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When you are not fed love on a silver spoon, you learn to lick it with knives.
lauren eden
There is a presence within you.
It speaks, but not with words. It lurks deep within your mind and screams — but you can never decipher it. How cruel, you think. How painful must it be as it yearns to be heard through its anguish and desperation? It is trying to tell you something: a tale of spoiled morals and bitter tragedies.
The voice pricks you from inside as your head pounds painfully. It was like the day at Castle Utgard when Hange had rushed by your side as you became breathless.
You fall to your feet atop a roof in Wall Sina. It hurts. You want to cry, to scream. Your chest feels heavy and your head pounds uncontrollably. There is a sudden gentle touch on your shoulder, but you slap it away.
"Hey," a familiar voice whispers to you, "it's me."
"Levi," you glance up at him as tears prick your eyes. Your lungs fail to retrieve air and your breaths become heavy. "It hurts. There is—there is something... it's happening again. it hurts."
Your head feels like it'll explode. The pain is immense, and you find yourself falling in and out of consciousness. It's almost as if someone is pounding your head with a hammer constantly.
Levi pauses for a moment. There it is again: the soft tint of purple that Levi had seen before has now adorned your left eye again.
Now that you realize it is him, you allow his hand, calloused and worn from battles waged, to rest gently on your back. "Breathe, Clove," he commands, crouching beside you on the desolate rooftop. "Just breathe."
You struggle to comply, the air feeling thick as if it resists entry into your lungs. Levi's presence beside you is unwavering, soothing. As your breaths gradually synchronize with his quiet assurance, the voice within you seems to ebb, as if acknowledging his calming influence.
You feel yourself calming down as you breathe in his scent. In the folds of his collar, you notice there is a trace of crisp, clean linen, intermingling with a hint of the metallic tang of blades freshly unsheathed. There is something else...it's bittersweet. Black tea leaves, you presume. It is his favourite just as he is yours.
As your senses start to adhere to his presence, you finally set your eyes on him. Oh, how beautiful he is — ebony fingers placed firmly against your back, feather-like eyes that seem to be gleaming with concern and captivate you in their hold. And then, there is his voice. It is so calming that you want nothing more than to melt in his arms.
"It's trying to tell me something," you confess, your voice a fragile whisper in the stillness of the city.
He doesn't know what to say. If we could take away your pain — he would. A thousand times again. But he can't, and he feels his chest become heavy at the thought.
