ʚ o͏p͏e͏r͏a͏t͏i͏o͏n͏ a͏c͏h͏e͏ ɞ | aot x levi's daughter

chapter one : genesis

cw: implied child fiddling (in a passing sentence)

                                                      SEASON ONE

                                            ＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　 　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

when his daughter was born, the name for who she was did not exist.

he wore the scent of blood and death like a perfume. it drowned in his clothes and abyssal black hair as he marched by the townspeople, an intimidating aura pulsating around him.

the world downstairs was shrouded in constant darkness, letting thieves and criminals run through the back alleys and corners of their town like rats.

'spring,' they called her upstairs.

he called her solitude.

he walked through the door to his 'home', a kind word for what it looked like and sighed loudly, letting his return be known to the little girl sitting at the table.

she turned, her eyes a burning hysteria of tiredness at her young age, and motioned for her father to sit near her at the table.

he followed, his footsteps heavy, weighted with the burden of the job he had to pursue to keep himself, his friends and his daughter safe in the underground. he sat opposite from her at the table and looked at the girl.

she was a gentle sort of horror, with inky hair cut short and dark eyes, to the point where he couldn't even tell if they were brown or straight black in the constant gloom of the underground. sometimes, if the small lantern reflected off of her eyes just right when she was showing him her new favourite part of a book, he could see the shine, like dawn shifting through a beer bottle, but there were also times where he came home, covered in mud and the aftermath of someone fighting the end of their story, and they would reflect nothing, not even a glint of youth as she stitched him up. a cavern of dwindled adolescence. he never kept her happy long enough to see what colour they were.

she was quiet in the company of strangers and loud enough for a room of people when she knew them well. she loved to sit and watch the townspeople out of her small bedroom window and her favourite part of life was falling asleep in her fathers arms after a long day. she had two, dark brown moles under each eye as well.

even though he tried to avoid it, she was malnourished, but not - never - to the extent he was, causing her to be pale, mysterious, like a lily drowned under water. the purity of the colour contrasting to the warm crimson that would sometimes stain her too big shirts like pomegranates.

he tried to give her a life she wouldn't be ashamed of living, but he had failed. her hands were dirty with the blood of others, and sometimes her temper made him think that she wasn't born, but a fire that was lit. he couldn't keep her safe. she had been touched more times that anyone ever should have, and cried so many tears that they could water a garden with them for years, and her first blood was not from between her legs, but from stab wounds. he felt remorse building up inside of him, a growing nausea, a face full of contrition set in stone as he looked at the little girl who was babbling away at some poetry book furlan had stolen for her.

'huh, what do you think of that, little one? maybe we can have our own baby philosopher!'

he gulped at the memory.

"i'm sorry," he whispered.

she looked up with confusion at her father, naivety at her fathers disarray written all over her.