❝𝑫𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒏𝒐 𝒖𝒔𝒆.❞
— 𝐌𝐈𝐘𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈
꧁꧂
PEOPLE—ALL VARYING SHADES OF BROWN—STOOD SHOULDER-TO-SHOULDER, PACKED INTO THE SMALL KITCHEN AREA. On the table lay an array of dishes, ranging from rice and vegetables to the simple three-milks cake the smaller children eyed eagerly. Behind her on a counter sat a modest clump of gifts, some in little sacks, others in larger boxes.
Valé couldn't be happier.
Happy birthday to you~! Happy birthday to you~! Happy birthday, dear Valé... Happy birthday to you~!
Everyone rejoiced, clapping and hollering—Valé's grin widened. She picked up a knife and started cutting the cake; as the birthday girl, it was her responsibility to serve the treat to her guests. Of course, the children were the first to be served, their eyes gleaming at the sight of the sweet— who could blame them? Sweets were such a delicacy nowadays, a luxury one could only afford every other month.
Following the children, those of her age came forward for a piece, including her close friend, a second claw hanging from his neck. "Better give me a big slice," he teased, handing her his plate.
"A big slice? In this economy?" She carefully slid a thin slice of cake onto his plate and thrust it toward him. "In your dreams." He stuck his tongue out at her before walking away. Her uncle came next, cheeks reddened. She had to laugh to herself—it wasn't a party without a drunk uncle.
"Happy ninth birthday, girlie!" he slurred, alcohol on his breath.
"Eleventh," her mother corrected sternly, emerging from behind. The man scratched his head, confused. "It's only six p.m., yet you're already stumbling around. You'd think after breaking the same ankle twice you'd abstain from alcohol."
He flourished a hand. "I'll be fine!" Her mother sighed as she cut him a slice. "Now that's a nice chunk of cake!"
"Just don't break my furniture." He accepted his slice with a dopey grin and lumbered to his corner, where his wife—just as exasperated as her sister-in-law—dabbed a napkin to her daughter's lips. "Can't believe I shared a womb with that for nine months..." she muttered as she cleaned the knife. Valé suppressed the urge to laugh—she didn't want to risk her luck with a woman as uptight as her mother. "He's going to get himself killed one day."
A darker-skinned woman came forward, dozens of tiny, intricately woven braids adorned with detailed, golden ornaments flowing to her hips. She'd come in a uniform, Valé vaguely distinguishing the badge on her blazer belonging to one of the State's most prestigious medical institutions. "So you were able to make it," her mother said, smiling.
"Barely. Had to argue with the professor about letting me go." Her eyes landed on Valé, and her lips parted to form a smile as she scuffled over and enveloped her in a warm hug. "Happy birthday!" she squealed, rocking her back and forth.
"Thank you!" Valé responded, clinging on to her. Ages had passed since she'd last visited her— her studies occupied most of her time.
Upon separating, the woman stepped back, eyeing her. "She hasn't grown as much as the others. She might just end up being your height, Mercedes," she remarked teasingly.
Her mother pulled Valé close, resting her head on hers. "She just might. But she's very strong." In the background, a relative of hers tuned a guitar. "How's your father doing? I thought he was coming."
She grimaced but managed a smile. "He's doing alright, but he's still recovering from that nasty cold from earlier this month. His immune system's not working as well as it once did." Her shoulders sagged, and dismay popped onto her face. "Oh my God, I forgot to bring you your present!"
"It's alright!" Valé responded. If everything she'd heard about medical students was correct, then she would have forgotten the present, too—it was hard, the field of medicine. She'd come, and that on its own was more than enough for her.
"I'll try and bring it on Wednesday since I don't have any classes then," the woman said. She scanned the room. "Where's the wine?"
"Lisandro's downed most of it."
Her smile wavered. "Shame. I was looking forward to a glass." She waved to the other side of the room. "Someone's calling for me."
"Go on ahead." The woman joined a group of women sitting beside the window. "Valé, why don't you go and greet your cousins? It's been months since you all last hung out together."
"Mhm." Her mother weaved through the tight space, stopping to speak with a family friend. Valé finished her slice and set her plate and fork into the sink and took off toward the living room, where her cousins enjoyed their own servings. It was just as crowded as the kitchen, if not even more, five people crammed into a loveseat.
Her three brothers and a couple of her cousins shared an end table, playing cards strewn across its surface. Valé seated herself on the floor beside them, joining in on the conversation—something about an upcoming rodeo. Seconds blurred into minutes, the conversation taking a series of turns, sometimes breaking into arguments before transitioning to a more emotional tone.
"I'm betting my spider on this!" exclaimed one of her brothers, the second youngest of the trio.
"Nobody wants your fucking wandering spider."
"Everyone wants a wandering spider."
"They're fucking poisonous."
"That's the best part!"
"Valé!" her mother hollered from the kitchen.
"'Scuse me," Valé said, clambering to her feet. She nearly stepped on her cousin's fingers on her way. "Yes?"
"Oh, I was wondering if you wanted some more cake," her mother said, pointing to what was left of the baked good.
"No thank you." Though she'd stopped attending dance lessons months ago, the nutritional habits drilled into her had endured—too much sugar would wreak havoc on her body.
"You and your eating habits," she laughed. She adjusted the flowy, white skirt that hovered above her knee. "Well? Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Of course I am," Valé responded, beaming. "Thank you so much."
Her mother smiled back at her. "You're welcome. You're my only daughter, after all." She stood and flattened her skirt. "Need help tuning that guitar over there?" she shouted across the room to a man.
"No, no need!" The man in question was another one of her uncles. A musician, his hands were practically glued to his instrument. He leaned in closely, precisely twisting the pegs before straightening, his fingers ghosting over the strings. "Alright, any requests—"
BOOM.
Any thought of celebration screeched to a halt. Fear drummed in her veins as the building rumbled and the windows rattled. Everyone looked around nervously, wordlessly asking one another what in the world was transpiring beyond the tenement. Was there a dangerous gunman on the loose? Or was it a reckless group of teenagers who'd somehow gotten ahold of their parents' stock of pyrotechnic equipment?
CRASH!
A canister rolled in the mound of broken glass, smoke wafting from within. "Run!" a man cried. But by then, the gas had consumed the entire space, its smoky tendrils skimming over every inch. Valé scrunched her eyelids and rubbed at them. They burned. Badly. And she wasn't the only one—pained shouts and cries resounded from all ends, from as close as the person beside her, to as far as her brothers in the living room.
The screams were soon replaced by coughing, everyone hacking and heaving within seconds.
"Water! Cold water!" someone croaked. With closed eyes, Valé navigated the kitchen, relying on her wandering hands and memory to traverse through the smoke.
The icebox. She needed to find the icebox.
The fog seized her throat and Valé erupted into a coughing fit, crumpling to the smoky ground. Her burning windpipe pleaded for mercy, the choking fog enrapturing her lungs and depriving her of desperately needed oxygen.
She coughed, and coughed, and coughed—
"Valé!" A larger, calloused hand gripped hers, bringing her to her feet. Though she hardly managed to crack open her eyes, it was through contact alone she recognized the samaritan as her father. "Up, come on...!" he wheezed. Valé nodded shakily before folding over again, coughing until—
꧁꧂
Valen snapped upright in her bed, her chest rising and falling. Her hands wildly flailed at her throat, as if the fog was still choking her. Every sensation in her body had magnified: the pulsing of her blood, the warmth her bedding provided, the perspiration sticking to her skin... she could have imploded right there.
Before it slipped from the folds of her mind, she processed what she'd dreamt. Her dreams normally paralleled a past experience, but a birthday party? Cake and presents? The canister prompted questions, too—it contained fog, a fog that choked. And it hadn't exploded, either: it'd stilled, dispensing a steady stream of fog.
But that was not the only thing that'd piqued her curiosity. She had a family: a mother, a father, siblings, cousins, everyone else crammed in that house; all of whom resembled her. Maybe she was jumping to conclusions, considering her recollection had dulled immensely, but attached to everything she'd seen was a strong sense of familiarity, as if she was simply reliving a memory, but how? They'd searched Wall to Wall: they, along with all her childhood memories, had vanished, joining the numerous mysteries clouding the little land humanity preserved. But dreams had meanings, right? What was she supposed to do with this information? The fog, the people... what was the message? Had her brain created hypothetical versions of her family, basing everything on what she saw in the mirror every day?
Walls, how she longed for another dose.
Valen pressed her palm to her chest and sucked in a breath. To calm herself, she observed her surroundings, focusing on the pale moonlight streaming through the curtains and bathing the space in a bright sheen. Evidence of an earlier laundry session lingered on her bedding, the delightful fragrance of soap springing into her nostrils. A cricket serenaded her from outside of the window.
Everything was alright.
A trickling sensation tickled her skin, starting at the corner of her eye and stinging her nose. Her other eye replicated the feeling, and Valen brought a shaky finger to her face, retracting it to inspect it.
Tears.
As quickly as she'd awakened, she wiped at the corner of her eyes, furiously drying them with the back of her hand. What was she, a child? She had absolutely no reason to cry. A bad dream was a bad dream and a bad dream only. Crying because of a dream was a weakling's thing—not a Valen thing.
Her lungs eased to their normal rhythm. Though a long day of formation training expected her in the morning, she lacked the desire to return to sleep. Besides, she'd be fatigued regardless. Valen cast the covers aside and blindly traversed to her bureau across from her bed, her hands waving about as she configured her surroundings.
Valen seethed when her knuckles directly struck the wood of the bureau. Cursing under her breath, she creaked it open and got to business, digging for a brush and clasp. She quickly fashioned a braid and pinned it in a bun. Right as she closed the drawer, her limbs halted in place.
She'd forgotten something.
Valen crouched to open the bottom drawer, the hilt of an old switchblade catching the moonlight. She slipped it into the band of her shorts and pushed the drawer into place before straightening. Quietly, she nudged her door into its frame and crept into the corridor. At the moment, she had no planned destination. As long as it was far from her bedroom, she'd be satisfied. She had a weapon, so if anything—more so anyone—tried anything, she had better means to defend herself.
Valen squinted: no one had bothered to ignite the candles mounted on the walls. Sometimes, the light flooding in from an unoccupied room would help guide her—still, her hand hovered over the lump in her shorts.
Valen veered rightward, considering an ideal location to refresh her thoughts. She lamented the library remained inaccessible; though Eld and Gunther had warmed up to her, she reckoned her request to open the room would result in rejection. The dining room didn't appeal to her, either—midnight snacking was not her thing.
Suddenly, the alure she'd spotted a couple of days ago sprung to mind. She craved to explore the passage herself, but she'd yet to find the time. It was high enough for her to comfortably gaze at the stars without the pine trees obstructing her line of sight.
Her stomach tingled excitedly.
Valen glanced around, and she located the stairs: no more than fifteen steps. As long as she was discreet, there'd be no problem getting to her destination. She moved in direction of the stairs when the corridor was doused in orange, and her hand flew to the band of her shorts.
"Drop the weapon." Valen gradually turned, a lone finger hooked on her waistband—Levi stood behind her, holding a lantern. Despite the moon high in the sky, he'd stayed in uniform.
Overlooking his crudeness entirely, he was a strange man.
Her silence was her response to his demand. "The weapon. Put it on the ground. Now." Valen pressed her lips together—the blade was the only weapon she owned. She could survive on her own, but a blade granted her the security her fists lacked.
He'd return it, right?
"Do I have to repeat myself?" Reluctantly, Valen pulled the switchblade from the band of her shorts, slowly placing it on the ground beside her foot. "Three steps back, and quickly." It tore her to part from her beloved weapon—those three steps were the hardest she'd taken.
Once separated, Levi strode toward her and picked up the switchblade. He beheld it in the glow of the lantern, which gave his irises a unique color. "A switchblade, huh?" he said to nobody in particular. Valen glowered as he tucked her oh-so-cherished blade into his waistband.
"You're returning it, right?" Valen asked, a little nervous.
"That's for me to decide. Right now, there are other things on my mind." Levi crossed his arms. "Mind explaining what you're doing in the corridors at this time of night with a switchblade?"
"I wasn't going to hurt anyone."
"Regardless of your intentions, you should be asleep, not wandering the castle. You have plenty of time to do so during the day," Levi said. "So, are you going to answer my question or not?" Valen withheld a reply—why would she beg forgiveness for something so benign as walking around at night? "I see then." He lowered the lantern. "Stable duty or laps?"
Valen blinked "Pardon?"
"Normally I'd assign punishment right away, but tonight, I'm going to be generous and allow you to pick your punishment," Levi said.
"I'm giving you two options: either three days of stable duty or complete two hundred laps around the castle at sunrise. Which do you prefer?"
Valen pursed her lips. Both options did not allure her in the slightest—she doubted they'd allure anyone. Stable duty was downright disgusting, the telltale stench of manure even in imagination spurring the bile inside her. And two hundred laps? On withdrawal? She'd probably wound up in the infirmary after the first fifty, and the medics hadn't bothered to write her a note—even if they had, Valen would have torn it into shreds.
There is no way I'm cleaning up horse crap. "Pardon?" she said again.
"Don't play stupid with me," Levi scoffed. Valen's stomach dropped. "Use your best judgment and decide. I have better things to do. Stable duty or laps?"
"There are other options."
"There are other options, but I'm only giving you two of them," he said. "Unless you enjoy doing paperwork, then I'd make your choice now."
An opening. "I'll gladly do paperwork." Yesterday while cooking dinner alongside Petra, the ginger had told her that he tackled a copious amount of paperwork nightly. He sure wouldn't squander an offer as good as hers—contempt only existed when it was convenient, Valen believed.
"Did you not pick up on my sarcasm?" Levi snarled. "Paperwork is the last thing anyone is willing to do. Trust me when I say this, you do not want to spend your night doing paperwork."
"But what if I do?"
Levi regarded her incredulously. "Now you're just being ridiculous." He spun her around and pushed her. "I think you're too tired to be making decisions. We can discuss your punishment when you're better rested—"
Valen slapped his hand from her shoulder, whirling around. "I'm feeling fantastic, thank you very much." She planted her hands on her hips. "So?"
"You're being serious."
"Absolutely."
He dwelled on her words before sighing and spinning on his heel. "If you insist..." He gestured to an opened door up ahead on their right. "Over there," he said. Entering the room, Valen finally found a clock: 1:17 a.m., it read.
Levi placed the lantern on the corner of his desk—judging by the amount of oil pooled at the bottom, he'd been doing paperwork for quite a while. The curtains had been pulled together, blocking the light of the moon from spilling in. Nothing insinuating he had a personal life existed, the walls and desk barren of portraits or any sentimental objects.
Levi settled right away. Valen warily followed him, coming to stand behind one of the chairs positioned before his desk. Sitting on top was an obscenely dense stack of paperwork, too dense for a single man to be plowing through every night on his own.
That explained the circles beneath his eyes.
"And to think our truce was going so well," Levi sighed, readjusting his lantern. "You started talking at dinner, too."
"The main purpose of the truce is to maintain workplace relations. Not to abide by curfew."
"We have one in place for a reason. It's unwise to send soldiers into combat on five hours of sleep." He divided the pile into halves, nudging one towards her. Despite the fact the workload was shared, the sheer weight of the paper in her hands unnerved Valen. "Would you run laps on five hours of sleep?"
"I already have," Valen grumbled, Levi's questions prompting a memory from her Cadet Corps years—it'd been the morning after the second night she had her nightmares, and it just happened to be the day her instructor's wife had left him and taken the children.
"And was it any fun for you?"
"There's a reason I'm doing paperwork instead." Her instructor's yelling echoed in her skull—if she'd been his wife, she would have done the same, too.
Levi registered her words before nodding. "You're astute, I'll give you that." He slid a pen her way. Valen edged toward his desk, peering down at paperwork.
"Listen closely, because I'm only explaining this once."
꧁꧂
TICK. TICK. TICK.
His lantern burned brightly alongside his supplies, lighting his desk and the surrounding furnishings. By now, the column of paper had diminished markedly and no more than a few forms waited to be signed. The scribbling of pen on paper, along with the occasional rustling of clothing and the creaking of the wood—none of this was foreign to Levi. It was how he spent his nights since he was promoted to Captain years ago: shackled to a chair, pen in hand, enclaved in the stillness of the night.
But tonight was unique.
Curled up in an armchair was Valen, reclined on an armrest, her calves dangling from the other. A finger pressed to her lips in concentration. She was fully immersed in the paper she read from, digesting the information as she stumbled upon it— she, like him, was shackled to a chair.
Signing his name, Levi added another paper to his completed pile. Only four papers remained—then he'd be granted the privilege of closing his eyes. Of course, it'd be for a paltry couple of hours, but he fancied poor sleep over none.
Before finishing his remaining paperwork, he wanted to check on Valen's own completed stack. Her proposal had surprised him—people avoided paperwork like the plague—but if Valen had suggested doing any at all, it was because it was in her best interest. If I do things, it's because it's in my best interest and my best interest only. How could he forget that?
A side of him was angry: he was the Captain. He should have sternly refused her proposal and scolded her. Perhaps he should have whispered 'give me one hundred' and ordered her to do push-ups in the middle of the corridor in the dead of night. But he was also profoundly relieved—for the first time in weeks, he'd be asleep by three a.m.
Valen remained focused as he collected her stack. Returning to his desk, he scrutinized them, looking for any blank lines or sarcastic remarks. Instead, he was pleased—and surprised—to find she'd filled in every line, and properly.
Not too bad. Levi discreetly glanced at Valen, observing how her eyes moved across the paper, absorbing the numbers, words, and symbols printed on it. Her brown hues had darkened in the lighting, and her braid curled on her shoulder. For him, it was the first time seeing Valen in such a serene state. Nothing resembling a scowl dawdled on her expression—just pure concentration in the task at hand.
It was refreshing, honestly.
He wondered—where had that despondency originated? Other than her alleged memory loss, what else had happened to her? What compelled her to hide her background? Maybe she—like him—had history too grim to detail?
Pull yourself together. Why would he extend empathy for a woman like her? She was just as selfish as the average MP, enlisting for her own 'purpose'. No teary-eyed adolescence justified her behavior, because unlike her, he—
A paper slid across the ground.
He looked up—Valen slept soundly, her head slumped downwards, pen held loosely between her fingers. Her awkward sleeping position implied that she'd fallen asleep unthinkingly—the paperwork had sapped her completely. Still and unmoving, serenity had taken over.
And of course she's sleeping in my armchair. Levi clicked his tongue—where was he supposed to sleep now? If he wanted to, he could fall asleep on his desk like he usually did when his workload worsened, but the chair he was using in the castle was much more uncomfortable than the one in his study on base—his back pain was already bad enough.
Maybe I should move her. Ultimately, it was his space—he reserved the right to send her packing. Noiselessly pushing his chair in, he rounded his desk and neared the armchair. Valen was so motionless she could pass as dead, her chin nestled in the crevice between her knees. Up close, her calm had grown more conspicuous—she lacked resemblance to the detached soldier she posed in consciousness. The tension and halfheartedness she emanated had diminished, reduced to an authentic quietude.
It nearly erased the fact she was an exceedingly selfish woman.
Levi strategized how he'd waken her. Would a nudge do the trick— or would a pinching her suffice? He could verbally rouse her, too, hiss a curt 'wake up' before exiling her, but his paperwork had wearied him so much he was too tired to speak to anyone, much less Valen.
A pinch would do.
Bunching his fingers, he slightly bowed his knees. Getting close to her was already risky on its own; touching her was another thing. He ruminated on what was the best plan of action. Her face was too personal, so was her neck, and pinching her hand for a fact would garner an adverse reaction—and he'd excluded anything below the clavicle from the start.
The shoulder was the best way to go.
Tentatively, he inched closer. Out of precaution, he planned on pinching her through her clothing—that way, Valen wouldn't misunderstand his actions. But as if he were a puppet, his hand stopped, suspended inches from her shoulder. A part of him argued it was wrong, rupturing the sense of calm and composure enfolding Valen. She was so calm and composed, not burdened by a single nuisance, a pleasure seldom encountered in consciousness. He disdained her—it was undeniable.
But the empath within him was too strong.
Heaving through his nostrils, he shambled to his chair, turning the wick in the burner. He scooted closer toward the desk and removed his uniform jacket, folding it into a makeshift pillow. As he positioned himself, he grumbled about the cynic sleeping in his armchair but was promptly comforted by the fact she'd have the worse neck and back pain in the morning.
And that, for him, was good enough to lull him to sleep.