Again, and Again, and Again

He was finally alone. After all the insults and accusations, the silence should be a relief. But it wasn't. Of course, it wasn't. The silence was louder than anything else had been.

"Answer me!"

"Did you accomplish anything to make up for all the casualties this time?"

"Aren't you sorry for getting all those soldiers killed?"

The silence was louder than the tears, the yelling, the cries. It was louder than the disdain and hate. It was louder than the questions; the endless voices asking—asking why.

Why; he had asked himself that question. Many times. Too many times. He'd lost count.

For a small moment, something seemed to want to crawl up and claw its way out of his chest. But he clamped down on it.

One time. Two times. Too many times. Too many numbers. It was all piling up. And it was all the same.

Again, and again, and again.

He just stood there, in the middle of his room. He didn't want to sit down, but he also didn't want to stay standing still. He didn't know what he wanted.

He brought a hand up to the back of his neck and winced. The muscles there hurt. It was nothing unusual. He knew pain, had known it his whole life. The feeling came in all different kinds. Not that he liked the sensation. But he'd grown used to it.

Or so he preferred to think.

He hunched forward a little and closed his eyes, fingers digging into his neck.

He should get rid of his gear and dirty clothes, there was work to do, but he couldn't seem to move; he felt just so tired.

He felt exhausted.

Finally, after what seemed a long time, his legs appeared to operate again, and he dragged himself over to the bed and sat down wearily.

He bowed forward, staring at his muddy boots, eyes going over the dirty footprints that now covered the floor. Unconsciously a hand came up, cold fingers once again kneading the strained muscles. He couldn't remember when it had started, but his neck and back often hurt. Sometimes it was so painful that he was afraid the muscles would snap.

That he would snap.

No, he shook his head, a harsh laugh escaping him, loose strands of blond hair falling into his face. He leaned backward.

It was his burden. It was his goal. It was the dream that he and his father had shared that drove him forward. And it was his excuse. It was his excuse to stain his hands with the blood of his fallen comrades. Because after the first step into that abyss, there was no going back.

He'll unravel the truth of this world. No matter what. No matter the cost. He would make sure that every death, every sacrifice—everyone who offered up their hearts—would count. He would make sure nobody died in vain.

No regrets.

Erwin sighed and stood up, his hand falling away from his neck.

Stacks of paperwork were waiting for him. One by one they would be bearing a name; a person; a brave soldier that had offered up their heart for humanity. For him.

He would take every fallen life, one after another, and carry them with him. It was his duty, it was his dream; he would—no matter what—unravel the truth of this cruel world.

In the end, hell would be waiting for him. But—and his lips twisted into a wry smile—it didn't matter;

He had already given up his humanity and stepped into the pit a long time ago.

Hope you enjoyed.

All the mistakes are mine.