Wings : Attack on Titan x Reader Scenarios / Imagines ▼

[The Moments After :: Mikasa]

Her tears were soft and silent, a small mouse sneaking through a mansion-sized maze at midnight, years of pain diminished into a single, solid vessel of sadness so thick one could scrape it with their fingers, tear at it and drag it out, only to find more, replenished, because sorrow was something that stuck like plaster across the bones and muscles and nerves of those afflicted with such an emotional malaise to the point of paralyzation. It was cast in cement, a stone in the sea of a stomach hollow from retching up all that could be held in a small stomach. For the first time, she was the one reaching out to another.

It had always been the other way around.

Likewise, for the first time, you were the supporter. Never once had you held another so close, with every fiber of your body invested in the well-being of the person in your arms, knowing that your heartbeat was what fuelled theirs and that your voice was the only thing that could be heard amidst a sea of chaotic caterwauling. The sensation of strength draining from your stature was the only thing that kept you grounded, tied to the convincing backdrop that you'd been thrown in front of and told to call it reality.

Something about that made it worse. This wasn't a stage, and you were no actor, and the girl in your arms was not an actress. There was no prince charming to save you, or her, no beautiful princess to comfort your aching souls, no wise mage to offer prophetic phrases. All the heroes had left. And in their wake teemed the monstrosities they so valiantly and vehemently fought for; guarding dragons turned to thundering Titans, blooming rose petals for lovers melting and moving together as a mixture of blood and tears, victory turned to bitter battlecries and losing wars with no escape and only a single-file path out towards the rest of life.

This was life.

And Mikasa was still in your arms.

Waves had stilled to small ripples in the lake the boat road upon, guided like a waterborne carriage across the slim channel, carrying in its enclosure the last of the survivors. From the corners of your focused eyes, the docking station could be spotted, and your heart contorted with something similar to relief but tasting like regret and disbelief and unanswered questions. You swallowed the squalid spit and slowly released your tight grip on your companion. It was only then that you realized how tightly you had gripped her - your nails had dug into her overcoat, leaving small folds of indentations and, in another case, a small tear.

What you once would have apologized for now felt like the most insignificant thing to ever exist. And, as of that day, it rather was precisely that. "Mikasa," you began quietly, gently, as though speaking to a small child cowering in fear of the shadow-creatures beneath their bed, "I think this is where - we're supposed to exit."

Her crying eyes jolted up, red and wide, contrasting with the paleness of her tear-stricken cheeks as she followed the direction that your finger had flown to, before clasping the red scarf round her neck and wiping her face fresh with it. She said not a word; only nodded.

As her forearms released from your body, you realized how truly stiff she had grown. It was as though the lone action of ridding herself of the remnants of sadness had brought about a silent calmness - laced with desolation, albeit, but calmness nonetheless - like something seen in a storefront mannequin, stiff and straight, standing so starched that it appeared as though all life had been drained from her body. But the same stillness brought about the realization that this wasn't a desired outcome. Because it awoke the same thing within you. The moment she had let you go, the weight of everything had come crashing down upon your fragile frame like a meteor hitting the brittle earth, cracking your pure desire to stay courageous for others open and revealing only selfish intentions.

How many people had lost their lives? What were the numbers?

The numbers. The coldness continued to seep into your sanity. Nobody would care about anything but the numbers. That was the way statistics rolled, was it not? That was the only clear memory of your father you could retain with such a clouded mind. Accountants focus on the numbers. The intentions of the people are disregarded; it's policy. You could be buying food for the starving or purchasing a gun to commit a murder - if the money's in your account, we're required to deliver it. And in that way, was that not what would occur with this tragedy? You could see it now. This many thousands dead. This many adults, this many women, this many men, this many children. No names. No faces. No stories behind the families wiped off the face of the earth. Their dignity - their being - would be reduced to a number.