' Until we meet again, Y/N. '
⋄ ⊱ ❈ ⊰ ⋄
Having spent your life as a florist, violence and war had never introduced itself to you. That is, until you met them.
You came as a distraction, and you liked it that way. Single nights spent in simplicity a...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
ac: @ _kozuha twt
⋄ ⊱ ❈ ⊰ ⋄
YEAR 850
Blood.
You watch as the droplet pools at the tip of your finger, creating an ever growing dew drop of crimson on your once pristine skin. It grows in size until any shaking movement of your hand threatens to send the tear down the extremity.
There was something endearing about the blood. Whether it was the color, the warmth, the stinging pain still throbbing, you didn't know. Yet your eyes remain fixed on the liquid; your breath held up in your throat.
Then the door opens, an abrupt entrance that causes your shoulders to flinch, instantly sending that growing bead of red down your finger through all your efforts to keep it still; to watch just how much could leak from you.
You finally breathe as you drop your hand down to the table you sit at, tilting your head up and away from your body and towards the entrance of the building.
It's morning, still so early that the streets had yet to become populous. Having a customer so early was rare, but you understood exactly why as your eyes came into contact with the person who had ruined your morbid game.
Dressed as that of a military officer, you understood what they would need before they had to explain it to you. There was only one reason why military personnel would attend a floral shop: a funeral was in order.
You had grown accustomed to arrangements for these events, putting together large bouquets to sit atop the casket as friends and family mourned their lost one. And that morbid curiosity in you had somewhat enjoyed the process of arranging a floral farewell for the deceased.
"Good morning, what may I do for you?" You ask, brushing off your bloodied finger along the leather apron strapped to your waist, hiding the act under the wooden table top.
Their appearance strikes you; brown hair tied back atop their head letting a short layer hang to their shoulders, pale skin with a rosy colored hue, a pair of oval glasses perched on their hooked nose, and underneath a black eyepatch covers their left eye and wraps around their head.
A single brown eye meets the E/C of yours through the glare cast onto their glasses and immediately your struck with a layer of confusion.
You notice the green jeweled bolo tied around their neck, the color glimmering as they step inside the shop. You had seen the bolo before, one given as an honorary veteran status to those only in the Survey Corps. You had seen it on the neck of their Commander, Erwin Smith, the man who from time to time had stopped by to order more funeral arrangements. You had never seen the stranger now approaching in the shop.
