She has pink geraniums in her hair, braided softly back to the nape of her neck, gentle flyaway strands of copper dancing in the breeze.

Her neck is long and pale, the tops of her shoulders scattered with freckles, as she bends over and pulls her shoes from her feet, a small gold ring twinkling on her finger. She is clad all in white, a dress to her calf muscles, which she hoists up with her small, careful hands so it comes to her knees. She is standing amidst long, yellowy grass, a river beating past just beyond her legs, and she extends one slim leg forwards to dip her toe in the chilly currents.

He can only hear the whisper of the wind as it rushes past him, over him, like he is watching an apparition, a dream, standing before him, pausing and tucking some of that flyaway hair behind her dainty right ear.

Petra Ral turns her head in one slow swoop, and he watches her eyelashes flutter as she looks up, carefully, deliberately, her eyes sparkling the same honey colour of the grass in which she stands, and she smiles, wide, full of life, a laugh like the tinkling of bells carrying across that breeze to where he stands, and Levi Ackerman feels his heart seize in adoration, in pain and... why is he in pain...?

She moves her lips to speak, and as she does, some unknown force knocks her sideways, knocks the life from her body as her eyes grow dull and her skin dims, the glow inside her going out as she lands on the now cold barren earth.

And he wakes.

The day is filled with questions and arguments and pleas and shouts and he is there, silent, unmoving amongst it all, watching from the side of Erwin as the children before them gaze at each other with empty eyes, and he fingers a slim gold band in his pocket.

Erwin watches him, sometimes, from the corner of his eye, like he thinks Levi cannot see. Or perhaps he is perfectly aware that Levi sees every fraction of every movement they all make, because it is all he can do to obsessively watch everything they do, if only to distract himself from his own pounding thoughts.

It is after supper on Sunday that Erwin finally acts on what he has been threatening to do for the past few days and actually says something.

"Perhaps you should retreat to Wall Sina for a time... relax, gather yourself again."

His voice is low and meaningful, and he does not look at Levi, rather the scouts filing from the mess hall in tired, haphazard lines. Levi leans forth, settling his chin atop his interlocking hands.

"Retreat. A word I don't think I've ever heard you use," he says shortly, his tone unwavering, if slightly sharper at Erwin's insinuation. That he needs rest. That he is weak.

"Nor you. Maybe it's time for us both to come to an understanding," he says, a slight laugh in his voice, the air thick with unease. Levi smirks, pushing his chair back from the table and standing up, ready to move from his commander's side in disgust.

"Not likely," he spits, his voice soft and dangerous, as he turns from Erwin to leave.

"Levi!"

The word is brash, full of anger.

Levi stops, turning on his heel to face Erwin, his eyes dark, his lip curled in a tight smirk.

"Commander?"

Erwin's face changes then, from one of furious exasperation to one of exhausted defeat.

"You've been talking in your sleep."

Levi's face drops as Erwin says these words, his eyes empty, his mouth slack. He feels vicious anger building up inside himself, rage at himself, for something he cannot control, cries in the night that he is unable to stop.

How many times has he cried out her name?

He gulps back his bitter retorts, smirks once more and inclines his head curtly.

"Then I'll be sleeping slightly less, I think."

He turns on his heel to move as quickly as his legs will humanly take him from the mess hall to his room, passing slack jawed scouts, slamming the door harshly behind him upon reaching his room.

He kicks the back of the door with his good leg, sending shockwaves up his body and swears viciously as he turns and sinks back onto his bed, gaze dark, his throat feeling choked and close.

He pulls the small gold band from his pocket, twisting it round and round in the tips of his fingers as he remembers hastily tugging it from the stiffening, bloodied finger of a corpse.

Her corpse.

He clasps it tightly in the palm of his hand, feeling the thin metal sink into the meaty flesh and raise red skin as it moves. He remembers giving it to her, a surprise on her birthday, a token that he remembered she had liked it that day, at that tiny market stall in Trost. He remembers thrusting it into her own tiny hands, unwrapped, as her eyes lit up and her cheeks blushed that unholy peach colour that made her glow that little bit brighter. He remembers watching her trying to put it on, stabbing at her ring finger until he took it from her swiftly, and threaded it onto her finger himself. He remembers her twisting it round and round gently whenever she spoke to him, remembers feeling it against the hollow of his cheek as she held him still and kissed him softly at first and then-

He slams his fist into his pillow, the ring still tight in his grip.

He will not sleep tonight.

He will not sleep.

He stares at the back of his door, until the sun falls behind the horizon, the moon has risen, and he can only occasionally hear the night terrors of the cadets further down the hall. His grip on the ring has not loosened, and he finally allows his eyes to flit to his fist, which uncurls gently.

It catches the light of the moon and he remembers watching it sparkle in the same way when she sat next to him, carefully slipping her hand through his own, her fingers entwining with-

Stop.

He lies back, the heaviness in his head, the pain behind his eyes too much for him to stand. The ring sits on his chest where his palm falls and he remembers a time before when it rested just there, below the hollow of his throat, on the finger of a soft skinned, copper headed-

Petra.

His eyes are heavy lidded as he allows himself to feel her at his side, supple, warm, smelling of sweetness and serenity. He feels his heart rate slow and his thundering mind come to a rest and he curses himself because he cannot sleep because in sleep she is there and it is not enough to sate him.

Before long he can hear her voice, her laughter, see her donning her scouting jacket, brushing her teeth, making him tea.

He can see a ring on her finger.

A ring that he gave her, a ring that means more than a gift for a birthday, a ring that is bestowed with a promise, a vow.

Her shoulders are bare, and her dress is clean and white.

And she has pink geraniums in her hair.