Chapter Text
Years later, as he faced his judgement, Erwin would think wistfully of that winter evening, sanguine and nostalgic. It was some holiday, perhaps New Year’s, one of the last gatherings with all of them together; to their delight, snowfall had begun just that morning and coated the ground in pure, sparkling white. Even Levi had shown some enjoyment as it crunched pleasantly under his boots, face thoughtful in admiration before twisting into a vicious snarl as Hange and Miche snatched him by the scruff of his neck and shoved fistfuls of snow forcefully down the back of his coat.
The dinner was simple but hearty, a savory roasted duck with potatoes. Pyxis had surprised them with a few precious bottles of fine wine, the expensive kind from the capital, leaving most of them tipsy and flushed within the next half hour as they ate and drank without restraint. Faintly, Erwin felt it himself, the gradual heaviness in his eyelids as the tart liquid warmed him from the inside.
He remembered a toast at the end of the night once their plates had been emptied, the room smelling of pine and smoked wood from the fireplace.
“To our dear Erwin,” Hange slurred, raising their sloshing glass, “for allowing us to ravage his office tonight.” A rustle of agreement went around the room; Oluo threw an arm around his shoulders and gave him an affectionate shake as Nanaba slapped a hand on his back a bit rougher than she had probably intended.
“And to our Captain’s birthday,” Erwin added after a few coughs, “although we are a few days late.”
Levi huffed a sigh, but the alcohol had taken the venom out of him that night. Begrudgingly, he accepted the chorus of “happy birthday’s” and “to many more’s”, draining his glass with the others as they cried out a final “cheers!” Wine glasses were replaced with teacups, the porcelain ones Levi only brought out for special occasions, and a comfortable drowsiness settled over the room as the conversation simmered out over chamomile and spiced gingerbread.
Erwin had not felt like a Commander that night, or even a soldier. He simply felt like a man, who would bid his friends good night and hand them their snow-soaked jackets and scarves as they staggered back to their own quarters, collapse into bed with a contented sigh as Levi quietly joined him under the covers, and gaze at the ceiling lazily as the room faded around him. Routinely, Levi licked his fingers and snuffed out the candle, tucked himself into Erwin’s side, and murmured to him aimlessly until they both fell asleep, the heat of his body and the familiar smell of him a pleasant comfort.
He certainly feels like a Commander now, he thinks bitterly, adrenaline coursing through him like liquid fire, heart thundering so forcefully he can feel it trembling in the back of his mouth. A lungful of smoke burns down his throat, suffocating and acrid, as he rallies what remains of the Corps. The color of the flares is ironic, he considers as they raise their guns once more. It’s the color of success, of safety, a leafier version of the bottle green displayed proudly on their backs beneath the silver wings. Erwin wishes it would lull him into some sense of security, no matter how false, but it’s ridiculous to expect with the towering monster that looms directly ahead of him. The Beast pulls its arm back once more, gargantuan palm filled with fractured stone, and releases with so much force that the ground shakes violently beneath their horses’ hooves. The velocity of the rocks has them whistling furiously through the air like birds of prey, destruction incarnate.
Miraculously, he isn’t struck down yet. The cadet to his right is not as lucky, obliterated with a horrific crunch before he can even scream. There cannot be more than forty of them left, hopelessly charging forward as the devil before them scoops another handful of debris.
I have been judged by life, Erwin thinks as the Beast hurls its next volley, I have been judged by nature, and judged by man. Now let me be judged by Death.
We are standing near the grave of a well-loved man. His whole life, his struggles, his sufferings and his accomplishments on earth pass before us for the last time. And now, in this moment of gravity and emotion, when the confusion and distractions of everyday life are lifted like a hood from our eyes, a voice of awe-inspiring solemnity chills our heart, a voice we usually ignore: What now? What is this life—and this death? Do we have an existence beyond it? And we must answer this question, if we are to live on.
GUSTAV MAHLER --
It is something he learns so young that it may as well be innate. The house is lifeless, bitterly cold and quiet. There are no more midnight lessons on the rug by the fireplace, fragrant mugs of tea by his bedside when he wakes on the weekends, or ruffles through his hair when he comes home from school. He rarely even sees his mother anymore, who has withdrawn so far into herself that she leaves the bedroom barely more than once a week. The oppressiveness of the silence brings him to tears nightly for weeks on end, weeping until he’s utterly drained, lying unmoving on his bed and gasping out shallow, shuddering breaths with his face wet and his vision blurred. How could something so intangible be so unrelenting and unbearable, so penetrating?
Energy, he knows, cannot be destroyed, only transformed. His father had energy, the quiet hum of life that ran like a current through them all, smothered now in an instant. Where had that vitality gone? Was he in some kind of peaceful sleep, or was there really some amorphous realm in the beyond? Would Erwin be able to join him there when his own time came, or would the weight of his failure drag him into someplace deeper?
It hurts, the grief, the guilt, the questions, like a seal that will cling to him for the rest of his life despite his best attempts to shake it from his shoulders. Defeated, he accepts it, that he can cry and love and beg as hard as he wants and the universe will ignore him; he is, in the end, magnificently powerless. The razored edge of despair smoothes with time, as all things do over the years, but it sits heavily always in the very depth of his soul. Molding itself, two distinct truths emerge: first, love is not enough, and second, he is his father’s heart. He carries them for decades like a burden, like a lifeline: sorrow and dreams.