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On the second of May, a dusty, ragged column of mounted soldiers winds it way through the southwest quadrant of Wall Rose District, toward Ragako.
The mounted unit is led by an alert, diminutive figure with keen grey eyes. He's tense, calculating. The supplies needed by his unit were not at the assigned drop. Now, his squad is low on food, gas and water.
"Ain't no thing," Sasha rejoins cheerfully. She's got her bow slung across her back and sits tall in the saddle. They've been through Dauper, and she's seen her father.
Ain't no thing. She's got bits and pieces of talk, like colourful squares stitched into a homespun quilt.
Connie speaks her slang now too, unconsciously. They've been inseparable for two years.
Ain't no thing.
That's round about right.
Long tooth rain.
Rain. It's been dry for weeks. Captain Levi's detour to reach the creek just east of Ragako proves fruitless; the dry stream bed is split and fractured.
No one wants to ask Connie Springer any questions, much less engage him in prolonged conversation. It's been over two years since the horror at Ragako, and there are still few answers. They can only imagine how he copes with the memories.
Connie urges his mount into a trot, pulling level with Captain Levi.
"Sir, there's a cistern. Underground. I know where."
Levi's sharp eyes slide sideways. A barely perceptible nod.
Connie Springer falls in at the head of the column, leading his comrades into his village, once again. He's a veteran of war and is only seventeen years old.
There is a large tunnel, cleaving a hill at the south end of town; it leads to a cistern chamber, cool and serene. Water drips, echoing richly.
"Good." The first word Levi Ackerman has spoken that day. "See to the horses."
They dismount. Armin Arlert sits near the mouth of the tunnel, curling himself into a small package, balancing documents on his knees. He mutters as he jots something down with a charcoal pencil, then erases some of the words with a gum eraser.
Jean Kirschstein swoops down, snagging his gum eraser.
"Eyyy!" the blond head snaps up. "I need that!"
A worn smile lights up Jean's angular face. "What if you just don't make any errors?"
Armin, oblivious to teasing, considers this.
"What're you writing anyway? Something about me? Something nice?" the big corpsman chuckles.
Finally, Armin realizes he's being teased. "No!" and the pale, babyish cheeks flush, peony-pink.
"Connie. Sasha." Levi's quiet voice. "Recon."
Wordlessly, the two soldiers rise, arm themselves and head out of the tunnel.
"Oh yes, then!" Sasha's eyes are bright. She nudges Connie in the ribs. "How's about I shoot us some supper? You want a grouse?"
He stares; citrine eyes pale and vacant. She reads him immediately.
"Aw, shoot, Con. Shoot. I'm sorry. It's a hell of a thing, being here."
She cocks her head, the low spring sun picking auburn filaments out of her hair. It's as though the gods had originally fashioned her with brown hair, and then the most mischievous of them had declared, 'Aw, hell, no!' and imbued her mane, and her spirit, with fire.
He smiles a little. "Ain't no thing, 'tato."
They begin to walk, and he knows, that she knows, they're going to his cottage. The village is silent; the forest and grassland beginning to inexorably reclaim the stone walkways, the market square and the tidy gardens.
On Connie's tenth birthday his elder brother Martin had released three pigeons. Martin had kept pigeons. The pigeons could carry messages all around the district. His mother had baked vanilla tack; peculiar, rock-hard biscuits that would keep for an eternity.
These, they'd eaten on Connie's tenth birthday, with churned ice cream. They'd sang and danced, and then huddled under the porch roof laughing when the sky had loosed a spring rain down upon Ragako.
He tells Sasha about the ice cream, and her eyes light up with a sensuality she reserves only for food. He loves the way she looks, so he embellishes, just a little bit.
There is more he wants to tell her, but he's torn between rupturing the solidity of their friendship with his declaration, or keeping silent and having the words die with him, squished to bursting in a titan's jaws like...
…"strawberry jelly. Ice cream, with strawberry jelly oozing over it, and vanilla tack biscuits to dip in! Crunchy. I think I lost my first tooth on a vanilla tack biscuit."
"I lost my first tooth trying to smash a snake with a rock," Sasha confides.
They stop. The doorframe remains, and the kitchen is still standing, where the stove was.
He's never really examined the cottage's ruined interior; during prior missions, he's always looked at his childhood home peripherally, noting it's existence, denying it's heart.
But today, he enters. Here, a copper kettle. There, a smashed bowl. Strewn about, Martin's game pieces.
Sasha rummages in the pantry. She emerges with two tins of lard, placing them onto the hearth reverently, torn between removing anything, and taking the lard to put to good use at camp.
"Good lard, Con." she says softly.
"It's my birthday."
"There's more tins…"
"Sash, it's my - "
"Great walls, Con, don't I know that! Of course I know that. I just wish it was less awful…"
She turns then, back to the pantry.
He'd tried to talk to Armin, about Sasha. Armin knows about deep bonds. He knows, because he shakes a little now. Sometimes, Jean takes his hand, just to stop the shaking. Just to stop it.
Social banter is no balm to Armin; he's not very good at it, so his demons tend to make themselves at home.
On patrol, camping high in the trees or in caves, Jean lies beside Armin, scooping him close, winding around him like a vine, and only then can Armin sleep.
So yes - Armin knows that friendships can grow and catch fire. He wants to ask Armin what to say to Sasha…but that would mean holding up a mirror to Armin, the revealing brightness of which would be unkind. Armin needs Jean to inhabit his quiet spaces; Connie has no business there.
Sasha has returned. She's unscrewed a tin. Rolled hard tack biscuits, about the size of her middle finger. His birthday biscuits.
"Connie, biscuits! Look…"
The floor tilts. He feel his throat close, sorrow scalding his face.
"Yep," he nods, tears welling. "They were so lovely. Bet now, they just taste like dirt and tears."
Sasha's arms go around him; her warm rich scent, steady and solid and warm and far more than he ever deserves. She kisses his face, trying to erase whatever she can.
"Con….Con, better times'll come…" she kisses his mouth, softly, a glimpse of future warmth, "Ain't no thing, honey."