... and all."
A wry smile graces Jean's lips as he replies, "Heh, yeah, figures a guy like you wouldn't be interested in that stuff. As for me, I can't deny that I once yearned for nothing more than to settle down in the capital in a nice house, a loving wife, and a son to call my own. But those dreams... they feel distant now." A melancholic note enters his voice, painting a picture of dashed hopes. "We still have a war to fight, more bloodshed ahead of us. Until then..."
"Yeah."
"You know, it's funny when I think about it," Jean muses, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. He leans against the railing, casting a sideways glance at Floch. "I remember that night, right before the Wall Maria operation, After you walked up to me in the mess hall. You had this look on your face, like you were sizing up everyone around you. And you said, 'We all seemed different.' Little did I know, all these years later, when I look at you, I can't help but feel the same."
Floch remains silent, his gaze fixated on the vast expanse of water before them. Different? In a way, yes. He lets out a sigh, his voice tinged with a touch of wry humor. "I was stupid enough to join you guys, and got to experience the rite of passage as a result."
"Death and utter misery?/Death and utter misery." They both speak at the same time.
"Yep, that'll do it." Jean emphasizes the 'p'.
"I'm sure you've noticed me letting off steam yesterday, to be honest I'm still pissed off about what you did to Armin. But, I can't say I was surprised. It pains me to admit, but you and I are cut from the same cloth." Jean says with a neutral expression, causing Floch to roll his eyes. "Knowing what you went through, kind of puts things into perspective. It felt like everything you did was ultimately pointless didn't it?" His words hang in the air, a matter-of-fact statement.
Floch's eyes harden, his brows furrowing, and his fists clenching as memories he'd rather forget resurface. "Something like that," he grumbles, his voice laced with bitterness. Jean's gaze remains locked on the ever-changing scenery, the wind whispering through their conversation.
"If your solution is to slowly kill yourself then drop it, drinking will only make things worse for you, I'd know, trust me."
"Right."
"Besides, maybe you could find other distractions in the MP's eh?" Jean smirks, causing the redhead to raise a questioning brow.
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Oh, nothing." Jean feigns ignorance before they lapse into silence again.
Floch simply sighs, he already misses the taste of alcohol on his tongue, the rush of warmth, the fire within that numbed his aching heart, his troubles dissolving in a haze. Silence ensues after that, neither speaking for the remainder of the journey.
"Heads up, we're here." Jean finally says, as Floch nods.
Once they reach inside the city, the duo disembarks from the ferry boat, their feet hitting the solid ground as they navigate through the bustling crowds at the boarding station. Jean taps Floch on the shoulder, motioning for him to follow a specific direction. Amidst the cacophony of voices, Jean momentarily leaves him by himself to head to a nearby shop. Floch stands there, his senses on high alert, acutely aware of his backpack and keeping a watchful eye for any lurking pickpockets. As he scans the open square, his gaze lands on a familiar face.
Time seems to freeze as Floch and Hitch lock eyes, their surprise mirrored in their expressions. Hitch, adorned in a modest white summer dress with a brown sash cinched at her waist, stands just a few steps away. Their gaze holds for a few lingering seconds, In that suspended moment, Floch's mind races, his mouth parting to utter words of recognition. Yet, before he can form a sound, her eyes narrow, a flash of annoyance crossing her features. Without uttering a single word, she turns her head away, her jaw clenched in silent dismissal. With determined strides, she walks away, leaving Floch behind, his heart heavy with the weight of her disapproving gaze.
What the fuck is her problem?
"Who was that?" Jean startles him as he walks in from behind, carrying groceries, for his mother.
He shakes his head. "Nobody, let's just go."
Jean gives him pointed look, before ultimately dropping it.
The descending sun casts a warm golden hue upon the cobbled streets of Trost, the two soldiers stride through the bustling thoroughfare, their steps synchronized and purposeful, harmonizing with the distant clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages and the hum of conversation drifting from the local taverns. The air is tinged with the scent of freshly baked bread from the bakeries that line the streets, as well as the distant scent of factory smoke coming from the other side of the river.
"Lots of soldiers patrolling nowadays." Floch notes, passing by a group of MP's.
"This is nothing, you should see what the outside's like, especially south." Jean replies.
Floch nods, neither mentioning how the military's scraping the bottom of the barrel to make sure every able-bodied man and woman can fight.
Their destination lies on the outskirts, in a neighborhood nestled right beneath the western side of the wall, where a humble house stands with weathered pride. The two soldiers come to a halt in front of the door, Jean steals a quick glance at Floch before knocking on the door three times. Within seconds, a middle-aged woman, her hair tinged with hints of gray, emerges. In that fleeting moment, Floch instantly recognizes from which parent Jean inherited his infamous nickname.
"Jean boy!" His mother greets before bringing him into a bone crushing hug, Floch stands off to the side awkwardly as he watches them before she turns her gaze to him and smiles warmly.
With a mix of hugs and awkward introductions, Floch steps over the threshold and crosses into Jean's home. He settles his belongings in the guest bedroom, making himself comfortable for the night. Soon enough, the whole family gathers around the dinner table, Connie joins them to spend the night as well, their laughter and stories filling the air. As the evening unfolds, Floch discovers that Connie and Sasha have been frequent visitors. The night wears on, and the three scouts eventually find themselves engaged in an animated conversation. Not before long, Jean and Connie retire to bed, but Floch remains awake, his mind restless.
The moonbeams cascade through the window of the guest bedroom, in the stillness of the night and next to Connie's snoring, a decision is made.
There is something he needs to do
The first rays of dawn peer timidly through the blinds of the window, Floch takes one last look at the still sleeping Connie then slips out of Jean's house, leaving a note behind for him. Each footfall on the cobblestone streets reverberates with a hollow thud, mirroring the heavy weight upon his shoulders. He walks, his gait slow and measured as he nears his childhood home, his heart quickens with anticipation. Rounding the corner and coming face to face with three distinct houses, one of them doubling as a cobbler's storefront, the shelves behind the glass lined with shoes, polishes, conditioners and laces. He makes his way to the house on the far left side, scanning around for any prying eyes before reaching for a key buried within a crevice underneath the windowsill.
Seven years since he last set foot here, his duty keeping him distant, as well as his trepidation kept him at bay. The air hangs heavy with the scent of dust, a melancholy perfume that lingers in the stillness of the abandoned home. Floch steps through the creaking doorway, nearly stepping into a set of cobwebs. The wooden floorboards groan beneath his weight, the once vibrant walls, now peeling and faded. Sunlight filters through the moth-eaten curtains, casting ethereal beams that dance with spectral grace upon the desolate rooms. He walks over to the living room after inspecting the other rooms and sits down on a chair, scanning his surroundings in silence, each glance brings with it a different memory.
Floch sighs, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees, hands covering his face. A while later, faint sobs could be heard echoing throughout the place.
The front door creaks open causing him to tense, instantly alerting his senses as his head snaps upwards. His eyes widen as he gazes intently, struggling to recognize the figure standing there. Suddenly, a voice breaks the stillness, resonating with wisdom and age, and in that moment, his face lights up with recognition.
"I knew my eyes weren't playing tricks on me; it truly is you, boy." Deep wrinkles etch lines across his face, and though weathered, his eyes gleam with a timeless brightness. Sandra's father, a seasoned cobbler, stands before him, his voice gravelly yet soothing, carrying a sense of nostalgia through the air. "Floch Forster," he utters. "You have undoubtedly grown during your absence, and it seems you have tamed that unruly hair of yours as well."
"Good morning, sir," Floch says respectfully, rising to his feet and hastily wiping his eyes before approaching the old man.
"Good morning, he says," the old man chuckles before he takes a few moments to observe Floch's features, sizing him up, a gentle smile slowly spreads across his face. "You have changed so much since the last time I laid my eyes on you. If my sight was any worse, I might have mistaken you for an intruder," he jests, pausing momentarily. "Tell me, my boy, what brings you back here?"
Floch's face falls, and he breaks eye contact. "I... I've neglected this place for far too long, couldn't keep running away from it forever."
"I see," the old man hums, his voice filled with understanding. "If that is the case, would you care to join me for some tea?" The old man smiles once again, and Floch looks back at him, briefly considering his offer before nodding in agreement.
The thick scent of leather and polish, intermingled with the faint aroma of aged wood fills his nostrills, a wave of nostalgia washing over him. Rays of sunlight stream through the grimy windows, casting golden specks of dust that dance in the air like ethereal fairies. The shelves, laden with weathered shoe molds and tools of the trade. The wooden floorboards, worn smooth by the ebb and flow of countless customers, emit a gentle creak as he navigates the shop. The man leads him to the back into the kitchen, and they settle down, exchanging small talk and reminiscing on the past.
"Sir, if you don't mind me asking, what happened to Gordon's family?"
The man sets down his cup, a sad smile on his face. "Ahh the Mayers, after what happened to their son," He pauses for a second. "..They decided they would be better off if they left this place behind, too many painful memories. They were good people, I often find myself missing their presence." Floch's gaze softens in understanding.
Floch's eyes suddenly fall on a lone leather shoe sitting at the top of a shelf, it was much different than the other shoes he's seen displayed in the other room, it is clearly the work of an amateur. The form is imperfect, the leather creased and uneven from the stitching, a sole that bears the faint marks of a thousand missteps. It was an undeniably flawed shoe, Yet, for some reason it possesses a certain charm to it.
the old man notices where his eyes fell and comments on it. "Ah, I see you found this." He says, walking over to the shelf and grabbing the shoe, brining it closer to him and sets it down on the table.
"The first one you ever made?" Floch asks.
He shakes his head, laughing with mirth. "No, no, my boy. I could not have hoped to ever craft something so precious." He says, as he sets it down on the table between them. "No, She made this one." Floch's eyes widen a little, as the man continues. "She was always eager to learn, It took me by surprise, most girls her age didn't fancy this line of work. She failed countless times, injured herself a few times, until she was finally able to make this."
"I see." Floch trails, inspecting the shoe with a wistful gaze.
"It took me years of relentless dedication to master my craft," the man says, his voice filled with passion, his gaze intense. "I strived for nothing less than perfection, and she," he pauses, a wistful smile crossing his face, "she was my ultimate muse, a source of inspiration with a mind like no other." Floch meets the man's gaze, captivated by his words, eager for more.
The man's eyes twinkle mischievously as he leans in, his voice laced with nostalgia and affection. "I must confess," he says, a playful smirk dancing on his lips, "There's something irresistible about the unfiltered honesty of children. And you yourself have tested my patience on countless occasions, always so eager to speak your mind."
As the man's boisterous laughter dances through the room, it weaves its way into every nook and cranny, Floch's lips twitch, unable to resist the infectious mirth. But in a blink of an eye, his countenance morphs into a turbulent sea of trouble, etching lines of anguish and guilt upon his face. The weight of unspeakable sorrow glistens in his tear-filled eyes.
"I... I'm sorry, sir," Floch's voice trembles, choked with emotion that threatens to consume him. "I never returned, I abandoned everything, pushed it all away. Sandra... she's... she's gone because of me." His words hang in the air, heavy with remorse. "We were swept away by the euphoria of the new queen's coronation, we thought we were setting out to reconquer the lands. I... I was a fool, I convinced them to join the Survey Corps with me." His voice cracks, each syllable a painful reminder of his own culpability. "Sandra, Gordon... they should still be here, alive. It's my fault, not theirs. I should have been the one dead, not them."
Tears cascade down Floch's face, his anguish flowing forth like a relentless river. He turns to him, his eyes pleading for solace, a flicker of hope in the depths of his despair. Yet, the old cobbler meets his gaze with an unwavering, stoic expression—neither judgmental nor sympathetic. His brows furrow as he continues his sobbing, "I am just... nothing but a coward, she... she was braver than me, they all were and yet I was the only one who was left unscathed."
The old man's weary sigh echoes through the room, his face adorned with a bittersweet smile that struggles to break free. "You, my dear boy, really are a fool," he murmurs. Floch winces, his gaze dropping to the depths of his cup.
"But..." The old man's hand stretches out, grasping Floch's with an urgency that demands attention. The redhead's eyes are compelled to meet his, drawn by the strength of his touch. "I know her, my daughter. She's not one to be easily swayed. If she chose to stand by your side in the scouts, it's because she wanted to be there. Don't burden yourself with unnecessary blame." A moment of silence hangs in the air as the old man's thoughts take him on a journey of contemplation. Floch watches, his heart pounding with anticipation, as the lines on the man's face deepen, revealing a hidden pain. "They never shared with me what happened, what became of her," he confesses, his words piercing through Floch's chest like a searing arrow of anguish.
"A part of me feared for her safety, but deep down, I believed she would come back," he confesses, pain flickering in his eyes. "Unfortunately, it seems I was wrong, and every night since then, I've been haunted by the memory of letting her go." His face contorts with anguish, etching lines of pain upon his features. "Please, son, I beg you. Tell me the truth. Did my daughter suffer that day?"
Floch stares at him in shock, the desperation in the man's eyes piercing his soul. He bites his lip, averting his gaze, his heart pounding, sweat trickling down his brow. "She..." he stammers, his discomfort palpable. With a deep breath, he braces himself, knowing the man yearns for the harsh truth. "She was utterly terrified. We all were. At times, she could barely stand, so we huddled together—her, Gordon, and I—in a circle, crying while the world around us tore itself apart. Our commander rallied us, and we stood there as he announced our final mission, he told us we were all headed to our deaths. Her legs gave out on her, and she vomited all over the grass." He looks adrift, lost in the haunting recollection of those events.
The man appears utterly shattered as Floch continues. "By the time we mounted our horses, she stopped crying and accepted her fate. In those final moments, as we charged towards the titans, she discarded all fear and confronted death head-on." Floch's voice falters momentarily, and he takes a deep, steadying breath. "It happened quick, A titan hurled massive chunks of stone at us, one of which killed her instantly."
Tears well up in Floch's eyes, streaming down his face unchecked. "We couldn't offer her a proper burial. We had no choice but to burn all the bodies before they decayed on that field."
A heavy silence descends, neither of them daring to utter a word. Floch flinches at the grating sound of the chair scraping against the floor as the man rises from his seat. He paces around the table until he stands in front of Floch. The redhead tenses as he feels a hand rest upon his shoulder. He opens his eyes, meeting the gaze of the man whose struggle to hold back tears is evident. His own lips quiver with emotion as he witnesses the raw vulnerability within the elderly man. "Thank you," the old man whispers, his voice choked with gratitude.
"You're no coward, my boy," the man's voice trembles, filled with admiration. "You've mustered the strength to come back and confront your past. I, on the other hand, lack the fortitude that you possess. I can't summon the courage to visit her resting place and confront her gravestone. I fear what it might stir within me." His words spill out in a choked voice, weighted with sorrow. He reaches over, retrieving the shoe, and places it gently into Floch's hands. "This will be my final request of you. Please, take this to her."
Floch furrows his brow, his gaze fixated on the shoe, conflicted emotions tugging at his heart. Reluctantly, he nods. "I... I will."
A fleeting smile tugs at the corners of the old man's lips, gratitude shining in his eyes. "Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me," he whispers, his voice filled with a mix of sorrow and relief. But then, his gaze hardens with a profound sadness. "Once you've fulfilled this task, promise me one thing, Floch Forster. Never return here again."
With a solemn nod, Floch accepts the man's request and reluctantly departs, the shoe safely secured within a satchel slung by his side. As he locks the door of the old store behind him, the echoes of the man's anguished sobs reach his ears, reverberating from the depths of the house. Each step he takes down the street, the cries seem to intensify, growing louder, as if they chase after him, until gradually, ever so slowly, the lamentations fade away into the bustling streets of Trost.
As Floch steps back into Jean's house, the familiar sights of morning routine greet him. Jean and Connie sit at the kitchen table, both indulging in breakfast while a newspaper, adorned with a headline about the government's latest military efforts, lies unfolded before the taller boy. Sensing Floch's presence, Connie waves at him and Jean raises his gaze, curiosity twinkling in his eyes as they narrow, fixating on the satchel that hangs at Floch's side.
"Where have you been?" Jean's voice demands.
"Just running a few errands. I'm planning to head to Shiganshina for a little while. Is that alright with you?"
Jean's gaze softens at the mention of the town, memories and emotions surfacing within him. He nods, granting permission. "Sure, but listen, you better not—"
Before Jean can finish his sentence, Floch interjects, determined to alleviate any worries. "Don't worry, I won't."
Jean fixes him with a pointed look, silence lingering between them for a few moments. Eventually, he lets out a resigned sigh. "Alright. Make sure you're back before the sun goes down, if you miss the last boat out of here It's on you."
Floch nods then takes his leave, the two scouts resume their discussion.
Without wasting a moment, he swiftly boards the nearest ferry, traversing the river's current towards Shiganshina. Guided by the kind assistance of locals, he alights at a station nestled between the two towns and promptly procures a horse to ensure uninterrupted progress towards the sacred memorial grounds. As he arrives at the cemetery, he dedicates considerable time to meticulously comb through the hallowed ground, determined to locate his cherished old friends. Standing amidst the silence, his heart overflows with a poignant sorrow, his gaze fixed upon the endless expanse of gravestones stretching out before him. Each one represents a life irrevocably lost, a comrade who once stood shoulder to shoulder with him on the outskirts of Shiganshina's walls.
In loving Memory of
Gordon Mayer
Beloved son, and brave Scout.
Born 834 - Gave his life 850
Made the ultimate sacrifice in the battle of Shiganshina.
Dedicated his heart for humanity's victory,
/-/-/
In loving Memory of
Sandra Kohler
Beloved daughter, and brave Scout.
Born 835 - Gave her life 850
Made the ultimate sacrifice in the battle of Shiganshina.
Dedicated her heart for humanity's victory,
He kneels down besides her grave, his fingers tracing the engraved letters. With utmost care, he places the shoe given to him by Sandra's father beneath her gravestone, a small token of remembrance. He sits there for a few moments, empty eyes fixed on the name etched on the stone. Lost in the melancholic embrace of the moment, a flicker of movement catches Floch's attention. His eyes gravitate towards a woman, Hitch, still clad in the same dress from yesterday, as she approaches him with cautious steps.
She comes to a halt, her eyes lingering on the weathered letters etched into the headstone. "Visiting a friend?" She whispers, shedding her usual demeanor.
His gaze lifts, meeting hers, and a mixture of sorrow and fondness intertwines in his voice. "Yeah," he replies softly. "Since childhood, They were all I had."
A gentle hum escapes her lips, a melody of curiosity. "So, is this your first time here?"
His brows furrow momentarily, caught off guard by her observation. "What makes you say that?"
"I make it a point to visit here each month, I was surprised to see you here of all a sudden. Plus you were kind of stuggling to find them,."
He lowers his head, "That obvious, huh? I Uhh.. Didn't have what it took to show my face around here, If it wasn't for Jean I wouldn't have even stepped foot back in Trost to begin with. One thing lead to another and I sort of ended up having to fulfill a promise to somebody."
She looks down at the shoe, "I see."
Together, they linger in the hallowed silence before she eventually turns around to leave. He summons the courage to speak, standing up as his sudden movement briefly startles her. "Hitch, wait."
She turns around and arches an eyebrow, a glimmer of curiosity dancing in her eyes.
He finds it hard to look her in the eyes, he awkwardly glances around before locking gazes with her. "I... wanted to say sorry."
"You already said that a couple of weeks ago, remember?" She blinks in surprise.
"And then you went around asking Jean and the rest to confirm if I was serious or not." She winces at being caught. "I wanted you to understand I was being genuine, I should have said much sooner but.. well, that didn't happen." He shakes his head, glancing at the ground with mencholy. "I've been recently told I'm too honest and blunt for my own good."
"Only recently?" she interjects, a playful smile tugging at her lips.
He rolls his eyes. "I'm sure it would have been valuable to know years ago," he responds, catching the fleeting emotions that flicker in her gaze. "I don't expect forgiveness, but getting closure on this whole thing is good enough for me. I know I can be insensitive at times, I just... can't help myself." Pausing, he furrows his brow, grappling with his inner turmoil. "I don't like to make excuses but I do acknowledge that I say things are better left unsaid, and for that I am sorry."
"Wow."
A heavy sigh escapes her lips, the weight of her words resonating in the air. "Alright, Just enough already," she asserts, her voice steady and resolute. "To tell you the truth, I forgave you ages ago. It was so easy to paint you as the villain for all the stuff you said back at that ceremony, even if most of it was true, though you never heard me admit that. But honestly? So what? You're well...Not likeable, but I had to remind myself that you were human too, that you endured the same hell he did, that even though you survived, it sure looked like part of you didn't."
"Yeah, I held those words against you, I hated you so much for them but as time passed I realized it wasn't healthy for me to keep thinking that way so I just.. let it go!" She smiles at him, a soft giggle escaping her lips at his dumbfounded expression. "Just like that, it's no longer on my mind!" She says making a gesture with her hands, a pout suddenly forms. "I don't get paid to keep you occupying my thoughts all day but frankly after all the headaches you gave me recently, I should be."
His gaze falls to the ground, guilt etched in his eyes, his voice laced with remorse. "I may have.. let myself get carried away the past few weeks, it's just that... I don't know what to do with myself anymore. I let down so many people and I just can't find my way back, I don't know if I ever can."
"Live,"
"Huh?"
"Just live your life, It's simple really," she urges, her voice resonating with fervent intensity. "Stop dwelling on the past and fix your gaze on the future. It may sound basic, but sometimes, the basics are the solid foundation we need The past hurts me too, but I refuse to let it dictate my every move. I won't let it control me." A flicker of melancholy briefly passes through her eyes. "Sure, there are moments when I wish he had listened to me, stayed with the military police. But he wasn't that kind of person. He was righteous to a fault, as stubborn as they come. That's what I loved about him." She pauses as if realizing she had shared too much, her voice trembling with raw vulnerability as she pushes herself to continue. "I just wish we hadn't parted ways on such a sour note. I can't help but wonder what would have happened if I had tried harder to stop him, without angering him like I did."
"But I understood that no matter what, I couldn't change who he was as a person. So I accepted things for what they were, destiny's a bitch, but you have to take the good with the bad sometimes." She adds.
Floch studies her features, his expression somber and understanding. "Deep down, he must have known how you felt about him. Back in the mess hall the night before the operation, he couldn't stop talking about you, even if he expressed his disapproval of what you said." His words unravel slowly, revealing a truth that widens her eyes with astonishment. "We teased the hell out of him for it, but he was too dense. When I told you he regretted being there, I have no doubt that you were on the forefront of his mind. We all had to think of something to get our minds off the whole... rushing to our deaths thing."
She appears as if she wants to interject, to say something, but he presses on, his words fueled by anguish and remorse, hints of tears building up in her eyes.
"Damn it," he exclaims, frustration tinged with self-flagellation evident in his voice. "I hate that I say this to anyone who lends an ear but it would have been better if he were here instead of me. I don't fucking deserve to be the one standing here." He takes a shaky breath, the tears threatening to spill over. "He was more than just a good guy. He was extraordinary. He was the one who showed me what it truly meant to be a soldier. We were all scared shitless, but he held himself together when we needed it most."
"You're not the one to blame here." Hitch's hand finds its way to his shoulder, offering a comforting squeeze, their gazes meet and his breath hitches. "Thank you," she whispers, gratitude laced in her words. "Anyway, I accept your apology, you insensitive prick." A smile dances upon her lips, a glimmer of warmth shining in her eyes before she grabs her chin in thought. "Hmm, but you did cry a little so maybe you're more sensistive than I initially thought?"
Floch keeps staring at her quietly, making her feel nervous as she hurries to change subjects. "A-anyway! We should probably stop crying now! People are looking, and it's kinda embarrassing..." She gives a nervous smile.
"Hitch..." he manages to choke out, his voice a fragile thread of vulnerability before he wipes his eyes.
As she prepares to depart, her gaze turns to him, an invitation laced within her words. "Heading back to Trost? I need to make it to Stohess before nightfall," she states, offering him the chance to join her.
He nods, stealing one last glimpse at the weathered gravestone before quickening his pace to catch up. "Yeah, Jean would give me hell if I'm late. I have to return to Ehrmich early too, big day tomorrow."
Intrigue dances in her eyes as they stride out of the cemetery side by side, "Oh? Do share," she urges, curious to uncover the secret he alludes to.
A mischievous smile tugs at the corners of his lips, his voice a playful whisper. "Well, let's just say we're about to embark on a daring escapade across the seas. Nothing too heart-stopping, mind you." He chuckles, relishing in the delightful anticipation that tingles in his veins. But suddenly, a wave of realization crashes over him, transforming his expression into one of sheer shock."Hold on, shit! Listen, Hitch Dreyse, you didn't hear that from me. Scratch that, you didn't hear anything at all, do you understand?! damn it, that was supposed to be classified."
Hitch erupts into uncontrollable laughter, her amusement echoing through the crisp air. "Oh my god, are you really that loose-lipped or is this a deliberate act? It's just too much!" Her laughter punctuates each word, as she took in his panicked expression. "You truly are something else!"
His cheeks flush, a blend of mock offense and genuine embarrassment coloring his features. "Hey!" he protests, though the glimmer in his eyes betrays a hint of a smile. Abruptly, he halts in his tracks, a sudden realization crashing over him. Why is he suddenly so carefree? Shaking his head, the gravity of their conversation lingers, etching a solemn expression on his face. "Okay, but seriously, don't breathe a word of this to anyone. I don't think I can rely on Historia to save me a second time. They'll absolutely kill me this time."
She gapes at him. "The Queen herself saved your ass from execution?!"
He scratches the back of his head sheepishly, awkwardly replying. "Yes?"
The shock dissipates, and a mischievous glint illuminates her eyes, the corners crinkling with amusement. "Hmmm, alright," she concedes, her voice dripping with a teasing tone. "But remember, you owe me big time."
He regards her with a deadpan expression, his gaze a mix of curiosity and skepticism. "Excuse me?" he questions, unsure of her implications.
A sly smile stretches across her lips as she delves into the details of her proposition. "You heard me. Consider it a part of your ongoing apology. There's this new Marleyan restaurant that recently opened up in Ehrmich, and it's been taunting me. But, you know the drill. If you're not up for it... well, let's just say my discretion might waver." Her smirk unveils a playful challenge.
She stops him in his tracks, pressing a finger against his chest. "Oh, and I believe this goes without saying, but it's not a date." Her gaze hardens, and her voice grows colder. "We're going as ' acquainted comrades who share a hint of sorrow.' Got it?" Her eyes lose their warmth, and Floch finds himself oddly missing it.
He scoffs, "Don't flatter yourself. Trust me, I'm the last person to slap unnecessary labels on things." His demeanor softens slightly, but the chill in his gaze remains. "So, you want me to foot the bill for your indulgence."
"Good, you catch on quick," she replies, her smirk widening with satisfaction. "But yes, I'd hate for you to misinterpret my intentions. Just remember, I'll be there solely for the cuisine and the occasional chuckle at your expense."
This woman spells trouble, that much he knows. "Lucky me," he concedes.
"I'm glad we've come to an agreement!" she exclaims, before he lets out a dark chuckle, causing her to falter.
"Oh, but Hitch,"
Her faces pales with a horrified expression as she senses doom from his next words.
"How am I supposed to empty my pockets for your fancy dinner if I'll be off the island for an undisclosed amount of time?"
"Y-you... You bastard!"
With a few hours of leisure, the duo arrives in Trost, as the woman recovered from her minor setback and engages in light-hearted conversation with him. An unspoken urge tugs at Floch, prompting him to cast one final glance at his childhood home. As they approach their destination, a peculiar sight greets them—a gathering crowd of civilians in the distance, congregating where his house stood. Perplexed, he peeks over their shoulders, his eyes narrowing with an intensity borne from his growing suspicions. A group of Military Police soldiers stands firmly in front of the nearby cobbler's shop. He frowns as he leads Hitch away from the scene, a cold feeling settling in his stomach.
Another promise he failed to keep.
Nobody said this was going to be easy.