#Marlowe Freudenberg | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

firefly--bright · 1 month

Text

illuminated.

✩‧₊˚☾

masquerade chapter two.

jean kirstein x fem!reader, regency a.u.

chapter summary ; for the first time, under the glimmering lights, there he is, his mask stronger than ever.

chapter warning ; familial issues/abandonment, trust issues, slight angst?

a/n ; kinda went insane and wrote most of this in one sitting haha. anyways, as always, i hope this is well enjoyed :) comments, reblogs, likes, etc are always deeply appreciated!

taglist ; @mrsnobodynobody @jeanscremebrulee @holding-infinity-and-a-book @happxme @berrijam @hopeless-anti-romantic @cherrypieyourface @imgayandshesanime @moonmalice @potaho3frog @kivernova

☾ series masterlist ☾ main masterlist ☾ enter my taglist ☾

✩‧₊˚☾

it happens a little too fast. you're fifteen, and your mother stops oiling your hair for a moment, making you snap your eyes open from the relaxed state of your body.

"your father and I were discussing your future," she says, and her soothing voice grates against your ears because you knew this news could not be a good one. when your 'future' was in question, you weren't given much of a choice, really. it was one of two routes, either those choices or uncertain poverty at the hands of a merciless god.

they weren't god. you were sure no god could be as cruel as this, but you were fifteen. how would you know? you're sitting on the cool floor in your childhood house, in the belly of the beast as your mother had asked you to. it smells like the night - faint Jasmine and the fire burning in the little fireplace in front of you. your house, your beast, was far smaller than the richer folks that conditioned you into being there, but a little larger than the ones more unfortunate than you - the ones without any familial connections and controls pulling on feeble life that they willingly created.

the Marleyans weren't gods, yet they controlled your life as one. you were sure of it, because even while giving mercy to your family, you were still trapped by people you knew were seventy or older, people who only smiled gleefully when inferiors were shamed. the inferiors in question, however, were you. your people. your mother, your father, your grandfather, your brother. in this beast - this house that was paid off as a so-called gift but was built on shame and guilt - that was lit up by their inventions. your mother was devoid of all the riches you'd seen them wear, but even seeing them up-close without threat was a privilege that you considered in your defence.

you blink, looking at the dying fire, not opening your mouth to speak. you're too afraid. you always have been, you think, ever since you were younger than this.

you hear her sigh placatingly, braiding your hair into a single plait.

"We will marry you off next year." she says. "There are no other choices." your language rolled off her tongue smoothly, something you knew she was ashamed of because of them. the non-gods. the Marleyans.

it felt like a slap to the cheek even when all she was doing was combing back your hair with feather light hands, speaking in a gentle voice that carried out the letter of a language you learnt from infancy because your grandfather refused to let it be forgotten.

"why can I not do as you are now?" you ask. at fifteen, your voice was shaky and unanswered.

"this does not make an adequate living."

there's a pause. you refuse to speak because you are far too stubborn to admit that she is right. but that cannot be an answer you accept. you blink again, turning around to face her, your knees on the ground and your hands grasping her oily ones.

It smells like jasmine and coconut.

"but I do not want to. it will not be out of love-" you start, cut short by your mother's sound. you're not sure if it's a laugh or a sob but she looks at you as a burden. you think you might be.

"love is not meant for us, sweetheart."

that night, it was decided. you would be married off to an officer - 'young' they described him, but you knew he wouldn't be with the way your father covered his mouth with a cough, his telltale sign of a lie. your life would no longer be yours, but you supposed it never was.

a week later, you were nowhere to be seen. it was raining, a torrential downfall as your mother (you imagined this. you're not sure if this really happened or if you wanted to cling on to the last bits of hope you had left that your family was still yours) would read your letter in broken English and your older brother would lock up the chest with the remainder of your clothes and paintings, your grandfather would pace around the house slowly, as best as his feet could allow him, and your father would go out in search for you, unknowing that you had crossed half an ocean already.

but Mikasa didn't do as such. she was not like you but you always wondered why she felt this heavy while talking about duty. Was it the surplus wealth that she had that you lacked during your childhood? or was it the fear of uncertainty?

you didn't know what it was and you didn't dare ask. you were afraid, as you always had been, but you knew when to show it and when to keep it hidden away, damning it from seeing the light.

her shoulders did not shake with sobs, her lips did not wobble with unshed tears. in this, you were similar - you'd never show anything other than hope and thankfulness towards each other. or anyone, really, because you knew that line could not be crossed. yes, you had seen her in her most vulnerable states, but she never shed a tear, never claimed her woes even while you knew she wanted to.

she simply walked; steadily, unshaken, from her father's study to her bedroom. the door was left open for you to step in, and you took the invitation with a little pride. she wouldn't hide from you.

you shut the door behind you. Mikasa let out a heavy sigh, her shoulders sinking. she sits at her bed and you sit on the floor, holding her knee gently as she looks at her feet.

"there is... a ball to be held. here. people will be there. everyone." she spoke in broken sentences, as if she was trying to formulate a language of her own. but you understood anyway, rubbing small circles on her knee. "i am to choose someone. not sure if it's even a choice," there it was. the breaking point. she breathes out a humourless laugh, a small breath.

"i..." you start, but there is no end to your statement. you can offer her no words of comfort. what would you have wanted when you were fifteen? you'd have wanted a choice. and when you didn't have one, you created one for yourself, playing your own god.

but she cannot. she would not, something you knew for a fact, go against her family's wishes, for reasons you could not find.

You hold her hand with everything you could. Words have always failed you when you’ve needed them the most, but your touch was always present. Your want for it may have been compensated by your abundance of giving it, but you hope it’s enough as you hold her right hand with both of yours, rubbing circles into the her soft palm.

“maybe... maybe you really will find someone wealthy in both personality and money. If you find someone in that ball that is strong in both; his character and his assets, then you would be satisfied, if you cannot be happy.” you say. You try – so hard – to make sure she knew that she could live a normal life after these events. As hopeless as you sounded voicing out the possibilities, you had to make her believe that it could not be completely worse, her life could not be completely trapped.

She sighed. She says your name pleadingly, “half the men in the country lack in either one of those things if they have the other. It is not money i care for.” she states, a truth you’ve known since knowing mikasa.

Her eyes don’t meet yours, but you know she is still unshaken. Her fingers grab yours, now, and you count that as a small victory. You shift a little closer to her, your knees scraping against the rug.

“i’ve heard there are new families that have travelled from far to live here. Maybe one of them could be a little...adequate.” you speak, hesitation lacing your voice. You could do nothing but offer some hope to your dear friend, despite these being half-truths. It was not completely false. You had heard some stories claiming there to be some new families having moved in, but these were not guaranteed to be all the traits Lord Ackerman has been searching for. You were sure no-one would be able to fulfil the man’s expectations, especially not when it came to his only daughter.

Mikasa had never been one for romance. Not overtly, at least, because you never saw her yearning of her wedding day like you had heard your childhood friends do, in their childhood innocence and sparkly eyes as they stole their mother’s hidden precious jewellery, looking into the mirror. You also had hope – refusing to participate in the realities of the world, indulging in your little fantasies instead. But those fantasies had faded away shortly after you had left everything behind. The hope never had, but you could not let your imagination run rampant. But not mikasa.

You werent too sure why it was. Why she chose the books that described history and the world outside of this town’s limited lense, biographies of authors and experimentalists until she’d fall asleep at her desk and you’d have to guide her to her room before she fell too deep into her slumber.

Romance wasn’t something she was looking for. Even now, with a grand marriage prospect in the near future, all she hoped for was to tolerate the man and family she would forced into.

She nods slowly, letting you know that she’s considering your words that had nothing but fragile hope, but she knew this was the best she could have.

You smiled a little, your fingers not ceasing from comforting her hands. “if all else is hopeless, we can always run away together.” she smiles back, breathing out a laugh.

“two cats?” she asks, fully engaging in the childish daydreams you had curated through sleepless nights.

“black and ginger.”

you were grateful that the late afternoon did not bring the heat as much as they did during blazing summers. The clothes had been hung up to dry shortly after your conversation with mikasa, who wished to have some time alone, requesting some parchment and ink. You knew a little too well who she’d be writing to, who she’d pull you aside to tell you where to deliver the letter to.

These few hours were yours. During the day, you would be buzzing around the house until your heels ached, giving Lord Ackerman his mail from overseas business, dusting the small corners of the house, helping Mr. Berner with his new, experimental dishes and then helping him clean right after. Despite all of this, the late afternoon was yours to cherish. Lady Ackerman was either in the salon or her chambers, talking to a friend with frilly skirts and updos or peacefully taking a nap. Lord Ackerman would be busy with whatever it was that needed his financial attention, Levi Ackerman would ideally be out of the house, visiting his eclectic friends from the military that you had only been acquainted to once or twice in the flesh, but felt as if you knew them beyond those times due to Levi’s stories over the years, given with a begrudging and small smile hidden under his cup of warm tea.

Your room is small, at the very end of a long corridor at the very top of the house, leaving your room’s ceiling to slant under the roof. it’s quiet the trek to get up there; two flights of stairs that were greeted with a groan after a long day and not enough sleep. The air is a little stuffy, but the windows wake you up right when you need them to in the mornings. You had taken the liberty to decorate your room how you saw fit, but everything ended up in their designated piles on the floors. The only furniture available was an old and creaky wooden desk along with it’s chair that would scuff up the floor every time you dragged it, and a single bed that you had draped with some warm sheets. you didn't have much time to decorate it and make it yours, but somewhere along the years, the must of the room mixed itself with the warmth of the outside breeze when you decided to open it, claiming it to be yours.

and it was. Like a signature left behind on a letter, your painting materials laid on the floor - canvases stacked on top of each other near your desk, paintbrushes being held together by a glass jar that was once clear but was now painted with accidental streaks of miscellaneous coloured paints, an old and stained rag. the supplies that would usually be expensive considering the part of town you were in, but due to your personal connections were now cheaper and more affordable than you had considered them to be.

every week, you'd work on a new painting. a new landscape, maybe, or sometimes it would be one of the sketches in your sketchbook that would materialise on your canvas with full colour, taking days to dry. once they were finished, you'd haul the canvas with your pen-name on the bottom right corner, scribbled out in stark black oil paint and your thumb-print, to your...dealer? you called her as much. you did not know much about her life, despite knowing her since when you first stepped foot in this town, a scared but hopeful fifteen year old caught the eyes of multiple onlookers, but she helped you, if only a little, to get up on your feet. enough to look after yourself. she'd only appear when you'd needed to sell your art.

her name was Ymir. that is all of the information you had of her. you hadn't known where she'd come from, whether she, too, was under some kind of disguise or was pretending to be someone else entirely. she'd take your canvas, careful on her grip, give it a look-over and raise her brows in acknowledgement, handing you a bag of money. it was nothing much, just enough for you to get your painting supplies for the next project, but it gave you a sense of purpose and stability after living under someone else's roof for so long.

humming a tune you had heard in the streets the other night, you begin to work. your subject - the cat from last night - gets painted on with strokes of brown paint as it's under layer, as you sketch out the background with the same colour, mixing and dipping your paintbrush as if it's second nature. you try not to think too much about the preparations you'd have to be an active part of in the near future, relishing these few moments you'd have to yourself before something close to hell breaks loose in the Ackerman household.

Mikasa's father had a knack for perfectionism. everything has to be kept well, nothing should be left askew - the band should be booked and the queue of music should be made before all else, followed by the booking of the local florist, then the modiste, the cooks...everything should have to be perfect in order to please him. you had been a part of these preparations around five times now, when occasion called for it. the house would be full of guests you barely knew the names of, names you could barely get acquainted to before you'd be whisked away to serve something you could barely pronounce. you tried not to think about the fact that this could very well be the last time you ever are a part of a preparation as such; with Mikasa getting married, Lord Ackerman would have no real use for you. you'd be suspended, yet again, finding a place to live, a purpose to fill.

no, you would not think about it. as much as you enjoyed the prospect of freedom, you more so dreaded the uncertainty of it, the fact that you would not be able to face the turbulence this time.

in all honesty, you were sure that if Mikasa hadn't found you, you'd be done for. the guilt of leaving would be far too much for you to handle, but you could not go back should you even want to. not so much guilt, but more shame.

Taking one day at a time had taken a toll on you. The comfort of a routine was much needed after you entered the Ackerman household, albeit a little boring, you forced yourself to view it as a novelty. And then he came along, taking your nights and making them his own. He’s trapped himself as your muse, with no way out, locked himself in without a key. You weren’t particularly searching for him, as you stumbled into his life. it seemed that you’d met everyone important to you by stumbling, crashing and searching for them but having found them regardless.

You could not forget it even if you wanted to; how his sketchbook, wrapped in what you assumed was expensive and rare leather, went flying away from his hand. How he’d grumbled at first, stubbornly accepting your whispered and rushed apologies and walked along the empty path with long strides, only to realise that you were following him. You didn’t mean to, of course, it only happened to be a coincidence that this path happened to be your only solace for the past two months. It was almost always empty, save for the rare visitors with their smoking pipes, speeding and secretive teenage boys on their bicycles. Some days you would sit there to simply observe how everyone else dealt with their own large but little lives under the light of the street lamp. Other days, you would sketch out your observations, listening to the sounds of twigs snapping and heavy boots walking on the path.

But when he - you could not keep calling him that - walked the same direction as you, you couldn’t control your curiosity.

Your muse (you should call him this only in your mind) was a man of very few words. At least, he was at first. Coincidences lead the pair of you to share the same bench and sketch the same scenery - a parked bicycle in front of some stairs to a small institution. Your guess was that it was a school, and someone had forgotten their transportation near the gate. Your muse seemed to be drawing the same, and you tried not to peek into his page too much, but you wandering eyes had failed you. He hadn’t noticed, thankfully, which allowed your mind to wander farther than your eyes. You weren’t that much of a curious creature by nature, but this man’s thick, long coat, boots that covered up half his legs, a collar and hat that concealed most of his features and hair – he had to hide himself, which allowed your imagination – the one that had become your only home for your nineteen years of short life – to create stories beyond your words.

He cleared his throat. “I can feel your impertinent staring.”

Your eyes turn back to your half-completed sketch, fingers readjusting the pencil in between them. “I can feel the secrets you hide.” You would not be this rude in any other context. You knew of your shackled place in society and speaking out of line to anyone would be considered more than a heinous crime. But this situation; one where both of your identities were sealed and unknown, where the uncertainty of seeing him the next night was higher, you could.

There was a pause in his movements after your statement. his pencil stopped scratching on the smooth paper, reminding your mind that yet again, he possessed wealth or power. Or perhaps both.

He breathed out an amused laugh. “you’re observant.”

“and you’re silent.”

Another pause.

“you prefer me to talk?” he’d asked. He’s amused, again, as you looked at his side profile. He has a distinguished nose, you had noted, but none of his other facial features are visible due to his thick coat collar.

“I prefer to engage in polite conversation.” You had smiled. You had a guess to where this confidence is coming from, blaming everything on the excessive amount of sugar you had consumed before mounting your horse.

This time, he chuckles. “in what world do you think you have been polite?”

“this one.”

“very well.” He looked at you. His eyes are perfectly brown. “how have you been, o’ kind lady?”

“perfectly alright, my grace.” You say, the respect rolling off your tongue as habit. He had stiffened beside you after hearing it.

Maybe the entire reason your muse interacted with you was because of the sole fact that you were being…annoying, a loud handful that would usually be under control in the daylight, under the gaze of several too-important shadows. But it was night time, and there was no room for those shadows to exist, no room for the performance and the masks to be kept perfectly on your faces, allowing there to be a perfect view of the other’s face despite the lack of light.

Two months was all it took for you to make a friend, albeit without a name. his sometimes scratchy beard, hesitant scribbling, keen, beautiful eyes had become more familiar than your own reflection.

Lord Ackerman had called for the best of maidens and help he could gather to host a prestigious ball, one that stood up to the Ackerman name. heeding his criticisms and temper, you guide the new help to remain perfect under sharp eyes.

In all honesty, you needed this. There were more people in the large and empty house, and the attic no longer felt as cold as they used to with the voices that tried to hush themselves. You smiled to yourself as the girls – Mina and Marlene, they had told you with a wide smile and shaking hands – asked you if what they were doing seemed right. A plate of assorted pastries and finger foods sat prettily on a plate, ready to be whisked away to Lord Ackerman for his approval. a day before the ball and the head of the house refused to not triple check every little detail, noting down every possibility and every outcome of said possibility, warning you and Mr. Berner and the others that, “if even one leaf on even one bouquet is not in place, it will be your livelihood that will be accosted. Not mine.”

“I wonder how you can even breathe in such conditions. If I were you I would’ve stuffed my head under a pillow until I stopped breathing. And this is coming from the only modiste in this dreaded town.” Hitch whispers to you, handing you the gown that Mikasa would wear next evening, holding it with utmost care so as to avoid wrinkles. You breathe out a laugh at her dramatics.

“it’s not all bad. I enjoy the hustle-bustle.”

She rolls her eyes. “you’d be the first. Leave it to you to view the glass as half-full.”

You shake your head. “it’s not that. I simply find comfort in a small crowd. More than I find comfort in a large house with isolated inhabitants.”

“you should attend more of the parties that I go to. I’ve heard-“ she whispers, leaning in closer to you. “I heard that Reiner Braun was in the last one. Didn’t see the man, though. What a shame. I’ve heard tales about his…activities.” She says. You laugh again, an unladylike noise, but you do not care. Nobody is around to witness as the two of you shamelessly gossip. It is not often you meet her, not as often as you meet your muse, at least, but you meet her occasionally, bumping into her at the towns square while she does her hectic shoppings or to accompany Mikasa to her boutique. Mikasa simply witnesses as Hitch talks, hurriedly at first, then easing into Mikasa’s quiet and reserved smiles at some of Hitch’s most odd jokes and observations.

“and? What is new with you?” she asks after you don’t further her conversation. You have too much on your mind to answer her, but you wave an idle hand in front of your face and shrug. “not much,” you tell her. Hitch is too observant, much like you, to lie to, which is your first mistake.

“oh, come on. You are my friend. I know you better than this. You’re lying to me, it’s clear.”

“it’s not…much,” you say. Your second mistake.

Her brows shoot up to her forehead as a smirk etches itself onto her face. “oh? What is it? Someone found out about your secret identity?” she asks. Hitch was one of the only two people who knew about your financial and artistic transactions between the prude upper class that accepted nothing but the best and meaningless.

Business women had to hold each other’s secrets dear to their chests.

You shake your head. “it is nothing, really-“

“have you met someone?” she asks. you hesitate before shaking your head this time. Your third mistake.

Three strikes. She squeals, going in to wrap her arms around you, but realising she cannot due to the precious fabric in your arms.

“oh, come on, tell me! Is it man? a woman? You know I do not judge. Lord knows Ymir has been engaging with a lady – she refuses to name who, but never shuts up about her.” She rambles, not letting you get a word in. when she finally breathes in with a gasp of air, you find your entrance to clear up her misunderstanding.

“it’s not anyone special, really, you’re making it far too big of a deal. It is simply a friend.” You explain, laughing nervously at the end of your statement. she looks at you knowingly.

“he’s-“ you start, but you’re immediately cut off by hitch’s “aha! So it is a he.”

You sigh with a smile. You had forgotten how…engaging conversations with her usually went.

“I barely know his name.” you clear your throat, leaning in much like she had before, lowering your voice to a hush despite the fact that the basement was empty save for the rare dust mites, your whispers echoing throughout the hall that contained racks of wine that was to be served to the guests the next night. It smelled much like the attic, a little more musky and mossy, if anything, with hints of leftover detergent that contained saffron and a little lemongrass from earlier this morning. The garments had already been hung out to dry in the field, thankfully, allowing you these little moments of talking with your friend before being swept up in chores yet again.

“I’ve been sneaking out these past few months-“ “months? You’re secretive aren’t you?” “just a little. Any how, I’ve been sneaking out for… creative purposes. I go out to this path that leads outside Rose.” “the one that leads to Singhansina?” you nod to her question with a slight smile. She matches your expression. You continue. “yes. That one. There are a lot of tradesmen there, and they travel and take breaks into the night. They make for interesting subjects.”

“is this person of yours one of them?” she asks, leaning in even further.

You shrug, “I do not know. I bumped into him while looking for a subject to draw for that night. Honestly, I do not wish to know his name. I know him more than I know Mikasa, in some ways. But I do not know his name. he is merely a friend, Hitch, really. I do not feel much other than platonic affection towards him.” You tell her, laying your left idle hand on her shoulder convincingly.

She looked at you suspiciously. “better than Mikasa?”

You nod, smiling. “better than Mikasa.”

“and are you sure he’s being truthful with you?” she asks. her face holds an expression of concern, the glint in her eye that was present before having diminished due to her worry for you.

You pause. You hadn’t given it much of thought, how honest your muse was with you. you had simply assumed he was because you were. But you were honest with him because of your feelings of comfort under a guise.

What if he was lying about everything he was telling you? you might’ve thought you were gaining a good friend who cared for you even if it was for a couple of hours every other night, but what if he was simply toying with you precisely because of the same reason as you? under the same guise that you had used as an excused to be honest to him?

Hitch copies your stance as she places her own hand on your shoulder, warm as her thumb rubs circles into your sleeve. “I know you think of him as a friend. Maybe he does too. But if I were him, I would really have no reason to be honest.” She says. You suppose she is right. This stranger – that’s all he is, at the end of the day. A stranger that doesn’t owe you a single penny or a single thought in his mind that is not as wandering as yours.

You sigh. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“but, then again, don’t let my words be a judge of his character. I’ve never me the man. if you trust him, then I trust your judgement of him.”

The conversation with Hitch is soon washed away from your mind as you babble on to Mikasa about what Hitch had informed you, not mentioning your mention of your muse. You told her about the parties Hitch had attended, about Reiner Braun and his companion that was far taller and more shy than him, Mr Hoover, who seemed to catch the modiste’s eye as she told you, in excrutiating detail, how she tried to flirt with him and his flustered gaze. How she went home with a completely different young man instead, one that seemed to be the perfect blend of sweet and stubborn. You narrated your friends’ tales to Mikasa while combing out the tangles in her hair after her shower.

“really? Who was that man?” she asks, every bit intrigued. She might not be one to talk in front of other people, but here, with the door shut and your fingers working their magic over her scalp, she let down her guard, talking, laughing, being a girl with you.

You laugh, “something from the letter ‘M’, if I’m not wrong. She doesn’t remember herself, she told me. She’d seen him at enough gatherings to know his face and admire it. She only acted on it last week.”

“do you think she’ll see him again? What will she even say?”

You shrug, and Mikasa watched you through the reflection in her mirror as your stand behind her. “I don’t know.”

She hums. “what would you have done?” she asks, her eyes glistening as a small smirk set on her face.

You smile your own little one, “probably seek him out in the next event. Glance at him throughout the night, slowly make my way towards him and then,” you lean down towards her ear, matching her gaze through the mirror, “hey.” You say. Mikasa laughs as she squirms away, your breath tickling her neck.

You laugh as well. “that is not what you would do,” she says, rolling her eyes with a smile, still laughing.

“yes, I would! Why not?”

“because,” she says, shrugging, matching your eyes through the mirror yet again. “you’re a hopeless romantic. You would…exchange looks with him from afar, wait for him to make his move so you can be sure he likes you as well, and then you’d say hey,” she says, imitating your tone from before, laughing with a hand covering her mouth. You gasp in faux offense, laying a hand over your chest, acting hurt.

“how dare you be so accurate?”

Mikasa laughs, her smile turning soft.

“I know you too well,” she says your name affectionately.

“unfortunately, you do.”

She pauses, opening and closing her mouth. You know her just as well as she knows you to know that she wants something of you. you tilt your head as you look at her again through the mirrors shiny, smooth surface.

“what’s wrong?” you ask.

Her gloved hands fidget on her lap. You were sure if they weren’t gloved, the skin of her hands would be red and raw with how much fidgeting she does throughout the day. She shakes her head, looking down at her lap.

You knew her well enough to also know how to get her to answer.

You start with her hair again, raking your fingers through it gently. Your fingers trace light patterns on her scalp as she closes her eyes. The one thing you learnt well from your mother – how to render anyone speechless. You’d seen her, like a seasoned artist perfected in her craft, as she did the same as you were doing on your father’s and your brother’s hair, making the latter spill all his heavily kept secrets to her ears that were only ever gentle to him.

And it does the same to Mikasa now, too, as she sucks in a breath and whispers out what was weighing her down only a few moments prior.

“come to the ball with me.” She says. Your hands stop in their tracks. She continues, sitting up straighter, her eyes still closed as if dreading your expression. You look at her with patience and understanding even if she doesn’t see it. “not as my handmaiden. As a member of higher society, as my friend. Just this once.” She says, pleads, really.

Your brows pinch together in worry, concern flowing in your head. You breathe in, preparing to ask her, but she doesn’t let you speak. She knows you well, too, she proves, by opening her eyes and turning her body towards you and away from the mirror perched on her vanity that was twice the size of your desk in the attic.

“I’ve already asked my father. He was…himself, at first, but… well, I told him I was not to attend if you were not there.” She says. You blink at her, starting to shake your head. How could you? facing all of these important people would be too much. How would you even conduct yourself? You knew how the night would go already, you knew how you’d somehow end up saying the wrong things to the wrong people, or somehow be obnoxious and loud. You’d be on thin ice the whole of the night and-

“please? I… I’ll need you. you’ve been my only friend for so many dreadful years. You’ve been my only thread of sanity. Just one night, please.” She asks.

Its rare to see her like this. The last time she had ever asked of anything from you was on her last birthday, where she had asked you to take her to town and show her your favourite places to visit. You had done so, and she had held up her part of the vow as well – to not ask for it ever again. It had been dangerous enough that you were sneaking her out but it would be even more so dangerous if anyone were to find out about it.

But you remembered how she had smiled after tasting your favourite ice-cream, how a slight blush covered her cheeks as she hummed in delight. You’d never forget that day and you knew she would never dare to either.

You sigh, a tired smile resting on your lips. “of course, mika.” You say, using her rare nickname with warmth despite the cold and harsh nerves pooling into your veins. “of course I would.”

It seemed like a charade, really. How everyone seemed to be in frills and feathers and the purest of silks and still keep a polite smile on their face, taking small and practiced bites of the pastries that had been made with the utmost perfection by Mr. Berner. The men with their hands folded neatly behind their backs and the women with their hands in front of their mouths, covering it as they laughed to jokes you were sure weren’t all that amusing.

You were not used to this. You had never been one of the people in the hall, used to being the outside looking in rather than the other way around. You were not used to wearing such shoes, wearing such a dress, having your hair pinned up in this manner as you shifted your weight from one foot to another, breathing in and out slowly as Mikasa is forced to make the same conversation with the fifth party of strangers tonight – a man that was far too old to be coddled by his mother as he was.

“oh, but he is such a nice boy, my Thomas. Really, if I were you, Miss, I would snatch up the opportunity to wed him instead!” the lady says, bursting out laughing afterwards. Mikasa forces a slight laugh that is more of a grimace than anything, but nobody other than you seems to notice. The young man in question seems to blush and duck his head, relaying the embarrassment his mother should have had herself for uttering such a statement.

The mother talks prudely and loudly for a few more dreadful minutes, leaving you and Mikasa alone to talk about the exchange before her mother were to find her and drag her to yet another family. Mikasa takes a sip of her drink – clear white wine, the light reflecting off of the surface of the flute beautifully. You make a note to paint it if you ever have the time and resources.

Mikasa sighs. You shoot her an apologetic look before doing the one thing you know how to do best – diverting her attention and lightening the mood briefly. “she was an… interesting character. Do you believe her to be in love with her son?”

Mikasa laughs, and much like the other young ladies, covers her smile with her hand. You continue, imitating the lady you were sure had the power to very well execute you should she hear you speak of her in such a manner, but all you care about in the moment is to make Mikasa smile, to keep her smiling.

Despite your cut off from education at a young age, you were wise. As your muse had said on that first night, you were observant. You were keen enough to see – while sweeping the hall time and again with your eyes – Lord Ackerman and his distant cousin glancing at you and your best friend, making sure she was in good spirits. Lord Ackerman, somehow and maybe a little too late, had recognized your value tonight. To keep his daughter happy above all else. But where you were keeping mikasa’s spirits high due to reasons completely selfless and concerned, he did it with his own satisfaction in mind. To keep Mikasa well enough so she wouldn’t run out of patience to engage in civil conversation before the night ended, to keep the importance of his name intact.

“it was bordering on incestual relations. I sure do hope she doesn’t have a daughter.” You say. You’re well aware of the fact that you’re gossiping now, but it puts a smile on Mikasa’s painted face.

“who’s caught your eye from here?” she asks, entertaining the thought of you being far more important than you are. You hum, giving into her thoughts, glancing around.

Some faces are unrecognizable. Men with well combed hair and beardless faces, all gracing the same charming smiles. The women were always gorgeous; you admired them every event that you had to host in this house, admired how they kept themselves orderly and how pretty their smiles were. If you were in a sour mood, you’d indulge yourself in a little unfair jealousy, knowing that it wasn’t their fault that they were graced with good looks and wealth and maybe a prosperous life as well.

You keep looking. Pearly white teeth, black hair. A man wears monocles, another has a full mustache over his top lip and clean shaven on his jaws and cheeks. A young boy covering his mouth with a fist as he laughed with a young woman, another one with pure blonde hair, and then-

Ah.

His beard was shaven. You notice that first, then everything else. He’s dawning a dark red suit with accessories to compliment it, no longer wearing that thick black coat he usually wear with the collar that reaches the high part of his cheekbones. His lips are pressed into a thin line and you know him well enough – or, you assume you know him well enough – to know that he is unhappy here. You notice his brows next, thin, pinched. His jaw is clenched.

And his eyes. Hazel under the well-lit ceremony, and it’s a stark contrast to when you see him in far dimmer lighting, but just as beautiful. It would be more artistic to point out the most specific shades of his eyes, of its amber hues and its mossier specks, but it would be friendlier to point out that they were his. They were your muse’s eyes, no doubt about it, and his hair – it was ashy blonde and not dark brown as you had presumed – was slicked back with only a few strands grazing his forehead.

An artist would point out that he was beautiful. His form, his power, stride. A friend, as you were, would point out that he was himself. His shoulders were no longer relaxed. his hand twitched from his sides irritably.

His nod as he greeted the host was short and curt and allowed no input.

Just as Lord Ackerman liked.

You breathed in, looking back at Mikasa and her face, her beautiful, shining face with worlds in her eyes and worthiness in her smile, and you cleared your throat, shaking your head, taking a sip – the last one – from your flute of champagne that was far too expensive for your taste, gulping down the feeling of estrangement from this crowd, from this world. You smiled at her.

“no one. I’d much prefer an artist, or a poet, or someone who writes.”

She shakes her head with a smile. “hopeless romantic,”

She knew you well. But not well enough.

“Mikasa, there you are. Come along, we have someone we need you to greet.” Mikasa’s mother says, pulling on the former’s elbow. Mikasa merely glances at her mother, looking at you for reassurance. You hook your arm with her free one, ignoring the glance Lady Ackerman throws your way, smiling at Mikasa as her mother leads the two of you through the crowd. You glance at your feet to avoid stepping on the other’s and your own.

You realise, too late, that your feet are pointing towards a pair of shiny black boots, buckled tightly. You look up to meet your eyes with him.

He’s already looking at you. you breathe. In and then out, inhale after exhale.

He does the same, and a friend as you assumed you were, would point out that he was as overcome as you were. His eyes squinted and his eyebrows lifted only slightly as if he were trained to be kept under a guise.

So were you.

“this is Viscount Kirstein. He only recently stepped foot in Rose.” Lord Ackerman says. Mikasa, as practiced, bows to him, making your muse – Kirstein – blink back at her, nodding with a gulp and another clench of his jaw.

“yes, only recently. About two months I’d say? Right, Jean?” you hadn’t noticed him, but his companion said from the right of him, of Jean.

With dark brown hair parted in the middle and freckles dotted all over his slightly tanned face, he looked quiet charming. Your muse – Jean. Jean Kirstein, a Viscount – nodded to his question, clearing his throat and saying, “yes. Two months.”

His voice would be the same if there weren’t an edge to it, and people would have noticed if they were close to him. You did.

“and this is my daughter, Mikasa.” Lord Ackerman speaks, but it seems far away from you as Levi Ackerman clears his throat from you left, capturing your attention.

His head nods towards his general left, pointing slightly, deliberately and subtley for you to leave. Jean catches all of it, and maybe it the part of being an artist to observe and take note of, but you pretend not to notice it as you make your way towards the glass doors, excusing yourself from the crowds, opening the doors to reveal sweet, soft night air.

You breathe. In and then out, inhale after exhale.

You were right. You did not belong here, and your estrangement in this society seemed to echo tenfold after seeing him again, under light but somehow more masked than he was the first night you’d met.

But then again, so were you, dressed in garments that were never yours, with a face painted with pigments you’d much prefer to transfer onto a canvas.

You did not belong here. but where would you belong? Where would your mask find its home? When would your discomfort leave?

It happens to fast. You’re fifteen, running away from the only house you’ve ever known despite it never being kind to you.

And then, suddenly, somehow, you’re nineteen, hiding away in the garden of yet another house that you would not be welcomed in after time passes.

You are nineteen and lonely, and maybe that will always be your story. Maybe you were foolish to think that you would be able to change it.

You are nineteen. Foolish and lonely and without a home.

✩‧₊˚☾

#jean kirstein x reader #jean kirstein #jean kirschstein x reader #jean kirstein x you #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #jean kirschtein #marco bodt #mikasa ackerman #levi ackerman #hitch dreyse #reiner braun #bertolt hoover #marlowe freudenberg #aot #aot au #regency au

34 notes · View notes

dorminchu · 7 days

Text

Between Heaven and Earth: Chapter Three

a/n: Trying out shorter chapters, for the sake of editing and pacing.

Before the breach, Eren’s biggest opponents were childhood bullies who picked on him or Armin, and the occasional doubter of the Scouting Legion’s potential. Whereas his mother was against the idea of his enlistment from the beginning, his father suggested he could become a field medic. After all, there were more ways to help humanity than killing Titans. A lesser evil, no doubt posed for his mother’s sake. To Eren, it was better than disapproval.

Once Mikasa came to live with their family, she took the spot next to Eren’s bed in the loft. She was so quiet, if Eren hadn’t gotten to know her so well he’d have assumed she was only shy. But she looked out for him in the same way he did Armin, like the sister he’d never had. Sure, she could be a little stubborn and overprotective, chiding him for picking fights he couldn’t win, but Eren never loathed her for it. She was just keeping him on the straight and narrow, same as he’d do for her or Armin or anyone important.

That afternoon they spent chopping wood. Mikasa was pretty good at it, having grown up in the countryside. Armin couldn’t keep the same pace with the axe, too nervous of the potential for harm. He’d struggle to carry home the amount of wood as Eren, though he never complained about it. When Eren offered to help him, though, Armin would snap that he was fine, that he didn’t need to be worried after.

Eren didn’t get it. He wasn’t worrying after Armin, anyone could see that he was struggling, but that just made it worse. So he gave Armin his space, for the sake of their friendship. Eren didn’t mind bringing Mikasa along. If Armin felt differently, he didn’t say.

On the way back, they passed by a couple Garrison soldiers playing cards. Mister Hannes wasn’t at his post to-day. Probably blotto.

“She’s part of the family,” Eren said.

“Yeah,” the Garrison soldier said, “we heard about what happened. You’ve got the luck of the Devil.”

Eren shrugged. “I’d do it again.”

The men shared a laugh, more to themselves.

Mikasa said nothing for a while. Moving on, the usual silence between them felt different. When she asked, “Why the Scouting Legion?” Eren hesitated. Armin had made him swear not to tell anyone about his grandfather’s theories. Not even his mother and father would speak of it.

“Can you keep a secret?”

Mikasa nodded.

Eren turned down a side-street, away from prying eyes. “ Because there must be a world beyond these Walls,” he said. “Just like the Titans. We don’t know where they come from or how they’re created, so it stands to reason we must not know about what’s on the other side of the Walls. Once the Titans are eradicated, we can take back what was stolen from humanity.”

“How can you be sure it’s true?”

Eren shrugged her off. “What does that matter if I’m sure or not? It’s our right to see what’s out there.”

Mikasa frowned slightly. “What’s out there?”

“Armin told me,” he said quietly. “His grandfather knows a lot of things about the outside world. He has books from the world outside the Walls. But his family could get in a lot of trouble if anyone finds out. They’ll say he’s spreading misinformation.”

Mikasa nodded. She readjusted the scarf. She never went a day without it. His mother would’ve chastised her by now.

“You should wash it,” he said, “before you wear it out.”

“I know,” she muttered. “It just reminds me of you.”

Eren said, “Why does that matter?”

Mikasa wouldn’t talk to him. She wouldn’t explain what he’d done to upset her, either.

When they got back to the house and his mother asked how they’d been, Mikasa parroted his statement about the Scouting Regiment.

“Yes,” his mother said dryly, “I’ve yet to change his mind.”

Eren shot Mikasa a look. Was she still upset? Or just playing mother hen? What did she know about the Scouting Legion, anyway?

“The Garrison is already overcrowded,” Eren said. “And the Military Police is corrupt, they'd sooner sit on their asses then fix anything.”

“The military just want to boost their numbers,” his mother said. “They've been working on their slogans to make up for it.”

Eren scowled at the pile of lumber he'd brought in. Mikasa's eyes rested on the side of his neck.

“They’re doing the job that no one else can,” he said. “It’s more than the Garrison have done.”

The plate slipped from his mother’s hands and shattered against the floor. Mikasa flinched. Eren did not.

“The Scouting Legion,” his mother said, in a tight voice, “has taken more lives campaigning for a suicide mission than the plague did. If that’s what your heart is set on, you might as well just throw your life away.”

“We’re no better than livestock then. Why have a military at all?”

“Better to be livestock then carrion,” his mother said.

Even then, Eren couldn't muster any real animosity beyond childish frustration. She was saying it to protect him, the only way she knew. She'd lived her whole life inside the Walls and never questioned what she was told. She’d grown too comfortable, hunkered down in this house, wasting away.

While Eren took out his feelings on the washboard and laundry, Mikasa stayed behind to help his mother with dinner. Usually Eren would be the one pitching in, but with two equally stubborn people living under the same roof, they’d get into another argument if they didn’t cool off first. Besides, his mother had taken kindly to Mikasa. She probably appreciated the extra help.

After dinner, his mother took him aside. Eren was bracing himself for another lecture about humanity’s sake not being his burden, and how he should at least try to think about his future rather than an ideal. But all she asked about was Mikasa’s change in mood.

“Oh, well, I said she ought to wash the scarf before she wore it out. And she said it reminded her of me, which doesn’t change what I said. It’s her scarf now. She can wear it if she wants to, it’s just going to get dirty is all.”

His mother sighed. “Eren, I don’t think she’s unaware.”

Eren averted his eyes. “I reckon that I hurt her feelings.”

“She told me about the day you found her. It’s a nice memory,” his mother said. “Perhaps one of the few memories she has of that day. Sometimes, when people are grieving, they’ll act in ways that might seem a little strange. Just give her some time to adjust. I’m sure she’ll wash the scarf.”

“Right,” he said. He was about to apologise for their fight, but his mother had a habit of shrugging the topic off when it came to the military. So he wouldn’t bring it up anymore, at least not while she was present. Five years was a long time away from conscription.

As he got ready for bed, Mikasa was sitting by the window with the dying flame of a candlewick. The view wasn’t much. From the belltower, you’d be able to see all the way to the river that ran through Shiganshina. But here, you couldn’t even see over the Wall, though that wasn’t much to write home about either.

“It’s a nice view,” Mikasa said. “Even with all these buildings in the way. It’s a lot of roofs.”

Eren huffed. “I guess I never really thought about it that way.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “About those Garrison men. I shouldn’t have talked so much about what happened.”

Mikasa looked at him oddly. “Why not?”

“Because—it’s none of their business.”

“All they need to know is that I live with your family now, after my parents died. Otherwise it would be a little odd.”

“Why would that be odd?”

She shrugged. “Because I had to come from somewhere. Unless Doctor Jaeger kidnaps children in his spare time, which isn’t likely. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible either. Maybe that’s why he’s gone for such a long period of time.”

Eren snorted. “You’re being silly.”

The corner of her mouth turned. “But he could be harbouring secrets we don’t know about. How do you really know he’s going where he says?”

Eren shook his head. “He’s just working in the next town over. Mister Hannes and the other Garrison soldiers know him. Captain Shadis, as well, so they’d know if he wasn’t where he said.”

“Shadis?”

“That’s right, I never told you. Captain Shadis is in the Scouting Legion.”

“Did your father ever join?”

“No, he’s just a regular doctor. I used to think he’d be a field medic at least.”

The candle snuffed out with the breeze. Eren hiked his shoulders up to disguise a shiver. Mikasa went to close the shutters and he said, “I’m sorry for what I said, about the scarf.”

Mikasa paused. “It’s all right.”

⁂

Between the evening of Wall Maria’s breach, and waking up next to Armin and Mikasa in the workhouse, there was a gap in Eren’s memory. Whenever roused, unsure of himself, he would reach for his breast and find the shape of the key. Physical evidence of the home he’d once occupied.

Armin and Mikasa, and Mister Hannes, they hadn’t watched. Eren could’ve closed his eyes against what was happening, but he was powerless. Clinging to rage, it wasn’t for the sake of bravery. It was the only just response in a world so unfathomably cruel.

On the boat, the Garrison soldiers gave them all rations and a canteen to pass around. When Armin passed it to him, Mikasa grabbed Eren’s wrist with a start.

He’d torn his nails attempting to lift the cross-section of a beam too heavy for him. When Mister Hannes pulled him away from the wreckage, Eren’s bloody fingerprints were all over his Garrison jacket. The dull red crust coagulated around his nailbed.

“It’s not that bad,” Eren said. He didn’t react to her grip.

Mikasa’s eyes turned stony. She tore a small scrap of cloth from the hem of her dress, before he could protest, and wrapped it gently around his fingers.

“You’ll see a proper doctor,” she said. “Once we get to Trost.”

Eren nodded. He was staring ahead. Without any Titans present to project his rage onto, he was void of sentiment. Armin laid his head on Eren’s shoulder, and Mikasa’s arm came around them both.

⁂

Despite his record for injuries—concussion in 848, multiple sprains, a broken leg, abdominal puncture in 850—he’d managed to pull through each time. The nurses said he was in peak physical condition.

There was the tattoo inscribed into Mikasa's wrist she always kept covered. Tiny nicks in Armin's fingers from repeated ODM gear maintenance, a shallow cut down his palm—the slip of a knife during kitchen duty. Bruises in the shape of their ODM harnesses.

His body remained uncalloused, difficult to bruise. He’d catch his gaze in the mirror and swear they weren’t always so grey. When he looked at his hands, his body, his mind supplied an impression of pain without proof.

Private Jaeger had the luck of the Devil, they’d said. Eren grinned and went along with it. But it wasn’t some miracle, nor an aspect of his personality he'd choose to define himself—if you’d asked him, he’d say he was no thrill-seeker, just doing whatever was required to become adept with the ODM gear. The sooner he mastered it, the faster he could get onto the front lines and start eradicating Titans.

Mikasa's explanations were too technical, but she was friends with Bertholdt and Reiner and top of the class. She could keep up with them, but she chose to handicap herself by sticking to his side. Even when he made it very clear she didn’t have to, and that he didn’t want to be responsible for her in such a way. If she wanted to join the Legion or the Garrison, she could decide for herself. Just because his mother said to keep an eye on him, he’d think, it doesn’t mean you’re indebted to me.

He’d been reliving the same nightmare ever since leaving Shiganshina. Contrary to what other cadets assumed, it was never about the day itself. His mother’s body, thrashing. She screamed for a while, until the Titan squeezed its grip and her body twisted in on itself. She couldn’t scream anymore, just twitched feebly. His imagination filled in the blanks his emotions refused to accept. There wasn’t much to see at a distance, Mister Hannes’s pace, the cobblestones.

He could go over it, in his mind, but these associations never bled into his dreams. Mikasa and Armin, and the others, they’d just assume as long as he kept his mouth shut. It was easier to explain, under the guise of Titan-loathing mania. Why wouldn’t he dream about his mother’s last moments?

The dissonance used to eat away at him, whenever he wasn’t occupied. Throwing himself into farmwork, training exercises, unarmed combat with anyone willing to scrap, getting thrown around by Leonhardt, a couple snarling matches with Kirschtein. Drinking with the other cadets didn’t stop it so much as heighten his own awareness of his lack—the weight of the key on his breast was an anchor.

⁂

The day Eren's father took him to the basement, Mikasa was running an errand with his mother. It wasn't often Eren got to spend time with his father outside of a work-related context. The basement was where he worked, and he didn’t like to be disturbed.

His father bade him to sit. "This is a perfectly safe procedure. You will enter into a state of increased relaxation and focus, but you will be in control the entire time."

Eren shrugged.

His father pulled out a syringe and rolled up his sleeve. It pricked a bit, but his father was calm throughout the whole process. Eren followed the sound of his voice. That wasn’t so bad.

“Do you feel any different?”

“No, sir.” Eren figured they should probably go back upstairs. Mikasa and his mother would be home soon. His father stared at the desk for a long time. “What was the shot for?”

His father seemed to startle. A slight shift of his shoulders. “For your health. You’re the right age for it.”

His father had no reason to lie.

That evening, Eren turned up feverish. A foul taste lingered in his mouth, like iron and salt. His mother prepared dinner, and the smell of the meat made him want to throw up. He hadn’t meant to. He tried to apologise but all he could taste was iron and salt. It was affecting his sense of smell, or wasn’t it the other way around? He was trembling and blanching, but when he tried to explain he’d just retch again.

His father kept him bedridden and insisted he have no visitors. He said it was stomach flu, but that didn’t make sense to Eren. This blood taste didn’t make sense either. His teeth were fine, no open wounds inside his mouth. He could drink water without vomiting. “Dad,” he rasped, “I think—”

“You’re exhausted,” his father said, in a polite tone he only used with patients that were being unreasonable. “You need sleep.”

That week, his father stayed home and worked in the basement. Eren would listen to the sound of passing horse carts and pedestrians. Mikasa would talk to him about her day, or lay another wet cloth on his brow.

“You’re really feverish,” she said. “I should tell Mr. Jaeger.”

Eren reached for her wrist. “It’s all right,” he said. “I'm feeling better than I was.” He smiled, even though all the muscles in his body were on fire. It didn’t seem to reassure her.

“I’ll just let him know.”

“Mikasa, just wait until he comes upstairs.”

Mikasa held his gaze. “Why?”

Eren frowned. “He doesn’t like to be interrupted when he’s working.”

Mikasa was still looking at him.

His parents’ hushed voices, as though he could sleep with midday sunlight pouring through the window.

After a few days, Eren was up and walking again. The metallic aftertaste was still there, just dulled.

The door, usually locked, was open. The food Mikasa left the night before was congealed to the plate. When his father was busy, he could go hours without eating.

He was looking over at the desk, a strange and uncomfortable silence lingered.

“You should be in bed,” he began. It was a strange tone, as if he’d been caught unawares.

“Sorry, sir. Mikasa wanted to know if you were all right.”

“I’m fine. Just lost track of time.” He readjusted his glasses. “You’re feeling better, I take it?”

“Yes, sir.” Eren couldn’t help it. “Honestly, I feel well enough to go into town with Mikasa.”

“That's precisely why you need to rest,” his father said coolly. “Give it a few more days.”

Surely, his father would’ve locked the door if it were so important. If Eren was contagious, he’d have said as much from the beginning. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that Mikasa didn’t get sick. Nor did you, or mother—so I guessed it wasn’t as serious as it seemed.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” his father snapped. “Armin’s family has enough problems without worrying about his health. You were just throwing up, for God’s sake.”

Eren glanced at the food. He went to take it.

“Leave it,” his father said. “I’ll take care of it myself.”

“You lied to mum about the food. It wasn’t spoiled.”

His father’s laugh was an ugly thing. A rictus grin, as he said, very quietly, “What exactly are you implying? That I’m trying to poison you and your mother?”

Mikasa was upstairs, asleep. There wasn’t anything Eren could say that would assuage this situation. Stupidly, he said, “You’re not making any sense.”

His father grabbed the plate and threw it. It would’ve hit Eren upside the head if his father’s aim hadn’t wavered. Eren flinched as it hit the wall.

“What the hell are you looking at?” he snapped. “I said I’d take care of it, didn’t I?”

The silence was suffocating as Eren rounded up the stairs. Stalking outside, he’d gone for a lap, his skin tingling and feverish, but he didn’t feel anything close to fatigue. He could’ve done several rounds around the neighborhood, but he didn't want to alarm his mother or Mikasa by staying out too long.

He sat on the riverbank and hurled rocks across the water's surface until he felt a little less like punching something. He took off his shoes and let his feet slip into the water. Up to his ankles, he watched the water steam around his ankles. If he stayed here long enough, he could evaporate all the water in Shiganshina, but his mother would worry and it was a stupid thing to dream anyway.

“Your mother and I wanted to be sure you were all right.”

Eren bristled. "Fine. Feeling better."

His mother excused herself.

“Did you tell that to Mikasa?” Eren spat. “You scared the hell out of her.”

His father blinked. “No, son. I wasn’t angry at her, or you. I’ve been under a tremendous pressure, with work. But that’s no excuse for how I acted this morning.”

Eren set his jaw.

“I just want you to know,” his father said, “that I’m sorry.”

"OK," Eren said. "I believe you."

His father's smile didn't reach his eyes.

⁂

Staring at the underside of the bunk, Eren tasted iron and salt. His eyes were wet, but he could not place a reason.

At the far end of the barracks, Bertholdt was reciting something under his breath. Eren couldn't make out the words, but he laid still, grounding himself in the cadence until his breathing relaxed.

⁂

His first deployment was over before he had the chance to offer more than a few words of courage to his fellow trainees. Defending the Wall from an inevitable breach. Fifteen and bleeding out on the hot rooftop. The damned Titan that ripped his leg was crawling around.

He’d been shouting at Private Kirschtein, stuffing down his own emotions. Kirschtein, if he survived, would just go to Sina anyway. They’d never speak to each other, or get along out of anything other than necessity.

Anyone would be terrified. Eren shoved down his fear and let it expel as authority. He wasn’t any less afraid, just never gave himself into the luxury of that realization. His allies, half-eaten and screaming for help. The best he could do was lie there, leg serrated and pulsing hot blood onto the roof.

Tiles grinding against bare flesh of his knee as he pushed himself up on what was left. The chinos torn and saturated with blood. Bare muscle met tile but he couldn’t feel much beyond the blood pumping from the open wound.

The leg the Titan chewed off felt heavier than it should. His equilibrium was askew. A dull phantom pain shot up the leg he’d lost. He bent double, unable to accept what his sight was telling him. Bones sprouting out of torn flesh, sheathed in sinew and hemic tissue. The flesh wrapped around the newly formed appendage, raw and pink.

He stared at his naked leg, covered in blood and viscera, as if he’d shoved it inside a cow’s stomach. The skin was raw and flaky around the shape of the bite, chinos torn to match.

High pitched scream cut through the confusion. Eren forced himself to crouch unevenly. He was fortunate the Titan had only eaten away the calf. If he could line up with the building he could shoot across and vault over it.

Racing against time. His own body sluggish. He'd lost a lot of blood, running purely on adrenaline.

"You can't die," Eren shouted. "You and I still have to see what's on the other side of Wall Maria."

Armin looked down at where the leg shouldn’t’ve been. He opened his mouth to say something but the Titan’s jaws closed around Eren leaving only the impression of an anguished scream and his own pounding heart.

Falling into darkness.

Impact with liquid, submerged.

Iron and acid in the back of his throat.

Breaking the surface. Hot, rank air sucked into his burning lungs.

Thick smell of pine and cigarettes overtaken by sweeter stink of rot.

Through the haze of pain the small metal shape dug into his breast, burning an imprint into skin. He could keep himself afloat. He’d been swimming in the river by his house since he was little.

Up to his ankles, his skin steamed against the river's current.

Armin was up there.

His left arm from the elbow down had already reformed itself, the skin raw. Bone and muscle where he'd torn the new-grown flesh of his fingers.

"Do you wish to save them, Armin and Mikasa?"

Naked shin bumped against the carrion beside him. The bottom of the Titan’s stomach, or simply the mass of bodies that came before him, indistinguishable. Titans couldn’t digest what they ate, so they’d just excrete the excess and continue. He'd have to cut his way out. Without his blades, that was close to impossible.

Clawing for purchase on the nearest body in-uniform. The ODM canister snagged on one of the bodies, weighing him down. He fumbled with the belt, already corroded by acid, crumbling apart. Drawing the blade from its scabbard, he plunged it into the slick impenetrable surface above him. Up to the hilt, dragging down with all of his strength. The hilt came back, blade snapped off partway within the holster. Blades were built to slash and discard.

He drove it forwards, blind, stabbing into the same slick meat as if the situation would change. An unrecognizable scream tore from his throat. The hairs on his arms and legs stood up. A flash of light from inside himself, the skin on his regrown fingers torn where he’d clawed over so many fallen comrades.

Syringe piercing flesh.

A trembulous embrace. Tears stained the boy's cheek.

The body he called up from will alone tore apart its confines. Tall as the clocktower itself, a miasma of blood inhaled and exhumed.

The ones who stumbled around like drunken men, unable to recall themselves. Shambling around the narrow streets in search of prey. Dispatching them was simple when they didn’t have the will to fight back. More clustered in the square, encumbered by their own hunger.

Tiny figures vaulted across rooftops, shouting to each other. Significance of their words fell away from his original imperative.

"You must master this power."

⁂

He’d surely wake up to his final moments on a stretcher, all of his hopes dashed to pieces along with his comrades and missing limbs. Awash in a morphine haze.

Instead, his eyes fell to the darkened ceiling. Three stone walls, a hard mattress beneath him and fresh sheets. Manacles at either wrist. On the opposide side of the iron bars, two guards silhouetted in the torchlight. Now that Eren was looking, they weren’t much older than him.

“Hey,” he said. “Where am I? Where’s Armin?”

“Be quiet,” the first MP said, a fair-haired boy of average height. “Commander Irvin’s requested an audience with you.”

Eren froze. “Commander Irvin?” His brain finally kicked back into gear.

I was in the Titan's stomach, and then—Armin. I heard his voice.

A twinge in his shoulder.

Armin was there. Mikasa, too. They must be alive, still. "Where's Mikasa?"

“I said quiet,” the boy snapped. “You’re lucky enough to be in a cell and not in front of a firing squad, Titan.”

“Feulner,” said the MP on his right, lanky and dark-haired, “leave him alone.”

Was the mission a success? Are Armin and the others still alive? What's the last thing I remember?

Why are they so afraid of me?

"Did—did they survive? Armin and Mikasa?"

"Yeah," the soldier on the right said. "They're safe. A few others didn't make it. You'll be briefed once the tribunal is over."

Tribunal? What the hell did I do? Where's—

He couldn't move his arms. But the lack of the weight against his breast was tangible. A rising panic clenched his insides.

"The key," he blurted. "Where is it?"

Feulner looked at Freudenberg as if to say, what the hell is he talking about?

"Your personal belongings were collected after you were retrieved from the Titan's body," said Freudenberg carefully. "If you cooperate, you'll receive it and anything else that was on your person."

Eren slumped back against the bed. Bare feet planted on the stone. "You're telling me the truth?"

"Yes."

Feulner scoffed. "He's out of his mind."

"Shut up, Feulner," Freudenberg snapped. "The tribunal will decide what his fate will be." He glanced at Eren. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Eren glanced at his manacled hands. "I was in the Titan's stomach. Then—I did what had to be done, for the sake of my comrades."

Freudenberg averted his eyes first. "All right, Jaeger. I believe you."