Beneath The Flies • 《 Levi × Reader 》

《 Chapter 25 》• A Gravestone Called Hope •

I remember the meetings. The misted morning air seeping in from the open window, the speeches, the run-throughs, the talks that ran on and on for minutes on end without time to stop and take a proper breath.

I remember Erwin's booming voice sketching out a plan so submersively for yet another expedition that we thought would be another stepping stone, when really it was just another adverse pothole to stick your foot in and stumble overtop all the lies we've fed ourselves with a crooked spoon.

Things never go as planned.

Nobody knows that better than the ones executing every detail from the blueprints they've constructed.

Nobody knew that better than Erwin— Than the Scouts.

We were always doomed from the start.

... So why did we fight?

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《 Chapter 25 》• A Gravestone Called Hope •

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Droplets of rain glided down my skin, loose strands of my hair plastered to my face. My expression was devoid of any visible emotion, because all the turmoil I felt was implanted deep within my heart, and that's where I'd like to keep it. I never favored breaking down. It only made things worse.

The long, heavy green overcoat I wore signified the occasion.

Today was the anniversary of the retake of Wall Maria.

The anniversary of Commander Erwin's death.

The death of hundreds.

I was standing in the cemetery, my eyes glued to the headstones that had turned dark grey from the falling rain, the mud squelching beneath my boots as I took a staggered step forward. My lips pursed into a thin, perturbed line as the memories came rushing in like a pack of wild dogs- Dogs with no mercy, with no thought other than to shred and kill.

It hurt unbelievably bad, and yet I refused to cry. For them, I needed to stay strong; gallant and resolute.

...

"We're heading off." Hange placed a stiff palm on the curve of my shoulder, squeezing gently before letting go. She began walking away with a few of the others who had been here to commemorate the fallen. I didn't have to say anything for them to know that I intended on staying a little longer. I always did.

My feet felt cemented to the ground.

I stared down at the gravestone carved with the sickening truth I'd prayed for so many years was all just some sort of hellacious dream.

Beneath the tarnished soil of the gravestone lie an empty casket, because his real body was left deserted to rot in the houses of a town near the basement he had so eagerly dreamt of discovering.

And yet, to no avail.

I couldn't help but wonder just how many of the caskets below my sodden boots were empty. To think of how many bodies we failed to retrieve— How many people we failed to save.

I couldn't help but wonder if they felt liberated by death, or incarcerated by the fate that took them by the hands and dragged them bellow the surface of all that they fought for.