"Describe the commander."

It's a pretty stupid request (luckily, not for me but for some of the other unsuspecting superiors), but I hear it from the recruits all the time. They all want to know who this "hero" is.

Describing him is far too easy. But I like to start off with:

Idiotic.

That's for certain. I'm almost positive that anyone who recruits some filthy criminal from the underground is idiotic to some extent. Anyone with such a vast amount of trust should be dead meat, either by another human's hand or in a titan's gaping mouth.

At the same time though, he isn't entirely idiotic. In fact, he's on his guard at all times, observing your actions, calculating the amount of potential you have - or in my case, how many steps to take back when I had lashed out at him the first time we'd met.

I suppose it's no wonder he's Commander Irvin. He's willing to trust, but he's just as willing to dispose of you in case you prove to be a hazard to humanity. The perfect recipe for a strong leader.

Incompatible.

I hated him the moment I laid eyes on him.

He knew nothing about me and yet he looked at me with those eyes, those eyes that pretended to know everything about me.

Tall, well-built, clean, hair neatly swept back, he was everything I was not. He had joined the war effort for glory, for honor, for justice. I was joining because I was getting the hell out of jail. He was for saving humanity. I was just saving my own hide.

We are two entirely different beings. Our kinds are never supposed to mix.

Ineffective.

Or so I had thought his efforts to be. A fresh, fully-assembled breakfast at my door every morning? Sure, he was right that I am no morning person, but I needed not his emphatic care nor to obey his every word (even the unspoken).

"Good morning," he would say to me, giving me that smile that vexes me more than anything.

Lunch would be prepared for me as well, practically shoved right underneath my nose after every training session. In the evenings, he'd invite me to have dinner with him. I would have rejected him every time if I wasn't so damn hungry because of the training.

"Your men are going to start thinking we're fucking," I growled at him on the fourth day.

"Pardon?" He glanced across the table. Those damn eyes again.

"F-u-c-k-i-n-g." I repeated, making the word as obscene as possible. "The commander snatches some filthy kid off of death row and starts being overly nice to him, a.k.a., having these wonderful little private suppers with him every single day. If that doesn't sound like some illicit relationship to you, then -"

"So you admit that you're a kid."

I just stared at him. What the fuck was wrong with this guy? I opened my mouth to ask exactly that before he cut me off.

"I don't fancy you in that way, so you have nothing to worry about." He took a bite of the slightly stale bread. "You see, I'm quite aware that you're not very well-versed in the art of forming relations with people. I need you to just relax in the new environment first. Even without you being on your toes at all times, you'd be far too dangerous around the other recruits in the mess halls."

"So you're treating me like some wild animal?"

"Essentially…yes."

I could not believe him. I prepared to stab him with my fork before he immobilized me with that gaze.

"Once you prove to not be such a hazard around others, I will stop. Now, put the fork down." His icy stare quickly turned into a small smile. Whether it was condescending or not, I couldn't tell.

But I put the fork down. And three days later, I was allowed into the mess halls.

Impressed.

The first time he witnessed my performance with the gear, he wore a weary, but undeniably proud smile.

"How do you learn so quickly?" he asked, after I had returned to the starting point of the training course.

"I had to adapt every day before. What makes you think this is any harder?" I snorted.

"It was just so natural." I swear, no remarks ever scathe this man. "You're like…a bird."

"Would you like me to sing by your window every morning now?" I shot a glare at him.

"A bird of prey, it seems," he quickly rephrased, but still with that smile plastered to his face.

I said nothing. If only we were birds. We'd be able to fly above those walls, above those damn titans, away from everything and just be free.

Idolized.

The way we obey his orders with no qualms, you'd expect the man to be a god of some sort. And the way the recruits look up to him (figuratively and literally). It's almost disgusting.

Imaginative.

It's an unexpected trait. Aside from the constant plans of attack and retreat running through his head, he also paints glorious images of the outside world in his mind. There was once when he described them to me. The meadows of ice, great stretches of water and sand, lands filled with nothing but glistening, colossal fronds.

"You've been hanging around those brats too much," I had scoffed.

"Eren, Armin, and Mikasa? No, I heard about these sights from my parents," he had chuckled. "Someday, we'll go see these places with our own eyes. Together."

I didn't believe him.

Impassioned.

There's nothing more he wants to see than the rise of humanity and the reclamation of our lives, our land, our existence. Countless men fell to their deaths following this dream, but he never wavers. Some call it cruel. Some call it zeal.

I know it's the only way he can press onward. Even if some fear him, even if some grow apprehensive of this "cruel" behavior, if it means that mankind can have a chance, even a sliver of a chance, to prevail, then he will take it.

I find it an especially admirable characteristic. There is no time for tears, for resentment, for hesitation. We must press onwards. He never lets his emotions escape him. The wounds can fester on the inside, but he shows nothing on the outside. His face is the faith of his men; he cannot allow it to crack.

Imposing.

Ask any recruit what his first impression of the commander was.

Indecipherable.

On the battlefield, no matter what the situation is, no matter the outcome of the mission, it is always impossible to read him. He could be reading a report or facing the slobbering jaws of a titan, yet he always has that same calculating expression.

But I know him better than most. When he retires to his private quarters to simply sit upon his bed to think, to just be human and not the commander, I see how much the responsibilities wear him down. The eyes that burn with the conviction to salvage what's left of mankind close and reopen to reflect stress and sorrow. He may want his men to think he is heartless at times, but I'm aware that he carries more burdens upon his heart than anyone else.

After a long time, I see him rise from the edge of his bed and station himself at his desk. His eyes cloud for a moment and then return to their usual state of guarded impenetrability. He has to file the death reports.

Infallible.

No matter how devastating the mission or how impossibly outnumbered we are, he always devises a way in which we can turn the tables or return with minimal casualties.

I was a fool to think that his plans would always include saving himself as well.

Inevitable.

I should have known. I should have expected it.

Illusion.

If only it was.

Ignited.

Our hearts.

Incinerated.

His body, this morning.

Irvin.

I won't let this be in vain. My wings couldn't save you, but I swear I will fly to those places. And we'll bask in all of the sights. Together.

(I haven't written fanfiction in years, so I figured that I'd dust myself off with a quick, short one for this amazing fandom. Pardon my mistakes; still a bit rusty, it seems!

A lovely anon on AO3 asked me to upload this story here, so I hope you enjoyed! Thank you for reading!)