The Mercy of Paradis - gazastripping - Shingeki no Kyojin (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

✣

Peace and freedom are natural enemies.

The bag over my head is removed. I blindly latch onto the freezing night air like a starved dog let off its leash. It’s sharp, stings my nostrils and mouth like cold nails, sends a shooting ache up the nerves of my teeth, and pulls all my muscles into trembling stiffness—but it’s air that moves, air that I can breathe, a welcome contrast to the stagnant prison cell. Oxygen rushes to my brain before I comprehend it; the privilege to swallow those clean, deep breaths is a truly surreal high.

The moon hangs overhead, casting a silver glow on the courtyard. Even in the black of the night, the pale snow is almost blinding. An uneven trail of sleet stretches beneath my feet, riddled in footsteps. The chains on my wrists and ankles pull painfully at my shoulders, clinking softly with each cautious step. The night is alive—distant rustlings, the hoot of an owl, and an irregular creak of the prison gate swaying in the breeze.

The biting winter winds cut through Paradis, carrying frozen and merciless remnants of the catastrophe. All land lies flat. Once thriving soil now lies dead beneath a thick coat of snow, each landing flake bearing new witness to the aftermath. An eerie calm blankets the scene, but the stillness is deceptive, for unease hangs in the air like a thick fog.

I am being moved from holding into a high-security cell, which requires a trip outside the city. I overheard the guards talk about it, but it was hard to hear through a stone wall. Considering the gravity of our current political state, I understand why moving me had to happen at night. Still, I had wished desperately for a whisper of sunlight every second of being locked away. Undeserving, but still, I dream.

One of the soldiers shoves the heel of his shotgun directly into my back. It sends a shockwave of pain through my body. I cough and stumble to regain balance while cold metal digs into my spine.

“Move,” he says.

The gruff command reverberates. I step forward, shackled and disoriented, breath rising in small puffs as the wind cuts through my shirt like a relentless blade. The snow crunches beneath my bare feet. I grit my teeth against the sharp ache that shoots through every step; soon, I won’t feel anything up to my knees.

Through the veil of snow, I see a dark silhouette on the other side of the courtyard. As we approach, it takes the shape of a carriage. The soldier shoves me toward the open back door. The taste of fear mingles in my mouth. Without any warning, I am herded inside along with him, and the door slams shut with a loud thud.

The interior of the carriage is as cold as the night itself. The soldier knocks twice on the floor, and we start moving. I crawl to sit by the small, barred window and try to remove some of the snow that still sticks to my feet by rubbing them together. It’s so cold that I barely have any control of my movements—and my hands are locked behind my back, leaving me with no other option than enduring the pinching cold until it thaws away.

As we move outside inner city borders, the high walls that once protected us are replaced by an endless horizon. The current landscape, devoid of them, makes it impossible to guess what district we ride through, or what direction we’re even heading in. The indifferent sky is all that bears witness to the remnants of a calamity that reshaped the world.

Seven months ago, we were all repatriated under Historia’s order. I think we entered Mitras through this same road… whoever remained. Back then, it wasn’t snow that concealed the devastated land. It was ashen dust, almost as fine as flour, rising in the air and polluting vision everywhere I looked. We were breathing our lungs full of countless civilizations lost, cities reduced to ruins, of souls—the guilt of it made me choke like I was deprived of oxygen.

My friends wanted me alive, but their stares carried accusations and resentment. They spoke to me, one after another, and I had nothing to say. I couldn’t believe it either.

When we stepped onto Paradis soil, all the survivors huddled together like rats during a flood, casting wary glances in my direction. The outer markets were desolate, shops boarded up. Faces would peek out from half-closed doors, eyes filled with fear, hostility, curiosity, awe. I could hear murmurs of condemnation, calls for retribution.

While Paradis was never united, it also had never been so fractured at the core. And the chaos was not just external; it simmered within the hearts of those who survived. People were still frightened from witnessing the Colossals leave their confines and commence the attack, recovering from the collateral damage of debris crushing buildings and lives. Some are happy to have lived. Most feel immense guilt for being alive. The clamor of voices rose as a bitter flood—anger and grief soared at the realization that the cost of freedom was higher than they ever imagined.

Historia’s word still stood firm against the newborn military. Taken I was alive, it was within the interests of the island to safely retrieve me back to Mitras, but I knew they wanted to put me away, and they wasted no time doing it. The harbinger of their ultimate freedom in a solitary prison cell... The same people who clamored for liberation to see me as a walking, living, breathing reminder of the destruction I wrought upon the rest of the world. I don’t think I can blame them; Paradis remains, but in a state of uneasy limbo. The people of the island want me dead and alive at the same time. And in the full scope of the state our world is in, I think they almost want the same for themselves.

Now, seven months later, I still have nothing to say. I haven’t spoken to anyone since it all ended, and no one has tried to speak to me. I am both an outcast and a symbol—a living paradox in the horrors of my own making.

I steal a glance at the soldier escorting me. His face is obscured by a frost-ridden mask. There is no sympathy in his eyes, only the rigid adherence to duty. The barrel of his shotgun digs into my chest, serving as a clear reminder that my every move is under scrutiny. The metallic tang of the gun and the acrid scent of gunpowder hang under my nose. I know for a fact that he would shoot me right where I’m sitting if it didn’t mean his certain death as well. He would have to want it so bad it kills.

The wind howls outside of the carriage, screaming with it the whispers of the fallen, the cries of every soul that paid for my ambition. I close my eyes in an attempt to shut out the haunting symphony, but the echoes of the past, present, and future refuse to be silenced. There are more voices in my head than I could ever count, and they all speak at the same time, each of something different, in dialects unknown to me, talking to people I never knew.

I wish I had foreseen this outcome. It was never an option to live—I didn’t offer myself that choice.

It takes hours until we arrive at high security. Bag shoved over my head again, I am led down flights of stairs, into a cold chamber that reeks of isolation, mold, damp. The heavy door slams shut behind, sealing me within four walls. I hear the mechanical clink of the locks engaging, but that is the end of it.

Alone in the dim light, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. This air is stale again, void of the life I momentarily tasted during the journey. No ventilation. I look around. Shadows dance on the cobblestone walls. There is no bed, no chair—there is nothing here.

This cell is to be my home now. My purgatory, for the rest of my days, it seems.

The soldier, now outside the cell, gruffly informs, “You’re here until they decide what to do with you.” His words hang in the air like a sentence already. “If it were up to me, you’d be six feet underground.”

He accumulates spit. I hear the wet of it hit the door to my cell, and the soldier’s footsteps depart.

I breathe in the silence until it stings my lungs with fullness. It sounds like there’s no one else on this floor but me. A claustrophobic weight presses down on my chest. Slowly, I lean backward against the wall and slide down against it to sit.

My feet and hands are still chained together. I don’t know why I assumed I would be given any freedom at all. I’ve taken years of near invincibility and regeneration for granted—the cuffs are digging raw wounds into my wrists even when I stand still, ankles burn with every step for the same reason. I dribble some spit down on my leg to lubricate the soreness. It ends up stinging more than before.

Did I seek death to escape this? My survival forces me to question the purpose behind Ymir’s cruel extension. Days and nights have passed since I was removed from the carcass of my titan, and I couldn’t even fight it. I couldn’t move, or beg, or say anything, so deeply shocked that I didn’t die. That realization settled very quickly. I remember thinking, any second now, any moment, it has to happen—but weeks would pass, and then months, and it began to dawn on me that I might never reach retribution. And when I finally allowed my body to grieve, submitting to the reality I was facing, Ymir showed herself to me. With a solemn stare, she told me she was free. That she chose to live—to truly experience her newfound freedom. So did she think I deserved to live as well?

I’ve been wringing my brain dry for answers, but each memory shreds my already fragile psyche. I still question the legitimacy of my continued existence. There were days I was fully convinced I am already dead—that this is the Hell I was promised, having to stay alive after everything I’ve done. The desperation to turn back time and undo the irreparable becomes a mantra of pleas in my mind, washing my sanity further and further away. And yet, within my inner tumult also lies apathy—a numbness that descends like an impenetrable fog. The concept of life, redemption, or even the pursuit of forgiveness becomes an inconsequential thought. Dark and foreboding, suicidal ideation stands by like a persistent shadow, stretching its disgusting tendrils through my body.

In the solitude of my cell, I am the captive audience to my torment. To the peace. To the freedom. To both of them, the natural enemies.

The sudden jangle of keys against the cell’s lock startles me. My eyes snap up and stare at the shaking handle. I don’t get visitors, and I barely get food. Suddenly, I almost get excited at the thought of being murdered; it makes my heart race at a speed it hasn’t reached in months.

A chill courses through me when the door is finally pushed open. There, in the unforgiving doorway, stands Levi. The sight of him ripples through my core, and I pull my legs closer to my body, shrinking under the weight of his presence.

The last person I expected to walk in. He is also the first to cross this threshold. In the seven months back on Paradis, no one has come to see me. Highly likely that they’re not allowed to, but maybe enough time has passed now.

The lock clicks behind him, and the room feels even smaller. Levi stands with his back flat against the door, right hand firmly holding the wrist of the other. The bolstered shoulders of his black coat are dusted with melting snow, as is his dark hair, retaining small drops of water onto the woolen fabric. The pale light cuts a deeper shadow into every single line on his skin, and a large, wide scar, hooking into his eye, runs down the right side of his face. He looks nothing like himself. Still, it’s a face familiar enough to me.

I sit, unmoving, as if he couldn’t see me then. I even try to breathe with my stomach to keep my shoulders from riding up. Our eyes are locked. I’m not sure if my vocal cords remember how to form words. The long solitude has rendered them completely dormant; makes me wonder if I can find a voice again.

“They are going to kill you,” Levi silently says. I’m surprised that he spoke first; it’s the first thing he has said to me in almost a year. “Do you know that?”

I don’t flinch, don’t break the gaze. I’ve dealt with the reality of his words since the day I was born. I see the struggle in his eyes—the desire to hate me and the grapple with a past that refuses to be erased.

“Yes,” I respond, the one word leaving my lips with an almost foreign quality. I sound unknown and hollow. My mouth barely remembers how to move, voice so low and distant.

Levi’s expression remains unchanged. “Do you care?”

The question lingers in the air as a test of the depth of my apathy and remorse. I take a moment before the weight of my answer slips.

“It changes nothing,” I say.

His eyes narrow. “It does. You have too much to own up for.”

It settles into the marrow of my bones. I feel my throat closing in that same familiar choking sensation as when traveling through the ashen air last spring. I swallow to open up my throat some. “Staying alive was never an option.”

A flicker of understanding, or pity, crosses his features. “Apparently, it was.”

“Yes. Apparently,” I silently repeat.

Levi, standing against the door, is like a sentinel of judgment. I know he wrestles with his own internal conflict, torn between the desire to condemn and the will to preserve. I also know which part of him always trumps the other.

“Why?” he weakly asks, voice barely audible, as if the weight of the question itself is too much for him to bear. He slides down into a squat, eyes never leaving mine. Desperation settles in the lines of his face. For a moment, it seems as though he’s searching for more words, but all that escapes his lips is a feeble repetition of: “Why?”

My gaze falters for a moment, and I break eye contact, looking down at the cold floor. The melting snow on Levi’s boots has formed a small puddle. The gravity of his sadness pulls me into the depths of my own guilt, and memories surge forward. I clench my teeth to blank them out.

“It was the only way,” I say. My voice is strained.

The silence that follows is heavy. Levi’s gaze remains fixed on me, searching for something more in the brief response.

“You changed the course of history,” he says, "of nations, all destroyed. Do you even know how many people you killed?”

The memories resurface with a stabbing clarity.

Yes.

I know.

Of course I know.

“Why?” Levi’s voice has dropped to a fragile whisper.

I draw a shaky breath. “It was the only way,” I repeat it like a mantra.

He shakes his head. The water from melted snow flicks down on the floor. “That is an answer you can’t justify anymore.”

“I can. I had to eradicate fear.”

“Eradicate? You replaced fear with terror.” Levi’s eyes shine in anger. “This is no one’s freedom. We are all that is left of the world now. There is nothing else. With no threat to the island, what do you think happens to a nation when there’s only one nation? You will never protect people from themselves.”

I firmly stare at him.

“Eren, you destroyed Paradis,” Levi says.

“How? You are all alive,” I reply.

“For how long? You condemned us to a death in isolation. You gave us a world stripped of any balance or diversity. An island of inbred children—was that your goal here? How long until we turn on each other? How long until there’s nothing left?”

His words pierce through the justifications I’ve still desperately clung to, leaving me exposed to like a raw nerve.

“You don’t know what I’ve seen,” I murmur.

Levi questions it with a frown.

“The ghosts of… of the people before me, of people after—all of their lives are inside me,” I say. “I lived them. I lived every existing outcome of this, every single one. I asked the questions. I knew the answers. You have to understand that this was the only way.”

Levi’s eyes remain fixed on me. He looks frustrated, and almost in disbelief. “So you play God and make decisions for the entire world?”

“I didn’t want to play God,” I retort, growing frustrated from the inability to convey the millennia of knowledge surging in my brain. What I say sounds too simple for what it is. “It was thrust into my hands. All I could do with that power was to ensure your survival... and protect the people I care about.”

“What’s left to protect in decay? None of us asked for this.”

The silence stretches. I struggle to bridge the void between us.

“I’ve seen paths where we perish, where Marley triumphs, where Paradis falls,” I continue, almost pleading for understanding. “I couldn’t let those outcomes become your reality. The weight of those possibilities—the guilt of not acting when I could—this was it. There was only one flaw in all of it.”

“Only one flaw,” Levi hisses.

“Yes. I shouldn’t have made it,” I whisper. “With me alive, the division deepens, and the cycle of hatred won’t end. So to answer your question from earlier, I do care about being killed. It’s the only thing that matters anymore.”

His eyes blaze with frustration. “You’re willing to accept death as penance for what you’ve done?”

“It’s not about penance, Levi. I’ve become a symbol. I am a catalyst for conflict. If I’m gone, perhaps there’s a chance for some form of reconciliation—a chance for Paradis to rebuild without the ghost of my actions weighing on every political decision.”

Levi covers his face with the palm of his hand and rubs his eyes using his ring finger and thumb. The missing index and middle fingers have left a wide gap, but the short stubs of those knuckles still move. I find it... off-putting.

“Your death won’t bring any peace,” he says in a tired voice, muffled against his hand. “You’ve set into motion forces that won’t be easily subdued. Easily, or at all.”

“I was the sacrifice needed for that chance at a better future,” I say as pain claws at my insides. “My survival is the flaw in that plan. My existence perpetuates the cycle. I didn’t do all of it for nothing to change.”

Levi lets his head drop back against the cold cell door. He closes his eyes. “Death won’t absolve you. You gave us a future marred in blood. So, no. I don’t think you get to die.” Levi slowly rises from his squat. His movements are physically and emotionally weary.

The panic of him leaving tightens its grip around my chest. “No. No, wait.” I struggle to maintain composure, but the size of my guilt dizzies me. It feels like the walls of the cell close in. No arms to balance me, I walk towards Levi on my knees, the rough floor biting into my skin. “Please.” My voice breaks through every syllable. “You have to do it now.”

He looks down at me with pity and sorrow laced with disgust. “No.”

“I can’t live.” My hands try to jerk out of the cuffs, as if they had a mind of their own. Tears sting my eyes. Grief stings my chest. “Levi, this has to end. I need to end. That was the plan. It’s the only way all of this can still work out the way it was supposed to.”

My breathing is shaky and violent, and it only gets worse as the look on Levi’s face doesn’t indicate any promise of liberation.

“Years ago, I swore I would kill you myself,” he silently begins. “I was the only one who could.”

“Then... please, now is the time,” I plead.

An odd sadness flashes in Levi’s eyes. Slowly, he drops back down into a squat, leveling the distance between us. The scars on his face are much more jagged than I imagined, and the milky white of his right eye shines almost translucent in the cell's light. What else did all of them lose?

“I won’t,” Levi whispers. “You lived for a reason, whatever it may be. But you don’t get to die yet. Your life might still be worth something here.”

The air in the cell becomes dense as his decision settles.

I collapse within myself. My head drops down, chin digging into my chest, as I bite back tears of defeat.

“Before I leave… Have this.” He reaches his hand down the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out an indiscernible object, wrapped in a linen cloth.

“I don’t need anything,” I mumble.

“I know they’re starving you.”

“I would have to eat it off the ground, anyway.”

Levi leans to the side and inspects the chains holding my hands together. “Don’t they take the cuffs off?”

“Not anymore.”

“How do you normally eat?”

I look up at him and reiterate: “Off the ground.”

“Treating you like an animal...” He unfolds the linen to reveal a buttered, thick loaf of rye bread, and breaks it in half. My mouth waters faster than I thought; the last time I ate anything was so long ago. “Here. Eat. Just not too fast.” Levi inches the bread closer to my mouth. "And chew."

It tastes so wonderful compared to what I’ve been eating all these months that I want to cry again. I have to hold back from taking another bite before fully chewing the first. The butter is oily and salty, melting in a perfect combination with the dense dough. He allows me to eat in silence, and mostly seems to inspect my state of being—what clothes I’m wearing, and what I look like.

“You can’t even shift anymore,” Levi silently says while feeding me the last piece. “There’s no reason to bar you of so much movement.”

“There is. If you would… my hair.” I blow at my long bangs, tonguing leftover bread from my teeth.

He carefully takes strands of hair and lifts them. His eyes flash in horror. “Of course… You don’t regenerate either,” Levi murmurs, inspecting the sutured wound by my hairline. His tone is devoid of warmth, but not entirely of concern. “When was this?”

“Some time... I don't know, a while ago.”

“What did you do?”

“Slammed my head into the wall so many times that I passed out.”

He swallows so loud I can hear it. “Eren, I think it’s infected.”

I’m aware. I’ve been feeling my heart pound in my head for a couple of days now.

I look directly into his eyes. “Good. Don’t tell anyone.”

Levi lets my hair go and leans back. “That’s a miserable and slow way to die, even for someone like you. You already killed so many people, Eren. Don’t take the life of another.” He stands and straightens his coat, preparing to leave.

As he turns to open the door, I shuffle in place. “Levi.”

He pauses, back still turned.

“How are they?” I whisper.

Levi hesitates, his hand gripping the doorknob. The silence stretches out; I can smell his internal struggle dampen the air.

“Alive,” he finally answers. “Trying to rebuild. Everyone is.”

“Okay.” My breath catches at the simple confirmation I needed. “Thank you—for the food. For coming.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” Levi replies. And with that, he opens the door and steps out, leaving me alone in the damp cell. The door closes behind him with a loud thud, and he locks it again—pulling at the handle to make sure I don’t find a way out.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

I feel impending judgment in the obscure light of my cell. It hangs above my head like a guillotine.

Hours that feel like days that feel like weeks blur into each other, marked in my mind by nothing. It’s impossible to keep count of time. The passage of it is no longer a concept that exists here, and the monotony of isolation would wash all of it away, even if I kept count.

Levi’s anger kept my rage fed through the night. It wasn’t often that he would let it show, and I was never a direct target for any of the wrath in his life until now. I lied on my side, bones digging into skin, smelled the moisture rising from the floor, and thought of any real reason to be kept alive. I tried to imagine what he would think was a decent enough reason to not send my head rolling, but came up with nothing. Sleep avoided me. I avoided it just as much. It’s no respite when the nightmares are worse than four cobbled walls.

I no longer possess power over anything. I don’t carry the gift of being invincible, or the ability to change the course of our reality. My sanity has been slipping for years. To be absolved of it all would liberate at least my physical being. This body has seen too much, felt too much, taken too much. Arms, legs, teeth, blood—it has been driving and pushing on relentlessly, carrying me through one act of horror into another like a device of destruction at my mind’s disposal. Now, I feel things I never did. I feel real, lingering pain. The heel of the soldier’s gun spreads an oval ache in the middle of my back. Lying down, the wound on my forehead thickly pulses, worse now than when Levi was here. My lungs sting from poor ventilation. The cuffs around my wrists and ankles graze like white-hot iron. I feel it all—and it doesn’t leave. It washes through me. It remains. My body is wasting away for the first time in my life, and I can finally feel it happening.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor signals a change from the usual silence. My ears perk up, but I remain still on the ground.

Unlocked, the heavy door swings open, bringing with it a visitor. A medic, clad in his customary white coat, steps inside. His eyes carry professional detachment framed by a sterile mask. I could swear I see a flicker of recognition in them. Of course; Levi’s revelation about my condition seems to have triggered the bureaucratic machinery into motion.

I slowly begin rising to my feet.

“It’s alright. You can sit,” the medic instructs, gesturing toward the ground.

Wordlessly, I comply, and the cold floor seeps through my clothes again. The medic busies himself with arranging supplies. His gaze occasionally flicks toward me, but I’ve grown accustomed to being stared at; mostly by guards, who all seem to want a bullet in my head. While the military is definitely on rocky ground still, Historia has made sure to pick her best men to keep an eye on me. All of them are hell-bent to fire on sight.

Putting on a pair of gloves, the medic leans in to inspect my face. The stitched wound draws his attention right away. It feels swollen, and when his fingers lightly push around, my nose breaks out in sweat. I haven’t been able to touch it myself. Now I realize how intense the pain really is.

The medic turns his head towards the guard. “How long ago did this happen?” he asks.

“I’d say it’s been a week,” the guard says.

Something inside my chest stings. Has it, really? Only one week? Time spent in the Paths has broken me beyond repair.

There’s some reluctance in the medic’s movements as he rummages through medicine, as if he would be aware of something I’m not. “We’ll have to treat this,” he slowly says. “Infection is a risk to your life.”

“Mmm. Isn’t that the idea?” I murmur, my eyes meeting his.

The medic hesitates, a syringe in his hand poised mid-air. “I can’t stand by and let you succumb to sepsis. It’s my duty to ensure—”

“My survival?” I interject.

Silently, he proceeds with the injection. As the needle pierces my skin, I feel a strange numbness take over.

“It’s not my place to question the throw you’re pitching here,” the medic mutters, finishing the procedure. His eyes, however, betray curiosity. My instincts gnaw at me. “I’m on duty here. That’s all.”

He soaks gauze in a transparent fluid and uses the same bottle to flush my wound. I don’t feel pain when he wipes, but I also don’t feel a good portion of the top of my head. My eyes follow the used gauze he disposes of, now soaked in dark yellow, brown crust sticking to the fraying edges.

Having accomplished his task, the man turns to the guard stationed at the door. “Leave us,” he orders. The guard hesitates, exchanging a wary glance with the medic.

“He’s still under my supervision,” the guard protests.

“I was asked to do a full medical checkup,” the doctor replies with subtle authority. “Please respect the laws of the land. He will remain within the cell.”

The guard acknowledges their hierarchy and reluctantly exits, leaving us alone. As the door closes, the medic, unburdened by prying eyes, leans in.

“You have hearts on your side,” he hastily whispers. “The city fights for your freedom as we speak.”

My eyes widen in surprise. The city, embroiled in its internal strife, was already run by allegiances before I set route to Fort Slava. I haven’t heard anything about what happens in the streets now, but what Levi said is becoming more apparent by the minute.

“My freedom?” I silently ask.

“We’re working to change the narrative. It will take time—but we’re doing what we can,” the medic continues, leafing through his equipment. His eyes flick toward the closed door as if to ensure our privacy. “You have many voices. Countless faces. We see the future you marked for us.”

He opens a small bag, revealing a patch adorned with a subtle embroidery. “Symbols matter in times like these,” the medic continues, placing the patch within my line of sight. “These are worn by those who resist the imposed order.” Quickly, he slides the patch into the chest pocket of my shirt. “The protests are growing. People are gathering in the streets, demanding justice for you. They see beyond the aftermath. We believe in the vision you shared—defiance against the forces that seek to control us.”

Disgust churns inside me. My throat burns at his words. The Jaegerists are fracturing people into factions to claim a piece of my “legacy”. The very ideals that fueled my actions, the yearning for a united humanity, are twisted into symbols of defiance. I never intended to birth divisions; my vision was only ever of liberty.

Peace and freedom are natural enemies.

The patch lies against my chest like an accusation. This is complete disillusionment.

The medic puts everything away in his worn leather bag and steps back. “Keep faith, Eren,” he urges. “The city is being awakened. We will reshape your legacy.”

With those parting words, he leaves me alone in the cell.

✣

“It’s time,” the guard declares. “Get up.”

I rise through the burning in my thighs, chains clinking together. They feel heavier than ever today, and I’m lightheaded from the lack of real food, water, and sleep. I lean down so that the bag can be placed over my head again. From there on out, I rely on being pulled by my arm, and whatever sense of light and dark I can form through the rough cotton material.

Our steps echo through the narrow corridor as I follow the guard’s path. He said it was time, but I didn’t question what for. To kill me? God, let me be right about one thing.

By the sound of silent salutes, we are joined by two more guards before the staircase. The three of them lead me through a series of hallways. It’s a lot of lefts and rights, and I wonder if they’re making me walk in circles in case I try to memorize the way out. I truly can’t imagine having the willpower for that, but it must’ve been an order for them to comply with.

A distant murmur of voices grows louder, blending with the clang of metal against metal. As we keep walking straight, the clamor intensifies. The outside is close—I feel it with my nose. My pulse quickens in anticipation of better air.

“Stop here,” the guard leading me instructs, and removes the bag from my head. I am almost blinded by the light coming in from large windows all around. My eyes sting and water in pain—the sun isn’t even shining, but I haven’t witnessed daylight in so long that it truly hurts. Everything seems washed in a white haze.

They peer out the window. The guards exchange wary glances but remain stoic, guided more by duty than anything.

“Don’t try to make a scene,” one of them says, smacking me lightly on the cheek. “People just need to see you’re alive.”

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“Trial,” he replies.

The door swings open. I squint into the soft light and smoke that filters through the townhouses, casting short shadows on cobblestone streets. Banners bearing the symbol hidden in my front pocket wave alongside masses of people. The air crackles with animosity and desperate screams.

The guard escorting me hesitates, assessing the risks of letting me step outside. I unwillingly observe the chaos outside.

Did I do this to them?

“Proceed with caution,” the guard mutters to his companions as they usher me onto the flattened trail of snow.

The streets boil in turmoil. Jaegerists, emboldened by their belief in my mission, scream violently at the sight of me, while another part of the crowd denounces my existence in hushed whispers. The real potential of a civil war gnaws at my conscience. Between it all, like a nation’s division, I cross the courtyard. The guards maintain a tight formation, shielding me from the amassed crowd.

It seems that the distant courthouse marks the end of this procession. It looms like a monolith of judgment. As we approach the entrance, the conflicting voices rise louder, protesting against losing sight of me. The guards stand closer together to form a living barrier against the pulsating energy of the crowd. The very ground beneath my feet seems to vibrate with political unrest.

The courthouse doors swing open with a weighty creak, revealing wooden interior. The air inside is stale, but warm. As I step over the still, a well-dressed man pushes the door close, and the noise of tumult diminishes, replaced by the muted echoes of the courthouse halls. The guards usher me through wide, lit corridors, and the clinking of my chains create a harsh melody against silent murmurs of the personnel who pass by.

These walls bear the weight of years of legal proceedings. The scent of aging wood and musty paper permeates the air as we approach another set of imposing doors. The guards pause to look at each other. With a solemn nod from the leader, the doors swing open, revealing a large courtroom. Rows of wooden benches flank the aisle, and the judge’s bench stands like a throne at the front.

I am guided to a designated area, a focal point in the legal theater where my fate is about to be debated and decided. The guards surround me again, forming a protective barrier against the potential unrest that could seep into the trial. Their eyes scan the sea of faces in the wooden pews. The murmurs of the crowd slowly dissipate when the doors are closed, enveloping the room in a heavy silence.

At the front of the courtroom, from an elevated bench, the judge stands in a black robe. His gaze commands all the attention of the room, and he finally clears his throat, signaling the commencement of the trial.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the court is now in session,” the judge declares. “You may be seated.”

The prosecutor rises to present the charges against me. The woman’s gaze sweeps across the room, fixing on me with a calculated intensity.

“Attendants of the court,” she begins, placing her hands behind her back, “we have gathered to address the actions of Eren Jaeger that have left an indelible mark on the very fabric of our society. The offender stands accused of orchestrating and leading a campaign that resulted in the loss of countless innocent lives, both within our walls and beyond. The very essence of humanity was discarded in the pursuit of radical ideals.”

Methodically, she lists each charge, describing my offenses in explicit detail. “Eren Jaeger’s actions have scarred our nation and the world at large. Conspiring with like-minded individuals, who are undoubtedly still in charge within the confines of Paradis, Jaeger pushed to upend the balance of power within our land, jeopardizing the very foundation of our society.”

The prosecutor’s words reverberate through the hall as she moves on to the next accusation. “His conspiracy is followed, and directly affected, by acts of treason. Once a symbol of our collective strength, Eren Jaeger betrayed the trust bestowed upon him by turning his back on the people he swore to protect, collaborating with the forces of Zeke Jaeger that sought to undermine the safety and stability of our nation and others alike.”

As the prosecutor delves into the heart of the matter, she unveils my most damning charge: “Global genocide. Eren Jaeger willingly moved forward with the execution of a plan that resulted in the indiscriminate annihilation of millions by unleashing the Colossal Titans of Wall Sina, Rose, and Maria, tampering with lives not only within our land, but across the entire world.”

I stand completely still. She looks down on me like a dog.

“Fellow citizens, I implore you to consider the magnitude of these events,” the prosecutor speaks in a cold voice. “Eren Jaeger’s actions have forever altered the course of history. The consequences of his choices reverberate far beyond the borders of Paradis, erasing the lives of countless innocent men, women, and children. As we weigh the evidence, let us contemplate the gravity of the sentence that justice demands.”

The prosecutor then turns her attention to the jurors, the judge, and the spectators, locking eyes with each of them as she concludes, “As we proceed with this trial, I ask you to keep in mind the lives altered and lost, and the collective trauma inflicted upon our nation. The prosecution will present all evidence that substantiates these charges. The question we must ask ourselves comes as follows: is public execution punishment enough for the crimes committed?”

With a final nod to the judge, the prosecutor takes her seat, leaving the courtroom suspended in a tense stillness. The weight of her words lingers. It eats me alive.

I can’t bring myself to look at anyone in the courtroom. I am afraid to meet eyes that I might recognize. My mouth is dry, and the pulse of my guilt beats in my ears.

The judge takes a moment to assess the atmosphere. Anticipation hangs heavy.

“Thank you for presenting the charges,” he begins, voice cutting through the deathly silence. “We will now proceed with the testimonies. Since members of the Alliance could not be present under Queen Historia’s order, the court calls forth our only witness. Captain Levi Ackerman, please take the stand.”

Panic shakes me to my core. Levi’s testimony? On my left, Levi rises from his seat and makes his way to the witness stand. I notice that he is slightly limping.

The eyes of the courtroom follow him with high expectations. Levi’s presence has always been commanding, which only adds a palpable tension to the room. He is wearing the same black, daunting coat from yesterday, a wide belt wrapped snug around the waist of it. The white collar shirt is covered with a buttoned vest underneath, and finished off with a tie. I suddenly realize this is the most formal I have ever seen him look—even his hair is combed back.

The judge nods to Levi, signaling that he may begin. The courtroom holds its breath.

“I am not here to justify or defend the actions of Eren Jaeger,” Levi’s voice breaks the air.

Murmurs ripple through the audience, and even the jurors exchange uncertain glances. The unexpected declaration sends light shock through the room.

Levi’s expression, which is normally unreadable to me, now carries a brand new weight. With a stern look directed at me, he continues. “And I believe the choice of public execution to be a fair measure to the crimes committed.”

The gasps that follow Levi’s statement echo through the courtroom. The spectators, jurors, and legal representatives look at each other in confusion at the unexpected twist in his testimony. Even I, the accused, am taken aback by his contradictory stance—just yesterday, he spoke of a different outcome. I was almost…convinced. It’s weird to think that I had already given my survival some thought.

The judge raises his hand to silence the conversations. “Continue, Captain Ackerman.”

Unwavering, Levi goes on, “However, we have to step back and scale the efficiency of Eren’s execution. As much as it seems like the right choice in the heat of the moment, this is not the solution we are looking for. Satisfying thirst for revenge does not cut it. The consequences remain longer than a dead body will.”

My breathing is shaky. There is nothing else I can do other than look at him. He looks back at me—but only for a fleeting moment.

“I don’t blame anyone in this room for wanting him held accountable for every single offense listed by the prosecutor.” He pauses. “But the first time I had a chance to end him, I hesitated. Look where that got me. Look where it got us.”

“I’ve stood here before, defending Eren Jaeger in a different courtroom five years ago. As we are all aware, the events at Trost revealed his ability to shift into the Attack Titan, which led the Scouting Regiment and Military Police gambling between his life or death—for him to serve us, or for our fear to destroy our only shot at survival. To our limited knowledge at the time, he was a threat that could not be ignored. But he was salvation, too.”

I close my eyes. It must be killing him, the mistake he made five years ago. The guilt must be eating him alive, like it eats at me now. I am the choice he regrets making.

“I was the only one who could take charge of Eren, and I stepped up to the task. However, that was a decision made collectively. The courtroom voted for it.” Levi briefly pauses. “Which means that all of Paradis bears the responsibility for letting Eren carry out The Rumbling, as we chose to let him live the first time.”

A collective tension tightens the shoulders of those in attendance, and then, like a storm breaking, the room erupts. People jump to their feet in protest, shock evident on their faces. Murmurs cascade through the crowd. They come in denial, anger—and realization. Some faces contort in defiance, unwilling to accept the shared responsibility that Levi just thrust upon them. Others wear expressions of disbelief.

The judge, seated at the bench, raises a hand in an attempt to restore peace to the panic that has erupted. “Order in the court!” he declares, cutting through the uproar. The gavel strikes, punctuating the judge’s command.

Slowly, the room begins to quiet down. As the hushed murmurs finally subside, the judge nods, signaling for Levi to continue with his testimony.

Levi’s gaze sweeps across the room, meeting the eyes of those present. “The situation has drastically changed. Eren is no longer a shifter—nor does he pose any real threat. He can no longer regenerate, and his lifespan has been extended to that of a regular person. Executing Eren may satisfy our anger, but it won’t absolve us of our collective responsibility. We let him live before, and the consequences of that decision are now upon us.”

He pauses, letting his words linger in the air. “I have seen what happens with revenge and unchecked power countless times. It leads to a cycle of bloodshed that never ends. Allowing him to live does not overlook his guilt, but it may prevent the brooding civil unrest already in motion outside the very walls of this courtroom.”

To emphasize his point, he slightly lifts his hand, and the room falls into an anticipatory silence.

He’s right. Listening closely, you can hear the clamor of the crowd outside, even through the massive walls of the courthouse building. Distant chants, screams, and fervent voices undoubtedly reach everyone in here.

“Civil unrest is already at our doorstep,” he states with an edge of urgency. “We’re on the brink of a potential civil war—a clash between the Queen’s command and the Jaegerists. The streets are boiling over, and the divide among our people is palpable. Allowing Eren’s execution may momentarily appease one faction, but it will only stoke the flames of rebellion in another. We risk plunging Paradis into a conflict that could claim even more lives and shatter any semblance of unity we have left.”

“I also want to state the rhetorical question here—how many people from the Scouting Regiment have survived?” Levi directs his sudden quip at the crowd, and people seem to grow uneasy. “Maybe a handful. All these years, we have been the driving force of Paradis’ survival. We had the least government funding, and the lowest cadet rates, and yet, we made sacrifices that many of you will objectively never comprehend. We faced a lot of the darkness head-on. We know the cost of survival. Eren, too, is a product of these circ*mstances.”

With a pointed accusation, Levi turns his attention to the judge. “And yet, for the past seven months since Eren’s repatriation to Paradis, no one has tried to talk to him. No one has attempted to question what drove his actions, or even the current state of his mind. The government that now condemns him is the same one that has failed to engage in a meaningful dialogue. He is held in a run-down solitary cell with no bed, minimal hygiene, and practically no food or water. It’s a breeding ground for illness. This is not a matter of justice anymore; it’s a matter of basic humanity. Eren’s mental health is rapidly deteriorating,” he states, and I think I hear concern in his voice. “A week ago, he attempted suicide. Is the court aware of this?”

Shock ripples through the room once more. To expose that miserable attempt to end my life is Levi’s newest low, but it seems to be working in his favor; the judge has to strike his gavel again.

“Suicide,” Levi thickly says. “A desperate act born out of utter hopelessness. To even think of what drives someone to that point is brutal. But instead of providing the support he needs, we left him to die with an infection festering in his body. It’s deplorable, and inhumane. I beg the court to consider the state in which we find Eren now.”

“The government has turned a blind eye to his suffering, and I won’t stand by idly while a man is denied the basic rights that even the worst criminals are entitled to. Eren’s current, and possibly even past state is a reflection of our failure as a society. It stains the very notion of justice we claim here. We’ve become blind to the principles we purport to uphold. It’s easy to demand retribution, but it seems that we’ve conveniently forgotten that true justice is blind, unbiased, and extends even to those accused of the gravest crimes. We crave fairness, yet deny it to one of our own. We champion the idea of equity, yet subject Eren to conditions that go against the very essence of what we claim to stand for. Blindly pursuing justice without delivering it is nothing more than a mockery of the ideals this courtroom wants to push.”

Levi inclines his head slightly in acknowledgment to the court, letting his words settle. It’s dead silent in the room. The air doesn’t move, not even slightly.

“That concludes my testimony. Thank you,” he says and steps back from the witness stand, retreating back to his seat.

The courtroom acknowledges Levi’s contribution. The judge then rises. “In light of the revelations presented today, the court officials and I will convene to deliberate and decide on the outcome of this trial. We will thoroughly review the circ*mstances surrounding our case here.”

Huh. Court interlude. If they were that dead-set on my execution, would it even take place?

I look over at Levi, and his eyes lock with mine right away. There’s almost a silent understanding that passes between us. In that fleeting moment, Levi gives me a nod that is just barely noticeable—a gesture of encouragement, subtle, yet profound.

You live, he mouths. I quickly look away.

After a prolonged period of internal discussion, the judge returns to bring the trial to an end. The gavel strikes, resonating through the courtroom as a symbolic punctuation.

“The court has considered all facts presented today,” the judge declares. “Given the concerns raised about Eren Jaeger’s living conditions, I hereby order an immediate improvement in his circ*mstances until a further notice of his trial. It is vital to ensure that the offender receives proper medical attention, a clean and habitable cell, and all necessary provisions for his well-being, as will be detailed in his case. This is a temporary measure until a thorough review can be conducted.”

Levi’s expression betrays an acknowledgment of this small victory. The judge’s decision, while not a definitive resolution, is exactly what he wanted.

The judge, having issued the order, addresses the courtroom once more. “This trial is adjourned,” he declares, the gavel striking once again.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

My new cell has a window.

I find myself staring outside multiple hours a day, captivated by slow lives on the streets until night falls. It’s only a sliver of the world, and it doesn’t linger on my tongue for too long, yet I already ache to see the lanterns doused every morning for another day to wake again. To watch people on the street, going their own ways, knowing that there is no war anymore. Knowing their children will live fruitful lives. Having a tomorrow—not as a luxury, but as a given. And some mornings, pink sunlight spills through the window, casting light on the floor. I sit in the warm square to bask in its glow until it hides behind buildings again. It calms me, knowing that there is still light. If anyone has forgiven me, it’s the sun.

Yes; time has returned. There is a routine now. I am being woken up for a meal that almost always carries remnants of warmth, and I have a bed to lie in. It cradles me in a soft embrace every night. I don’t sleep a lot, but I do savor being able to finally stretch my arms without the constraint of chains, relishing in the simple delight of freely rolling my shoulders, touching my body, combing through the mats in my hair with my fingers. I had almost forgotten what being human is like. Having a sense of body autonomy back feels better than I’d like to admit. Even the air is better now—no longer stagnant and suffocating.

It has been snowing more than ever. When I was a child, winters were tough in Shiganshina, but never worse than this. The guards spoke of a blizzard yesterday, and it seems to be picking up now. Wind howls and whistles, and the innards of the prison can often be heard cracking. Snow settles quickly on the ground, as if trying to bury the scars I marked the earth with, in a silent requiem; a mournful covering.

Standing closer by the window, wringing my fingers through the iron bars, I can feel some of the cold seeping through the frame; often, it smells like smoke, mingling with the wintry air in a melancholic fusion. The glass pane has collected thin, misty condensation, which only points to how warm it is in here. I am thankful, even if undeserving—the cold of the basem*nt cell had started seeping into my bones, and my joints would ache from the damp.

The trial still lingers somewhere in the back of my head. More judgments are yet to be passed, and I imagine my days in here are limited. Until further notice. I wonder how long that means. Plenty of time has passed since. In confinement, there are more nights than days; they’re longer than the few hours of light I count outside the window, and more painful. It doesn’t help that I’m being told nothing, by no one, left to eavesdrop on the conversations of guards changing shifts in the hallway.

The itch to see Levi again has become persistent. Every day, I find myself looking over at the door, wondering what would prompt him to visit next. I would cling to any interaction these days. Even the medic never came again; I was put on a course of medication that was simply handed to me along with my meals.

Having remembered how to form words again, I started talking to myself, silently, mumbling a sentence here and there, working around questions I could get asked, and answers I could give for them. I am all I’ve got: my partially refracted double against the glass pane of the window, and even so, only during a certain hour of the day. Not too late, not too early—just before the lanterns on the street are lit.

I know, by the lanterns, when my guards are about to change shifts. Once lit, there will be footsteps up and down the hallway, short conversation, and then complete silence until the morning comes for the lanterns to be doused. I’ve worked this into my mind unconsciously, like a timed response. So when I hear footsteps out in the hall, and the pillars are still void of fire, I become almost too eager at the sound, for I know I have a visitor.

I don’t move from my spot by the window, and keep watching the street.

It can’t be anyone else.

“You look better,” Levi remarks, in his usual collected manner, closing the door behind.

I offer him a silent nod and turn to look outside again. The view stretches before me, but my gaze is drawn inward. Do I, really? My distorted reflection in the window pane still gives way to desolate anger in the lines of my face.

Levi, ever perceptive, notes the subtle shift. “Don’t mistake any of this for kindness.”

“I didn’t.” I definitely did.

“We need you in the best condition possible.”

Of course. Every interaction, every nuance, has to be dissected with precision.

“We?” I calmly ask, watching a child kick a pile of snow on the street.

“The Alliance,” Levi says. “This is a temporary reprieve, but it bought some time. You’re still one of us, whether you like it or not.”

I still don’t turn away from the window. “Does everyone else think that way?”

He hesitates for a moment. With the corner of my eye, I see that he casts his stare down, not at anything in particular. “They are torn. Despising your actions, questioning your choices—those sentiments exist. Most of them realize there is only moving on. They also realize that, despite everything, you are still alive.”

But they think of me. “When can I see them?”

“You can’t.” His tone is unyielding.

“I didn’t ask if I could—I asked when.” I shoot him an almost annoyed glance. “Why are you allowed to visit?”

I can tell that he’s not used to being talked to like this, by me the least, but for a reason unknown to me, he allows it. “Because I am a mediator between you and the Alliance. My role here is to navigate the balance and ensure that neither side tips too far.”

I pause, refocusing on the street. “You’re not a part of the Alliance?”

“No.”

It almost comes as a surprise that Levi doesn’t align himself with what appears to be the obvious right choice—the pursuit of justice, the condemnation of my actions, and the preservation of peace. Suddenly, his role raises more questions than I can wrap my head around. The first one is simple: why not? The Alliance, or what’s left of it today, is a collective force standing as a bastion against me, but Levi still positions himself on the periphery. Is it a matter of allegiance, or does his perspective transcend the binary divisions of right and wrong?

Levi’s dedication to the well-being of Paradis is evident, but the methods he chooses remain ambiguous. He has always seen shades of gray between the black-and-white narratives. I didn’t think he would now—because I didn’t think there were any.

Finally, I turn to face him. “Why you? You’re not a political figure by any means,” I note. “Solving that kind of conflict is Armin’s domain. Don’t think I didn’t hear his words in your testimony.”

“He highlighted the buttons to press. The testimony was mine.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Levi’s head tilts. “I’m not here to answer your questions.”

“You already answered several.” I pause. There is a defiance in my voice that doesn’t quite mask the vulnerability beneath. “Why did you come?”

His eyes narrow ever so slightly. Levi takes a deep breath—and doesn’t speak. Hands in the pockets of his coat, he crosses his ankles, leaning backwards against the wall. In the silence that follows, Levi seems almost uncomfortable under my scrutiny. His eyes move around the cell, avoiding direct contact with mine.

“I have to check if they’re holding their end of the bargain,” Levi finally says, tone clipped.

“I’m sure you’d be the first to know if I tried to crack my head open again.”

His jaw tightens. “Needed to see for myself. Not everyone out there is thrilled to keep you alive.”

I want to say that neither am I, but opt for nothing instead.

The wind outside gains strength by every passing minute, and its muffled howls penetrate the walls. It finds every imperfection in the prison's architecture, exploiting them with vindication. I can almost imagine the structure shivering under the onslaught. The building creaks and groans under relentless force, each crackle of the walls echoing through my cell. With a particularly strong and angled gust, even the window rattles in its frame.

Levi’s gaze flickers towards the glass. “This is going to be a long winter,” he silently speaks. “They say it will only get worse.”

“Isn’t this normal?” I murmur. “We’ve had harsh winters before.”

Levi glances at me, a shadow of a frown crossing his face. “Far from. It’s November; normally, the ground would just begin to harden, and still thaw several times, but it’s frozen solid now. The climate is changing, becoming more erratic. A lot of crops failed this year.”

“Because of the snow?”

“Not just snow. Ash. You can’t see here in the city, but on the outer rim, those landscapes aren’t all white; it almost has a stain to it. The air is much worse than you think.”

His words ring hollow, and I catch a glimpse of an admission he’s reluctant to make.

In the midst of Levi’s facade is emotion that wasn’t present the last time I saw him. His gaze seems to linger on the mundane objects in my cell—perhaps to anchor himself. As he fixates on the modest furnishings, the cot, and the bruised apple on my table, I sense a resonance with the grief on his face. Today, the weight of his own choices seems to manifest more visibly. I watch his eyes shift from one corner of the cell to another, as if the walls themselves seep anguish through the cracks.

“Do you know what I felt when I killed your brother?” Levi breaks the silence at last, voice measured.

I patiently hold his gaze and await to hear what I already know.

“Nothing,” he plainly states. What a simple word, carrying the weight of hundreds fallen; all for one nothing.

I remember Zeke’s death—I felt it. I anticipated it. Welcomed it. I could almost taste the bitter tang of finality, of his peace, breathe out my brother’s lifelong burden through the eyes of my father, and let him go. His blood was a step towards my own; it would signal the end of The Rumbling, and soon, mine with it. But to my horror, it never did. Powerless, I was left to watch destruction come to fruition as Ymir wielded her God-like power with an insatiable hunger. The dulling ache for her own liberation overshadowed the potential for a better way, driven by an inner compulsion that left no room for reason or restraint. She had nothing else to do—there was no reason to stop when she was completely willing to do it previously.

I have to live, bearing this thought: that I freed her in the pursuit of my own freedom. And yet… I still yearn to be free. The itch of it still persists. This urge has a different flavor now—but it never leaves me.

Peace and freedom are natural enemies.

With a step closer to the window, I trace the iron bars with my fingers. Despite the light outside being so frail, they cast elongated shadows across the room, on my arms. My wrists are still scabbed from the cuffs. I’ve been picking at them; not used to healing for so long.

“You don’t feel remorse anymore. Your hands are stained with the blood of thousands,” I whisper as rust chalks on my skin. “For so long, your singular focus on Zeke blinded you to everything else. Did it make you feel in control?”

His voice comes like velvet. “Control was an illusion. But yes, you could say that.”

“Still, his death didn’t give meaning to anyone you lost, like you thought it would. You hunted him down in vengeful blindness, without even realizing that it won’t matter if he lives or dies. He was like any of us: a device.”

Levi thinks my words over. Then, he speaks again. “I’ve killed people for reasons I believed were right. Ultimately, there is never a reason.”

I meet his eyes between the haunting truth he’s conveying. “Because you were also a device.”

“Yes. A free-roaming weapon my entire life, blind to the futility of war and violence,” he bitterly says. “The world spares the instrument of its own destruction. In the dance of life and death, it selects those who will bear the burden of evolution. So, we navigate the hell of every decision made, not spared by mercy, but to witness the aftermath—succumbing to suffering worse than death while the world watches. God, all the chances I’ve had to kill you,” Levi continues, his eyebrows low, frown clawing to form between them, “years spent firmly believing you were the best hope we ever had, what every sacrifice was made for. And I refused to, at every turn, to see if it was all worth it.”

The rust stains my fingertips. I rub my thumb over the deep brown, and realize that the lanterns outside have been lit.

“Was it?” I silently ask.

Levi closes his eyes.

“Look at me,” I spit, like a command. “Was it worth it?”

The edge in my voice resembles too much of Kruger’s. It makes me feel ill.

Unwillingly, Levi’s gaze meets mine again. “I have my own opinion on what you’ve done. What you do or don’t deserve. But this is why you don’t get to die. You don’t deserve the respite of death—and neither do I. Only fair that we both suffer.”

It’s troubling that he doesn’t say no.

“I know.” I pause, briefly, but the silence marches on when I realize I have nothing else to add.

He is right. We each carry our own brand of pain. Levi’s compassion has always been unwavering, but never directed at himself. Extending that empathy, he has failed to turn it inward. He must truly hate the path he chose. All the responsibility he takes, putting himself in the line of fire so others wouldn’t have to, wanting to believe he’s more in control than he actually is—I wonder if Levi grieves the solace he denied himself in the pursuit of a seemingly unattainable peace. And I wonder, suddenly, if we have always been more alike than we thought.

“I never told you what the plan was,” I then say.

“You never told me a lot of things. I heard more from the Scouts than I ever did from you.”

“I was wasting away. I wanted to cry for help—and genuinely did,” I say, gauging his reaction. “I was looking for a way out before it consumed me. Desperately, too. If there was anyone who might have been able to talk me out of that violent place, I think it would be you.”

Before he gets to question it, I continue: “There was nothing I could say to anyone. I would see events unfold exactly as they were set. As harrowing as it was, the plan had to go through. It was predestined. Imagine the temptation—to alter the course, knowing what would happen, to whisper warnings or unveil impending tragedies. But I couldn’t intervene.”

“So all of those military assemblies we sat through,” Levi cuts in, “about how to manage the political situation with the outside world, when every diplomatic plan still failed—you knew it would.”

“Yes.”

“And you knew who would die.”

I hesitate, but maintain the gaze that binds us. “Yes. We had to reach a tipping point somehow.”

Hearing that, he scoffs. “What tipping point?”

“To harbor enough resentment to kill me. I never meant to annihilate the entire world. It was supposed to reach a majority of the population, but spare pockets of humanity to rebuild. To reset the power dynamics against all of Paradis, break the cycle of oppression and hatred, give a chance for a different world to emerge. For all of you to live, and be remembered as the heroes who stopped complete destruction.”

Levi stands completely still, processing what I just said. He looks over to his side, at the door; then, back at me.

“And what would you have achieved with that?” he asks, voice lowered.

I frown. “...I just told you.”

“The world’s militaries restored, they would come for revenge,” Levi says. “Peacekeeping talks would prove to be futile, and temporary. The world would not forgive Paradis because of a few soldiers; resentment like that marches on. Stories would be retold and skewed, until ultimately becoming lies—nations unwilling to even listen in the first place. Reduced to the binary, it would still be an Eldian who brought the destruction, and it would be Eldians running the nation. You of all people know how blind rage is.”

“But you would’ve all lived,” I whisper. “Now… I never saw this future. I don’t know what happens next.”

“You saw the future,” Levi dryly remarks, “but you were also acutely aware of the past. Paradis is, and always has been, terrified of the outside world. These people spent hundreds of years in constant fear that one day, the enemy will come to massacre them all, turning to provincialist nationalism, not once leaving safety. If anyone on the outside lived, the cycle would not be broken. We would be trapped in our narrow-minded isolation again.”

My heart skips several beats. “What are you saying?”

From the way his shoulders tense, I can tell that he hates himself for what he’s about to admit. He looks me in the eyes, and in his, I see a glimmer of admission.

“It’s deplorable, what you did,” Levi’s voice can barely be heard through the howling wind outside, dropping low in shame. “But it truly might’ve been the only way.”

I stand so impossibly still that my muscles tremble from exertion.

There can be freedom without peace—but never the other way. The ground for long-term peace requires the freedom for conflict. People had avoided necessary conflict for thousands of years, cultivating resentment, manipulating themselves and each other, engaging in vicious, but petty warfare, baseless manipulation, and blankets of lies.

Casting aside my own very real and resentful humanity to make a change in the world killed me in ways I could never describe. It was like a wheel of rage that spun with its own force.

Did I want it? I hated it with every fiber of my being. I hated my role in the world so deeply that it destroyed any ability for me to think of anything else.

“Do you think…” I begin, but the words don’t form in my throat. “What choice would you have made, if you were me?”

Levi shakes his head. “I can’t answer that. No one else would’ve done what you did. To seek freedom at any cost, refusing to accept a dehumanizing compromise, is a very lonely path. That kind of burden is heavier than most can bear. You chose to defy it all.”

His words linger, mingling with the cold draft seeping through the prison window.

“I don’t know if it was the right choice. But it was yours, and you’ll have to live with that.” He pauses, dragging a measured breath through his nose. “You were always brooding with destruction, Eren. I watched it fester over the years. I could always sense it—and in that, I felt utterly out of control. Maybe that’s why Zeke became a singular focus. It was my way to channel the frustration of watching someone I cared about become consumed by a path that seemed to lead only to destruction. By taking him out, maybe I could break through to you, or at least feel better about having let you live all those years ago.”

“It was already too late by then. I strayed so far from the light, Levi.” There’s a twinge in my chest. “Too far.”

But he goes on. “You don’t know what a voiding feeling it is, watching someone grow so distant you can no longer recognize them. Every day, there was a new wall. Look at you; I can barely tell who you are now. You look nothing like yourself. You don’t even sound like yourself.”

“After Liberio, the last time I was in prison, Hanji…” my voice falters as Levi’s face drops. His eyes urge me to continue. The voiding feeling Levi speaks of, the realization that someone you once knew is slipping away, hits harder than ever. “I screamed at her, pleading to tell me if there was any other way. I was still grappling with the inevitability of a plan already set in motion. I could see it in her eyes—the resignation, the sorrow. I think she already knew.”

“So you do think there was a lingering possibility that, if someone had caught on sooner, you wouldn’t have done it?” Levi probes, mild horror settling on his face. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“I went through a full divorce from one belief to another within the span of seconds every single day. I knew what I was going to do, but that doesn’t mean I believed in every part of it.”

Slowly, and almost as if he were hesitating to, he takes a step closer to me. I become unsettled at the narrowed distance.

“Eren,” Levi slowly begins, “you said, if there was anyone who might have been able to talk you out of it, it would be me. Is that true?”

It pains me that he took notice of my words. I chew the inside of my lip.

“You have to tell me if that was a possibility,” he continues. His eyes are wide, locked on to me, the kind of fear in them I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. “Was there a real chance of that happening?”

“Are you sure you want to hear me say it?” I whisper. “You already know the answer.”

Levi’s not even blinking; it’s like his eyelids barely flutter, just so he doesn’t lose sight of me. Without breaking eye contact, Levi turns his head to the side.

“Armin,” he says, over his shoulder. “You’ve heard enough.”

My eyes whip to the door—then, back at Levi. Then, realization comes like a punch to the gut.

“He’s here,” I breathe out. As Levi backs away, still in a state of complete disarray, I find myself stepping forward. A surge of anticipation courses through me.

“Stay where you are.” Levi lifts his hand. With the other, he holds the handle down until it budges, and pushes the door open. Looming in the doorway, yes, God, there is no doubt: it’s him.

He’s alive.

My breathing ceases. Armin’s presence strikes me immediately, and it feels like a shotgun was fired into my chest. We stand in our own corners of the room and watch each other. The space is shared, but our perspectives diverge like parallel lines that never intersect.

He looks different, not just physically, but in the essence he exudes. Shoulders wide and squared, green coat garnished with service ribbons and medals, he stands taller than Levi by more than what I can remember. The once boyish features are now carved sharper with the responsibilities he’s taken on—the blue of his eyes is more intense, almost colder, and the shadows on his face sell stories I might never hear. This is not the Armin I know. It’s still him, of course; I can clearly discern the familiar contours of a friend, but we’re almost dead to each other now.

I stare into his eyes, frozen on the spot, and breathe slowly through my mouth. My fingers twitch as I lift my hand up, followed, though late, by the other, reaching out to him in disbelief—almost like, if I couldn’t touch him, I wouldn’t be sure he was real.

Armin seems to hesitate. He looks down at my outstretched hands, then Levi, whose eyes are still betraying the same fear, then, back to me. The room feels constricted with three figures caught in the inexorable march of time. I can see the conflict in Armin’s expression. The struggle to reconcile the friend he once knew with the person standing before him now is so clear it could be cut with a knife.

Then, with a deep inhale, Armin takes another step forward. The distance between us shrinks, and my heart pounds. His gaze softens, if just for a moment, and it’s all the cue I ever needed.

My outstretched hands find solace on his shoulders, and I pull him into an embrace that feels like a desperate plea for closeness. With no further hesitation, he grips me just as tight, almost painfully so, as if we’d be clinging to each other in hope that the weight of the past can be momentarily lifted. For everything to be easier, if only a second’s worth.

“...you’re still in there,” he speaks into my shoulder. Armin’s chest shudders, and I quickly realize he’s not as stoic as he initially appeared when a quiet sob escapes him.

The sound of it breaks me, but I don’t say anything. I can’t. I can only hold him, fingers dipping into the hard wool coat, breathing in all that I grew up with, clutching desperately to all I am given now. Shakily, I lift my hand and place it against his soft, short hair, pressing my cheek to his head as I calm my own breathing. My fingers trace and weave desperate patterns in the strands to anchor myself in the familiar. What a luxury it is.

When I open my eyes, nose buried in Armin’s hair, Levi is standing right where he was before, still as a shadow. For a moment, there’s something in his eyes. It’s a subtle shift, and passes before I can fully recognize it, but long enough for me to catch: a tightening around his jaw, and something different in the way his brows knit together. Initially distant, his stare becomes more piercing as he takes in the scene, with an almost imperceptible softening in the rest of his features.

But there’s something more—something elusive. An emotion, buried within the recesses of his guarded soul, briefly rises, and I can’t tell what it is. It’s so charged and so sudden that it scares me.

In response to Levi’s daunting stare, I pull Armin closer.

In response to that, Levi exits my cell.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

The wind is roaring now. At times, I fear the prison will give out.

Armin’s quill halts mid-stroke. He lifts his head, attentive eyes narrowing at the window pane that just rattled again, harder than all the times before. He pulls out a pocket watch with his free hand and flips it open with the edge of his thumb.

“It’s picking up faster than we predicted,” he whispers, looking over at me. But before he can comment on the storm any further, the door to my cell creaks open.

The draft ghosts over my face as some air washes in, and a guard peers inside. Chunks of snow cling to his coat and hair, speckled even in his beard, cheeks shine, nipped red by the wind. He clears his throat, casting a brief glance at the parchment-laden table.

“Commander, your horse has been secured in the inner stables,” he announces. “Due to the severity of the storm, it’s advised that all non-essential movements be restricted.”

Armin nods, setting the quill down. The guard’s presence lingers, and he shifts uncomfortably under my stare. It’s evident that the blizzard, as well as Armin’s visit, have both disrupted their usual protocols, leaving even the guards uncertain about what’s going on.

After a moment of hesitation, as if weighing the real urgency of the storm, the guard speaks again. “The prison will be on lockdown until the storm subsides. There is a room on the first floor, for the warden’s private meetings. It’s spacious, and—”

Armin raises a hand, cutting him off. “Thank you. I still have work to do.”

The guard’s eyebrows furrow. “Commander, given the circ*mstances…”

“If we get snowed in, I’d rather be following the Queen’s order. Accommodate Captain Ackerman as you see fit. I’ll see you in the morning.”

The guard hesitantly nods at Armin’s choice, despite defying the prison’s usual rules. “Very well, Commander. We’ll ensure additional supplies are brought in. If you need anything, sir, we’re just down the hall.”

“Thank you.”

As the guard leaves, door clanking shut, Armin returns his attention to me. There’s subtle amusem*nt in his eyes.

“What?” I ask; the first thing I’ve said in about an hour.

“Very well, Commander,” he imitates the guard, voice comically lowered. “Even months later, it feels like they’re all mocking how well I wear the title—if I even respond to it.”

The cold wall hurts my spine. I shift on the bed. “Probably not every day that a commander stays overnight in a prison cell. Can’t blame them for the formality.”

“It’s taking time to settle.” Armin’s shoulders slump slightly. “I still feel like I’m playing dress-up in this uniform.”

I observe the struggle in his posture. That same uncertainty existed when he was just a dreamer, and it’s almost comforting to still see him possess it.

“How much sleep are you getting?” I ask, suddenly too aware of his sunken eyes.

“A few hours here and there, if lucky.” Armin continues scribbling on the parchment. “The curse of a commander, that’s what Levi says.”

“Must be interesting, having him work for you,” I dryly note.

Armin puffs up his cheeks and sighs. “Well, he’s been great help. Sat through a lot of first meetings with me, told me who does what, where to file for certain things, and so on. Hard to imagine what it was like for Hanji, in the middle of active inner warfare.”

The scraping of Armin’s quill resumes, and I continue watching him. I haven’t seen his face in so long that all I can do is stare. We’ve been sitting here in silence that is almost too comfortable, and I’ve just wordlessly taken him in, like a grand rediscovery after months of absence. There is something strangely grounding about it. I knew we would talk eventually; it was just so generous Armin to give me that time, staying preoccupied while I gained enough confidence in my words.

“Historia asked you to come?” I ask, tracing back to his mention to the guard.

“She ordered me to. I was surprised it took this long.” He pauses, sifting through his following words. “Not that I was ever barred from seeing you, but I genuinely feel like there aren’t enough hours in a day.”

“You should take some of my time away,” I murmur. “I have a lot of it.”

“Not for long. We’re looking at heavily guarded probation here. I’ve been working on a proposal for the past…” Armin skims over the page he’s finished, and looks back at me, the small wrinkle between his brows indicating he’s lost count of time. “That could still take months to clear in court, and I have plenty of preparation to do, but we can’t keep you in here any longer.”

Suddenly, I sit up like he slapped me across the face.

“Are you…” Words escape me before my own eyes. “What do you mean, probation?”

Armin arches his eyebrows, feigning surprise. “Supervised release.”

“No, I know what it means.” I ease back against the wall. “Did you hear what happened at my trial?”

“Yes, I got the transcript.”

“So you are fully aware that they were debating my execution,” I say, to confirm I didn’t overhear what he said. “How is probation even a concept here? I’m on death row.”

Armin slowly traces the tip of his quill along his mouth. “It was more of a political maneuver than a genuine consideration. Historia and I used the threat of your execution to gauge the public’s sentiments and understand the extent of Jaegerist influence within.”

I absorb this information, but it doesn’t sit right. When I realize what bothers me the most, my mouth dries up.

“...did Levi know?” My voice drops for a reason unknown to me. “It didn’t seem like he was aware of this at all.”

Armin hesitates to answer, and a shadow passes over his eyes.

“Armin?”

“No,” he finally admits, almost shameful, but stern. “We didn’t tell him. Levi is our most convincing player, so having him believe it was a genuine threat would make others believe as well.”

I narrow my eyes at Armin’s admission. Levi stood in that courtroom, defending me without the knowledge that my life was never truly hanging in the balance. A sense of unease settles over me quicker than I want it to.

“When are you going to tell him?”

“Later,” he simply states. “We might still have use for his ignorance.”

“Toying with his morals like that is ugly.”

Armin meets my gaze with a cold resolve. “You’re in no position to talk about ethics, Eren. Your trial was a play, and we needed every advantage we could get. I don’t expect you to understand; you’ve always seen the world in absolutes.”

How sincere; it catches me off guard. I’m sure he sees the uncertainty in my face before I mask it with a defiant glare. “So is the probation just another quip, then? Surely you don’t actually think they’ll let me walk free.”

Armin leans back in the chair, eyes never leaving mine. “Well, partly. We would obviously take stringent surveillance measures to ensure your compliance, and you would have a probation officer. The Jaegerists want you alive. Your presence appeases them, keeps them complacent with the Queen’s rule. To restore order within the military, they want you as a symbol—a guarded, but free man. It’s a political compromise to stabilize the monarchy, and a majority of the Alliance has already voted for it.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Who voted for it?”

“All the Marleyans, if you can believe it.”

Hard to. I took everything from them. He keeps saying these things, and I can’t begin to wrap my head around them.

Scowling, I stare straight ahead. To act as if voting for my freedom would somehow absolve them of their own past transgressions… The forgiveness they extend might be rooted in desperation rather than genuine understanding; not many in Paradis want them here, either. I wonder if they truly forgive me, or if they’re just sparing my life in an act of repentance.

“Who voted against?”

“I did,” Armin simply says.

I inch forward, studying his face for any hint of hesitation.

Armin leans on his knees, almost mocking my intensity. “I think it’s fair to argue that letting you roam free, even under guard, is a threat to everything that remains. You still hold massive power; maybe not physically, but in the hearts and minds of the people. The Jaegerists have rallied behind you for years now. You remain a figure of defiance. Paradis can’t afford to let that go unchecked. We risk another coup, and we can’t be certain where your allegiance truly lies.”

My jaw tightens. I stare at Armin with incredulity.

“Armin, I don’t even want to get out of this prison,” I hiss through my teeth. “If anything, I would rather be dead than lead a movement. I have nothing to gain here.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Your personal desires aside, the reality is that you have become resistance, and people believe in it. What you want doesn’t matter anymore; we’re talking about the potential risks your existence alone can pose—living or dead.”

I think my frustration is going to boil over soon. It’s as if the world has conspired to keep me in a state of perpetual torment, with every option presenting its own form of agony.

“Well, I genuinely hope you gain from this,” I murmur. “If you’re willing to puppeteer a dead man walking, at least do it for your own good this time.”

“I want peace. I’ve never not wanted peace, but I also see where my usual approach failed now. Some people understand what being in a position of control means, and they will always respond to dialogue and reason. Some people just want led—so they panic and spiral without authority. Dealing with the military of our entire population, I’ve already had to make decisions I never imagined I would. This is one of them.”

Bitterness clutches my heart. It’s fair that he feels this way, and the fairness of it is what hurts. The distance between us seems to shrink even more—despite him being more in charge over his emotions, we both clearly fear the roles we find ourselves thrust into.

Armin slicks his hair back, and leans down on his elbows again. “Paradis is fragile. There’s only one solid force to work with here, and it’s you. When Hanji designated her position to me, one of the last things she said was that I need to maintain the mindset of continuously pursuing understanding. I am genuinely trying to fulfill that wish.”

I watch him play with a signet ring on his pinky finger. It has an engraved symbol on top, but the lighting is too poor for me to see clearly.

“As the successor of Erwin and Hanji, who were both people we knew, and as someone who used to be your friend… I have enough clarity to not hate you, Eren,” he says, “but I loathe what you’ve done to us.”

My thigh has been trembling since the beginning of this conversation. Now, the dam begins to crack. With a groan as silent as a whisper, I press the bottoms of my palms against my eyes so hard it hurts. My father’s words ring in my head. If I had known this was the price of freedom, I wouldn’t have paid it.

Then, swiftly, come Kruger’s: We must push forward until the price of our actions is paid. Even in death, and after death.

Flashes of their experiences merge with my own, creating a kaleidoscope of terror. I’m always trapped in a labyrinth of time, witnessing the sacrifices of those who came before me. The burden of the mission etched into Kruger’s weary eyes. If I hadn’t acted that way, we wouldn’t have been able to inherit the Attack Titan. We. A continuum of generations. Sensations, smells, faces, voices, hundreds of them, but only one of me. Always the raw, glossy meat, blueish tendons being pulled apart in cracks and dripping wet squelches, and rust washing under my tongue. Teeth closing in around me, hundreds and hundreds of times over.

I grieve those people and their lives. I’ve never met them, and I know everything about them. I lived them—like they lived mine. I’ve been women and I’ve been other men—I’ve been richer than I could’ve ever imagined, and had nothing to my name at the same time. I’ve been wed and killed, used for power, used for my body, traveled the vastness of the world and taken in its beauty before I destroyed it. I’ve had to grieve the world that led me to grieve the world again.

This is the inescapable legacy. It all had to lead to this. The emotions are overwhelming, and the boundary between my own identity and the collective memories blurs. I remember years of fighting to stay awake every night, just so my dreams wouldn’t influence anything I did. Now, I don’t even have to be asleep for them to eat at me. I am the enemy, like peace and freedom are enemies.

“...how do you think I feel?” I grunt. All of my body shakes now. Vision blurred from the force of my palms, I lift my head, blinking blindly at the contour of Armin.

“That’s why I’m here,” he whispers. “For you to tell me about it.”

I grind my teeth in an attempt to suppress the overwhelming surge that is threatening to burst forth. Containing all of it in front of Levi is a much easier task, because there is never room for self-pity. In front of Armin, something inside me falls apart the second he looks at me.

“Armin, I wish I had died with my mother,” I begin. “I wish I had died within her; to have never even lived to know the loss of it all. I feel blood in my veins, and it’s the children crushed beneath the rubble in Liberio. Every breath I draw smells of burning flesh. Every step I take within this cell is a march over corpses that paved this path, ground soaked with the blood spilled, and I am choking on it. The food is bitter with regret, every morsel of it.”

“I am awake during a nightmare I can’t run from. I don’t deserve another day under the sun, but all of you insist I live. Why? Levi said, to suffer. To feel remorse. The people say, to lead them. You say, to serve as a pawn. Everyone seems to have a reason to keep me alive, and none is reason good enough. And the worst part of it all is that you can’t kill me in a way that matters anymore.”

Armin’s gaze remains fixed on me, but there’s no defiance in it. It’s replaced by somber acknowledgment. His eyes are washed in a dull gray now, all shine in them gone.

“If you truly saw me as the Devil, you would grace me. If there is anything I deserve in this life, a single right I was born with, it is to die. And yet, no one will do it—all of you have the same blood on your hands. We’ve all killed, and the scale of it doesn’t matter. That scale is tipped forever, weighed down to the ground by one soul taken, never to rise again, and never to drop any lower.”

“I did what no one else could,” I seethe, eyes narrowing at him, “and for that, you’re afraid to kill me. You would rather grant me freedom than kill me. I think you cling to my existence, because facing your own guilt is impossible. You can’t bear to see yourselves in my reflection. You look in the mirror and see we’re all drowning in the same sea of blood.”

“Eren.” Armin’s expression has tightened to a scowl, but his eyes are glossy.

I lean back like I was whipped, inhaling sharply through my nose. My hands ache from being balled into fists, and I have to hold my thigh for it to stop shaking.

Didn’t know I still had this kind of anger in me. Maybe it never left, but the solitude has definitely done nothing to douse it. If anything, I just forgot.

The silence that follows is only broken by the howling storm and walls of the prison cracking. Armin wraps his hands around each of his arms, crossed in front of his chest, as if he were guarding his heart. His eyes swim downwards, somewhere along the cot on my bed, and his lashes are trimmed with tears, clumped together in thick clusters.

“None of us are free from guilt,” he speaks, voice choked with the confession. “I’ve lost count of the number of people I killed.”

Armin pauses, as if allowing that statement to settle. When he continues, his voice is almost broken. “I knew… once. I liked when I could quantify the cost of my choices, and they all seemed fair enough. But now, the number blurs. I truly wish I could blame you. I wish I could point to you and say, that’s the reason for all this suffering. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, realizing that I contributed to all this, willingly or not. That haunts me more than anything.”

“Armin,” I cut in, “You know it was never you. I made you face impossible choices. I forced your hand. That responsibility is mine, and mine alone. I was the one who pushed you to the brink—anyone would agree.”

“You say that, but…” he says, strained, and shifts on the hard prison chair. The metal groans beneath his weight. “Those choices were still mine to make. I may have been influenced by you, or the circ*mstances, but I willingly walked that path.”

“But the choices were never fair. You can’t win in a game you were already predestined to lose in. There was no changing or altering the course of it—we are just bound by a destiny we never had much chance to pick.”

“I know.” Armin looks at me. “And… I don’t want you to die. I don’t want that lost count to go up by one, but most of all, I don’t want you to die. A lot of my resentment is tied to the fact that we all accepted having to kill you, whatever it took, and still didn’t manage to. I have seen death graze you too many times before. I couldn’t believe I would have to see it consume you as well.”

“Do you think…” I begin, voice full with a vulnerability I seldom allow to surface, “Is there any way you could ever forgive me? For anything. Anything at all.”

He hesitates, toying with the signet ring again. “I don’t want you to be lost to despair. If there’s a chance for rebuilding some semblance of connection, there’s a chance for forgiveness.”

Warmth spreads on the inside of my chest.

“However, you became everything we fought against,” Armin speaks with such sobriety, it’s clear he means it. “Who do you think would ever forgive you for that?”

Someone who already has.

I keep the answer to myself.

✣

Another two weeks of cold monotony. As the days unfold, Armin bridges my isolation with his visits. They’re brief, and only occur when he’s in town, but mean more to me than he knows.

He mostly comes by to file his paperwork. We don’t always talk. If we do, he is cautious to measure his words and say exactly how much is needed; no more than that. I follow suit. One of us must’ve said too much the night of our reunion, because words seem almost stifled now.

By the second week, we’ve taken to recounting everything that led to the Rumbling. I talk, Armin writes it down. He says it would help speed up my probation, which I still have no genuine desire for—but it seems like that plan is already in motion anyway. The first few attempts fail, because I find myself unable to speak about any of it. I’m disappointed to watch Armin collect his stationery and leave earlier than I know he wants to, all because I can’t reflect on my own actions. So I spend my free time, which I have so much of, compartmentalizing every year of my life into brief talking points, outlining the events that brought us to this moment, hoping for Armin to come back soon.

And he does. I think he knows how much I have to get off my chest. For hours, Armin captures my words with unfaltering precision. When I stop to recollect my thoughts, or ask for a cup of water to soothe my throat, the scratch of Armin’s quill against parchment remains the only sound in the room, punctuating the weighty silence. His role as scribe is both therapeutic and slightly unnerving, because he is quiet and doesn’t ask audible questions. While writing, he occasionally looks up from his notes, eyes searching mine for nuances, more comments, all other unspoken layers beneath the narrative I present; it’s as if he seeks not just the facts, but my own emotions as well.

So I tell him how it felt, or at least as much as I can bear to say out loud. I talk about seeing my fathers life, his own rage, pain, drive and disgust like it was my own—like I had been a part of creating both a warchief and a genocider myself. I talk about Kruger’s brutality back in Marley, and what it felt like to walk through his memories, to watch him inject and push hundreds of people off the ledge on the shore of Paradis, only for them to become the Titans that us, trainees at the time, first encountered in Trost. I can even describe the taste of Kruger’s tobacco, down to the notes of that woody blend. Armin listens intently when I talk about my blind motivation as a Scout, recount the years of being pushed forward by a ghost of my future, the choices I had to make, the things I had to say, the blood I had to shed; all that pain, bred for the sake of freedom.

As I delve further into the memories, a strong sense of déjà vu takes over. The act of baring my soul to Armin’s patient hand suddenly makes me remember a time when the world was a different place: when I was detained for insubordination after retaking Wall Maria five years ago. On that day, we let Erwin die, while Armin inherited the Colossal. I remember sitting cross-legged in the bed of my jail cell while he wrote down every thought and memory I could procure then. How interesting that we find ourselves in the same cycle again.

I provide him with everything I can muster up the courage to say, but when time comes for us to dissect the Rumbling, I almost can’t seem to form words. Towering so high above the earth, closing my eyes to avoid looking back at the amassed destruction, or forward, at untouched lands, knowing my route won’t come to a halt before them… I imagine how much Armin grieves his time with the Colossal, and it chokes me. Out of all the pieces of Ymir’s soul, he, who so firmly believes in peace and understanding, inherited the God of Destruction. What a cruel and unforgiving play. I wonder, did that make him a better commander?

Inked pages accumulate in a neat stack on the table, forming a chronicle of my descent. When I begin to describe the past seven months spent in prison, I find myself struggling to finish sentences, or losing trails of thought completely.

The quill halts, and Armin looks at me with concern. “We don’t have to do all of it today.”

“It’s alright.” I take a deep breath. “I just… I don’t know what these feelings are.”

“What feelings?”

“Like there’s a heaviness that never lifts.”

Armin scribbles something down. “You’re depressed,” he states matter-of-factly, as if laying bare a diagnosis that we both were aware of, but never articulated. “Historia granted you solitary yard time starting Monday. That might help more than you know.”

I realize I only know the amount of days; not what day of the week it actually is. “When is Monday?”

“In two days.” Then, Armin elaborates: “We’ll get a lot more snowstorms the following months, so it might be limited, but it’s still better than nothing. I'll have Levi stationed here. Having someone familiar around might ease the transition.”

Again? Levi’s ever-present vigilance, even in that small freedom… We really can’t seem to escape each other. He is my constant.

“I also assume he’ll be my probation officer,” comes my murmur.

Armin doesn’t take his eyes off the paper. “Would you trust yourself with anyone else?”

So I was right. “That’s fair. One guard still seems a bit lax for what it’s cranked up to be. And I was under Levi’s wing when everything consistently went to sh*t—so is he really the best choice?”

Armin looks up from his notes, expression pensive. “Levi is not the same person he was back then. None of us are.”

I lie down in my bed and stare at the ceiling. “He just has to be really f*cking tired of it.”

“He volunteered, actually.”

A wave of unexpected gratitude washes over me, but I’ve learned to guard those feelings. I trace the grooves of the ceiling with my eyes, palming slowly at my chest. Discomfort rears its head at the thought of being constantly shadowed, even by one person—even if it’s him. The isolation has become routine, so having someone watching my every move adds a completely different layer of confinement. Those feelings aside, I am fully willing to submit any freedom I am given to Levi. He is the only one who would take real, fair and unpleasant measures with me. I can respect that.

“Huh.” My tone is measured, though I feel my heart anxiously beat against my sternum. “I take it no one else wanted the job.”

“We never had a lot of people to rely on, and the number has significantly depleted now. He would’ve been my first choice, anyway.”

Unmoving, I lie on my back, watching Armin from the bed. I initially wanted to ask why, but he already continues: “There is still a lot of trust between you both. That’s invaluable in your case.” Armin leaves through the filled parchment, and lifts up a couple of pages. Looking down at the paper, he continues. “I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but there’s a lot of him in here.”

“I am.” Shamefully so. “You think he trusts me?”

“More now than ever before.”

In my complete helplessness, where I have no ulterior motives, no grand schemes, and no desire for anything but acceptance of my fate, there’s little reason for him not to. I am a prisoner who has willingly submitted to captivity with no leverage to be held over me. In a vulnerable state like that, trust becomes a very simple transaction. Levi sees it: the absence of defiance, the lack of resistance, and complete void of power. He can sense the transparency that was not there before.

"Look." I slide my hand into the front pocket of my shirt. Holding it between two fingers like a slip of paper, I pull out the embroidered patch—but only halfway.

Armin catches a glimpse before I push it back down. “Where did you get that?”

“Don’t tell anyone. A medic came to treat my wound. He sent the guard away and gave it to me.” I frown. “...along with some hard nationalism.”

Armin sits back in the chair and looks up at the ceiling. Tilting on two of the wooden legs, his hair falls away from his face, swinging in a soft curtain at the back of his head.

“It was Levi’s call to get that medic for you,” he then says, plopping back on all fours. “He thought it would be the safest way to ensure you receive proper medical attention. Any Jaegerist would have a vested interest in keeping you alive. I truly hadn’t thought of that at the time.”

A knock on the door interrupts what I was going to say next. Other than that, Levi’s arrival is as unceremonious as ever. I’m almost elated to see him, but to be fair, I also get excited over one of the guards, because the water he brings in for me to wash up with is always warm—so I guess I just like a change of pace.

“Commander,” Levi silently says, without stepping inside the cell.

“Report,” Armin politely demands over his shoulder. I can’t get used to their new dynamic.

“We’re getting calls for unrest in the city. Nothing outside of Mitras yet, but you might want to finish up here.”

The news jolts through me, and I sit up. “What happened?”

Levi doesn’t spare me a glance. Armin turns in his chair and puts his quill down, giving Levi his full attention. “How bad?”

“They’ve taken to the streets. Decent crowd, some armed. We have the MPs mobilizing, but it might escalate. Our men in the Capital are on standby.”

“Good.” Armin runs a hand through his hair. “Coordinate with the MPs stationed in the east, and ensure the Mitras brigade has the situation under control. I want no casualties.”

Levi’s eyes narrow in concentration. “We might have some. If it spills into the eastern districts, it’ll be a nightmare to contain.”

“Then dispatch additional units to reinforce the MPs. We have the numbers,” Armin says, stacking the filled pages and filing them into a leather folder. “Use non-lethal force if possible, but make it clear that any violent resistance will be met with necessary measures.”

Levi’s deliberate snub didn’t escape my attention. Still in bed, I pull my knees up and rest my forearms on them, picking at my nails. The silence stretches until I can’t take it anymore.

“I can talk to them,” I suggest.

Levi finally acknowledges my presence with a sidelong glance. His eyes are sharp and bright today.

“Your involvement won’t help anyone,” he says.

I feel like I touched a live wire, so I look down at my hands. I’ve picked at the skin on my thumb so far that it bleeds. I push at the small cut, and it produces a drop of red. “They’re doing this for me,” my voice is low. I lift my hand and quickly lick the blood away. “Figuratively speaking, I can get them to stop. I know how they think.”

“Your track record for stopping violence is poor. Using you as a centerpiece in any plan usually ends with a lot of bodies on the ground.”

Thumb still resting against my lip, my eyes shoot up at Levi. He almost looks surprised he said that, because the same could be stated about him.

Armin raises his hand. Levi offers him a disdainful glance but remains silent, respecting the authority. “How?”

“They respond well to power. Just use it against them. Gather a few key members, the ones who hold the most influence, so I can appeal to their loyalty to me. Meanwhile, you need to give them a sense of being heard.”

Levi scoffs and turns to face the corridor, but Armin, ever the strategist, seems intrigued. “What if they turn on us with you out there?”

“Have a squad ready to intervene if things go south. As long as you let them believe they’re actually in control, you are,” I say. “It sounds like a risky play, but it worked before. We just need to be smarter about it, but that shouldn’t be hard without Floch.”

Armin winces at the mention of Floch, but it’s almost impossible to notice unless I was looking for it. I think I was.

Levi whips around. “The moment they catch a whiff of betrayal, they’ll turn on us faster than you can blink. You’re underestimating their paranoia when it comes to the MPs.”

I lean forward, my eyes locked onto Levi’s. “You think they’ll turn on us? I’m sure they’ve been turning on each other for months, tearing at the seams like rabid dogs. I used to lead them. I should know how to manipulate them.”

“Let’s get one thing straight.” Levi’s gaze hardens. “Leading a pack of lunatics doesn’t make you an expert on human nature.”

Delivered with cold precision, that strikes a nerve. I sit back, realizing that his hostility feels more pronounced in front of Armin. But despite the clash of wills, there’s a strange allure in witnessing Levi’s continued reluctance to fully yield under his third commander in a row. Or anyone, for that matter.

Armin turns to him. “Let’s focus on containing the situation without directly involving Eren. We need to put that off for as long as we can.”

Levi doesn’t protest, but the look in his eyes lingers. Always the one to clean up the mess, never comprehending the chaos. “I’ll oversee the situation and report back. Will you be here?”

“No. We ride to Stohess first,” Armin silently says, already getting up and flattening his coat. He tucks the leather folder in the ditch of his elbow. “I’ll see you down at the stables.”

With a nod, Levi steps away from the door to let Armin pass. We both intently listen to his departing footsteps down the hall, and then look at each other; almost at the same time.

“What?” I ask.

“What?” he hits me back.

“Aren’t you going with him?”

At first, I’m not even sure he’s going to say anything. He just stares at the window of my cell, lips tight, fumbling with a button on his coat. Then, Levi glances at the hallway, and pushes at the door with the heel of his boot.

“Has he told you yet?” Levi silently asks.

This feels like a trick question—I don’t know what he’s alluding to. My yard time? The probation? Unsure of how much Levi knows, I opt to just shake my head.

“Most Marleyans from the Alliance live in Stohess now, under refugee status. Annie is there.” There is unease in his eyes. “She is…”

He looks genuinely uncomfortable. He hesitates, almost reluctant to share any more information.

“What is it?” I finally ask.

“She’s expecting.” Levi’s eyes dart down to the floor. “They’re having a child. It’s still early, but… Try not to cave in to all of what he says. His motivation might lie elsewhere now.”

The news renders me completely speechless. I scratch at the skin on my forearm that has broken out in sharp goosebumps and stare blankly at him. Through the dark curtain of his damp hair, he holds my gaze with relentless patience.

I know what Levi is trying to say. If it were to come down to a choice, I need to be aware of who Armin is going to side with.

Levi breathes out a sharp sigh. “I have to go now.”

As he makes a move to leave, panic seizes me like a vice.

“Wait—wait.” I fumble to get out of bed and straighten before him. The sudden urgency to keep him around for a while longer catches me off guard.

Levi turns back, and that hits me with a force I can’t ignore. There’s a known depth to it—to all the times he’s stopped dead in his tracks, and turned back towards me, only for me to say nothing. The desire to reach out and pull him back into the space I occupy is completely new. It’s like I yearn for it, somehow, butstand completely frozen. His eyes search mine. It feels like he glimpses what I’m trying to conceal, but nothing on his face speaks for it.

“If you have to go in with the MPs—the Jaegerists have a sniper.” I swallow everything else I’d rather say, driven only by a surge of concern. “Her hair was black and very short when I last saw any of them, but if you see a shotgun on someone like her, stay out of sight. You won’t dodge her aim.”

There’s a momentary pause. Then, Levi’s frown eases. “Got it.”

As the door closes behind him, I sit back down on the bed. My shoulders shake with every inhale.

I think my sanity might finally be crumbling. Something has taken root, and I don’t know what can pull it out.

Uneven steps in the hallway convey Levi’s limp as he favors his left leg. He’s only visited three times, but I already know.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

Free. Free.

The thought reverberates within, coating the inside of my skin like grease. I have been bare of the Attack Titan long enough to recognize when its remnants still simmer. That kind of drive is hard to forget, and even harder to flush out of blood; almost impossible on some days more than others. When bound by flesh to a force that only moves forward, one comes to learn it, too. And what a challenge it has been, backing myself into a corner, cowering, with no power to my body or much weight to my words. No steps forward, and no movement at all. Everything I ever knew, deprived of motion.

Slowly, I step out into the yard. Wind whips at my hair immediately, tossing it around, the frigid air chews into my skin. Its cool tingle crawls up my nose and behind my eyes, making me almost light-headed. Snow falls in thick clumps, patters over my face, melting on contact with my burning cheeks. A thin coat of moisture forms. I lift a hand up and wipe at my chin; my fingers become glossy with water. Hesitantly, I press them against my dry lips.

This is my first real taste of freedom in months. But when I remember what Levi said about the snow, I wipe my mouth clean.

Snow crunches beneath the boots I was given by a guard, and the crisp air fills out my chest in short drags. I have to be careful with breathing in too deep, because it stings and irritates my airways, but it’s an indescribably welcome sensation. I walk, almost heaving, trying to clear my lungs out of all the stagnant air in them. Hot breath rises before me in puffs.

Levi trails behind. I can feel him staring into the back of my head, and I can hear his footsteps misalign with mine.

By nightfall on Friday, there were gunshots in the air. Listening eagerly by the window, I counted only three, and they were sporadic, low, booming, set apart by silence long enough it would startle me again. The distance muffled the sharp cracks of bullets, turning them into a haunting cadence, like the heartbeat of a far-off storm. Then, the weekend fell so silent that it became deafening. I tried to focus on my mundane routine both days, paced around the room to entertain the sound of my steps, and stared out the window more than I already do. Nothing was different, but fear was like poison. Every passing hour only thickened the concern. I wanted to know what happened at the Capital. I wanted to know if the unrest was being contained, and if Levi would come back for yard time, all in one piece.

When I saw him arrive earlier this morning, a surge of relief washed over me. I think I even let go of the breath I didn’t notice I had been holding.

The slow, persistent snowfall has blanketed the prison yard completely, morphing it into an endless white strip with no corners, lines or shapes. I stop before a large snow mound. It reaches up to my thigh.

I turn around. “How long did you say I have?”

Levi is wearing a peaked black cap over a balaclava that covers most of his face. He reaches up and pulls the mask away from his mouth. “So far, an hour a day.”

“Is there anything I’m supposed to do?”

He looks around the yard. “Not really. There’s not much to do with all this snow. You could walk the perimeter, but your trail will be snowed in by the time you start your second lap.”

I follow his eyes. He’s right; I’d be up to my shins most of the time. Some segments of the fence are blocked off with dark brown wind barriers where more snow has built up. I guess I could get around those.

“Will you walk with me?” I ask.

Levi gives me an unreadable look. “I don’t have a choice. It’s too cold to just stand here.”

I serve as the trailblazer and start pushing through. Since none of the snow has thawed, it’s also not too heavy; kicking forward proves it to be much more powdery than it appears. Still, I work up a sweat quite fast. I’ve been static in every one of those cells. I am being fed, but not nourished, which must also play into the loss of my stamina.

We walk in silence until the first side of the yard is cleared. I stop to take a breath and lean against the wired fence. It shakes too easily under my weight. Levi notices that, but doesn’t comment on it.

“All good at the Capital?” I ask, blowing on my hands.

“Define ‘good’.” It comes muffled, so he pulls the mask down again, and adjusts the collar of his coat. “We took most of the aggressors into custody. Some were more willing to cooperate, so we processed them into questioning.”

“And?”

“It felt like a lot of them hadn’t fully bought into the ground ideology and were just following orders. You were right; there are divisions in their own ranks.”

“I heard gunshots.”

“Just warning shots,” he patiently explains. “Had to disperse the crowd.”

The cold bites at my face, but it’s invigorating. I burrow my chin into my own coat. “No sniper, I take it.”

“I didn’t see anyone that fit your description. She could’ve been in any of the surrounding buildings.” Levi’s eyes flit across our covered distance. “But I doubt I’m a target here.”

“You’re a part of the Military Police now. Captain, too. One of the biggest military authorities makes for a pretty nice shot.”

“They’re not going to assassinate someone who favored your life in front of the judge.”

“Was that your motive?” I silently ask, knowing my life was already favored. “To secure a standing with the Jaegerists?”

He takes a moment before responding, but his words come measured and deliberate. “I did it because it was the truth. Not to win favor with anyone.”

When we begin the second lap, Levi walks next to me, instead of trailing behind. I notice when he looks at me. A question lingers in his eyes, and nod my chin, urging him to speak.

“What do you talk about?” Levi gestures back towards the prison building. “He comes by often.”

I shoot Levi a sidelong glance. He means Armin. A part of me wants to reveal Armin’s ploy behind my release. Granted, I also read the tension that was already present between them. For Armin to succeed, both in his career and plans regarding all of Paradis, means that Levi has to remain on his side—and the whole point of this was for Armin to succeed.

I don’t like harboring this secret, but I feel that I’m in no position to expose it. Another reason is that Levi is here under Armin’s order; who knows if he would visit on his own accord. He is the only person that seems to genuinely face my existence for what it is, and I find a lot of respite in that fact. I don’t want to lose it.

As we continue our walk, I decide to share a careful truth.

“We don’t always talk,” I begin, trodding on. “Generally, I do most of the talking. Armin is working on a record of everything that happened, from our initial struggle for freedom, to… what ended up taking place. Like a chronicle.”

Levi raises an eyebrow, a faint sign of interest. The biting wind tugs at his coat, and he adjusts the collar to shield his exposed face from the cold. He could’ve easily pulled the mask back up, but I think he wants me to see him—for us both to be transparent when talking.

“He believes it’s crucial for the island’s history to hold a true retelling from me,” I explain further.

“And he trusts you with that?”

“My perspective is essential.”

“But is it objective?”

“Is anything?” I turn to Levi. “I am shaped by the culmination of 2,000 years worth of memories, and possess the collective experiences of the Attack Titan. Founder and Warhammer, too. What comes closer to being objective than that?”

He watches my eyes for any sign of hesitation.

“2,000 years?” Levi sounds the number out.

“More or less. I’m not claiming infallibility, but it does offer a broader view.”

We’ve reached one of the wind barriers. It shields my face from the nipping breeze, and holds back most of the snow. Still, I feel exposed beneath the intensity of Levi’s stare, but it seems like he does as well—he shifts his weight, a subtle sign of discomfort, or maybe reluctance.

“Why would I lie now?” I pose the question. “Verity is the only card I have left to play.”

“I never claimed you were lying,” Levi replies.

“You asked me if Armin trusts my narrative.”

He tilts his cap lower. “Considering you carry a more or less absolute truth, the issue lies in who gets to claim it. Armin can do what he wants with your story, whether it’s to protect someone, achieve a certain outcome, or to maintain control.”

I narrow my eyes. The ice in my lashes obstructs my vision a bit. “You don’t trust him.”

“Yes and no.” Levi’s eyes meet mine. His voice carries a shade of grief. “He reminds me of Erwin now. Maybe too much at this point.”

“How?”

“Eager to make sacrifices for the sake of his vision. With Erwin, it often involved bending the truth and walking a thin line between what was right and what was necessary. Honesty can be easily wielded as a weapon when you’re in a position of control. Armin is becoming rapidly aware of that.”

“But it was you who chose his life over Erwin’s.” Granted, I begged him for it.

“That doesn’t mean I can fully trust him, just like I couldn’t fully trust Erwin. It clouds judgment.” Levi sighs. His hot breath washes a cloud between us. I breathe most of it in, and watch the rest dissipate. “I’ve stood by most of Armin’s decisions since he took over, but I can’t defend the choice to have a child with the enemy.”

“You’re not alone in feeling uneasy about it,” I remark. “Though I’m sure he wasn’t the only one who resorted to f*cking like an animal after surviving the end of the world.”

“That’s not the issue.” Averting his eyes, Levi kicks lightly at the fence. It rattles, dropping snow on our shoulders. “It feels like a cheap attempt to reintegrate the Warriors back into society.”

I wipe the snow off with my bare hand. “Does it bother you? The Marleyans getting refuge here?”

Levi glances at me, defensive at first, as if I had offended him by voicing the question, but then his eyes venture back down at our trail in what feels like surrender. He must know that, in front of the world’s enemy, there is no reason to hide your true feelings.

“I can’t… I can’t stand to be in a room with any of them,” Levi grunts. “They face no reparations because all the fingers are busy pointing at you.”

“They’re still Eldians by blood,” I say, but nod, acknowledging the conflict within him. “The unit earned Honorary Marleyan titles, which allowed their families to live marginally better lives in the internment zone—but the remaining Warriors didn’t have much time left. I think they were starting to truly grasp their mortality in the later years, wishing that at least their families would be safe…” My eyes trail back to the prison. “So imagine being put into a situation like they are now: lives ahead, with nothing to live for. They tried to stop me, you know.”

I can feel Levi watching me. “That doesn’t absolve them of anything. They were forced to side with us through a common enemy. Marley would’ve killed us all.”

“Marley bred children into weapons.”

“As did Paradis,” Levi silently notes. “Point is, the war is over, but we keep avoiding peace.”

“Because peace and freedom are natural enemies,” I mutter into the collar of my coat. “You were right. I can’t protect people from themselves. I wish I could, but... I can’t. I didn’t.”

He said I was right about the Jaegerists earlier. Now I get to admit he was right about everything. There’s a strange sense in those admissions. Levi and I, on opposing sides of war, and now the aftermath of it, are finding some common ground. For a moment, it’s as if we are two wild dogs, seizing the precarious peace between us after clacking teeth, growling and biting initially.

Today marks the first time that I’ve seen Levi in the light of day, and it is truly unforgiving. Long, uneven scars run down his face like silent seams, and the cold has etched dry lines into his skin. I noticed, in the times he visited before, that he has taken to the habit of combing hair over the cloudy eye—to hide it, I would imagine. Now, when all of his hair is pushed underneath the balaclava, it exposes his entire face to the biting chill. The iris of his right eye is nearly the same shade as the snow, lashes, too, trimmed white with frost.

Watching him, it feels like time itself is frozen. I try not to respond to the strange ache in my chest, but it speaks for me despite the struggle.

“Is it…” My hand shoots upwards, fingers brushing against the cold skin of my cheek as I gesture towards my eye. “Can you see?”

“No.” He turns his head to the side, as if to conceal what I’ve already taken notice of a long time ago. “It’s permanent.”

The symmetry of his and Hanji’s loss twists a knife into me. “I’m sorry.”

Levi straightens. “I think we need to get back. Can’t bring you in late the first time.”

✣

My boots thaw in the corner of the room. Water collects around the soles until the wooden floorboards soak all of it up and darken in their damp.

I lie in bed, flat on my back, and enjoy the warmth of blood crawling back into my hands and feet. That hour did more for me than Historia understands. I note to thank her whenever I have the chance, because, for the first time in years, I truly feel like sleeping.

My tranquility is shattered by footsteps out in the hall. Several people, from the sound of it.I quickly sit up before the door flies open.

Two guards enter, while a third looms in the doorway. The sound of metal echoes. I spot the dull silver of chains swinging in their hands.

“Get up,” one of the guards says. He’s the one bringing me warm water. “We have to move you.”

I meet his eyes with a silent challenge. The warmth that began to seep into my body is now replaced by an unsettling chill. “Where to?”

“Can’t say. Commander’s orders.”

I extend my arms, accepting the chains they brandish without resistance. The cuffs clasp around my wrists, and I watch the guard lock each side.

“Why are you locking my hands in front of me?” I silently ask, eyes traveling up to meet his.

The guard avoids eye contact as he secures the lock that deviates from routine. I read a subtle discomfort in his expression.

“Change of orders?” I inquire further, gaze unwavering, locked onto him.

He hesitates, then nods. “Special circ*mstances.”

My eyes flutter across his features, observing closely, trying to decipher the hidden nuance here. Levi never told me I was being moved—which must mean he doesn’t know about this, either. The departure from customary protocol raises a flicker of suspicion, but I choose to comply, storing questions away for a more opportune moment.

More footsteps in the hallway. I tilt sideways to see who it is.

Levi emerges, disheveled, the straps of ODM gear crossed over his dress shirt. No coat, and usual composure absent. His face carries a palpable shock at the sight before him, until our eyes meet; I think mine translate the same confusion here.

“What’s going on?” Levi asks, turning to the closest guard, as he buttons the top of his shirt.

The guards remain tight-lipped, exchanging furtive glances, but no one deigns to provide him with a response. The air in the hallway bristles with tension as Levi’s eyes fixate on me, as if I had an answer. I softly shake my head.

With a reluctant nod from the guards, they signal for me to move. The boots, still damp from the snow, feel strange when I slide them back on. Water leaves marks with each step, creating imprints that I pointedly ignore. We leave my cell with almost haste. Pulled forward by both arms, I look over my shoulder and see that Levi is following us through the hallway like a shadow. We stare at each other in mildly concealed panic until I’m being yanked sideways.

The narrow corridors funnel us toward the courtyard, where a hooded carriage awaits. The guards lead me to it with a firm grip. There are no people gathered outside this time, rid of the few figures on streets further ahead, who stop to stare.

I sit by the window, again. It’s still light, which allows me to see everything, including the route we’re about to take. I watch the guards settle in their seats, rifles set down on the hard flooring, barrels pointing upwards, and turn to look outside the glass pane. Two knocks come from the heel of one of the rifles. The carriage starts moving.

Special circ*mstances. I glance at the three guards one by one. They seem as relaxed and composed as ever. Where would Armin need to take me? And if Levi is aware of every step I take, why not this one?

When I look back outside, my breathing stills. Dressed in full uniform now, saddled on a pale grey horse, Levi has caught up to the carriage. The horse moves beneath him in a light trot.

Our eyes lock through the window. Levi’s gaze is steady. He lifts his hand, holding three fingers up, places them directly beneath his eye, and drags them slowly down his masked cheek.

I stare at him, mind racing. Three fingers, eye. Tears?

I look down at my own hands, lifting the same three fingers on each. Through the clank of chains, I raise them to my face, press the pads firm under each eye, and drag them down. The smell of metal hits my nose.

No. Shifter marks.

My head whips to the side, and our eyes meet again. Levi doesn’t seek any confirmation in mine; he knows I read the message loud and clear. We’re riding to Stohess.

Our following route only further confirms Levi’s signal when the buildings emerge. Despite the years that have passed since I fought Annie here, the city still bears scars. The towering remnants of shattered buildings stand alongside new construction in a patchwork quilt of old and new. Some parts have been rebuilt long ago, yet other areas hone the skeletal remains of once grand edifices.

The carriage rattles over uneven terrain. As we draw closer to the residential area, I can discern the familiar spires and domes that characterize Stohess. Snow covers red rooftops, but the streets are still the same. That fight cost us a lot. The casualties were disproportionate to what was realistically attained at the time—or so it feels now.

We come to a halt. The guards exit the carriage first, and I follow, stepping out onto the cobblestone street. My boots crunch against untouched snow. Not far from us, Levi dismounts his horse and leads it towards the stables. Our eyes meet briefly before he disappears into the shadows. Moments later, he joins the guards and I at the entrance of the building, his coat pulled tight against the cold.

I look up. It’s an elegant structure, tall and wide, with arched windows and cropped balconies jutting out in front. Warm orange light spills out some of the windows, while most remain dark.Almost instinctively, Levi and I exchange a knowing look. I imagine they must live comfortably here. While it doesn’t mean they’re unaffected by their past, or not being treated harshly by Paradisians, this is still an exaggerated luxury to have. I wonder if Armin’s guilt has come into play at all.

A nudge into my back signals me to move. Two Military Police men open the doors for us, tilting their heads in greeting to their captain and the other guards. I can tell they try not to look at me, but curiosity flashes in their eyes anyway.

The echo of our footsteps resonates through the grand entrance hall as we walk through an elegant foyer. The air is ripe with a silent tension. As we ascend a sweeping staircase, the grandeur of the building becomes more apparent. Elaborate chandeliers cast a white glow, illuminating mahogany banisters and the plush burgundy carpet beneath our feet.What opulence, compared to a cell.

The guards lead me down a well-lit corridor adorned with framed portraits of unknown figures. At the end of this hall is a door. When we reach it, I feel a hand clasp over my shoulder, and it turns me sideways. Levi stands beside me, leaning in just slightly; his fear is permeating through his skin.

“I’ll be outside,” Levi says in a low, deliberate tone, grip tightening around my collarbone. “Anything happens, you call.”

I nod, and he lets go.

The door swings open, revealing a room bathed in soft light. My eyes are immediately drawn to the figure standing at a large, round table, fingers resting just barely against its surface.

It’s Reiner.

A quick glance confirms that there is no one else in the room but him. Reiner’s presence alone sends a cold sweat through my skin. I am glad it’s just him—but I am not glad that it is him.

The door behind closes shut. At the click of it, Reiner turns his head towards me, and there is nothing on his face that I can read. His eyes, weathered by all the years of conflict, bore into mine. The air in the room constricts, holding its breath in anticipation of the clash between two forces that have shaped the fate of nations. His silence leaves me teetering on the edge of genuine fear. Every instinct screams caution at the invisible animosity stirring.

Levi’s warning rings clear in my ears. Suddenly, I realize why my hands are cuffed in front: this is my immediate defense. Chains that bound me prisoner are my only defense before anyone can manage to step in. Armin recognizes Levi’s hypervigilance. He is aware that Levi would’ve followed me anywhere; even to the den of remaining Marleyans.

Armin is also aware that, in this confined space, where the ghosts of our past loom large, Reiner can be a potential threat. And he has plenty to want me dead for.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

The last time I looked Reiner in the eyes was on the ship back to Paradis.

At the expense of everything he had ever known, I knew that my island was finally safe. A future was secured, but we were far from home.

Smoke and steam rose from everywhere I looked, and breathing was only tolerable through pieces of cloth. We all held out the necks of our shirts, or pulled at the sleeves to cover mouths and noses, but the panic was palpable. Soon, it grew into a physical manifestation.

I felt every pair of eyes from our procession of survivors, and they burned into me—filled with rage, with disbelief, with an empty numbness. Reiner, too, stood in that small crowd, but he was unreadable, brilliantly concealing whatever emotions churned beneath the surface. Maybe he was still in a state of shock, but maybe he had fully grasped what happened. I couldn’t tell. His eyes flashed from above the neckline of his shirt, hand pressing down at the hem to filter as much clean air as possible.

I caught glimpses of my friends, pacing, shouting, silently crying, their voices blending into a cacophony of despair as every second bore a new realization—Armin wept sitting next to me, Connie and Jean screamed, shaking me by the shoulders, but Reiner remained motionless, eyes locked in a silent exchange with mine. I hated the sudden silence in my head, compared to when past, present and future wrought each other for dominance, filling it with relentless arguing. It had also fallen silent all around; it was broken only by the sporadic crackling of embers.

We stumbled through the desolation in a daze, faces concealed by makeshift masks fashioned from whatever cloth we could work. They shed most of their gear and left it behind in piles. Levi had to lean on Jean and Reiner because of his injured leg, and it remarkably slowed the group down. It was bad enough already, but retaining a slow pace killed the determination. Each breath was a struggle against the heat—the Colossals, motionless but still radiating warmth, created pockets of scalding air. The flattened ground beneath our feet retained a boiling temperature for quite some time. Most of us wore as little as possible, glistening in sweat that dripped like water. There was no sun, and the smog pressed on.

I felt the unease; panic rippled through everyone like a fever, and days passed in a surreal blur. Water we sought from underground springs trickling through cracks in the ground, everyone on their knees, lips dusted in sand. It was hot, but it was clean. The ocean teased with the hope of respite on the horizon. When we finally reached the shore, relief was short-lived: it smelled like rotten fish, and the sand was littered with decaying marine life. The water was murky, warm as milk up to our necks, and offered no reprieve. Everyone was thirsty and exhausted, and there was no chance of scoring a bigger hunt or striking any living fish; there was nothing. The shoreline had retracted visibly.

Days turned into a desperate struggle for sustenance. Connie shot down albatrosses that landed in flocks to feast. I was offered the cooked meat, but I wouldn’t have it. I only cared for their sustenance at that point, not my own, and it was clear who needed more. Armin brought my share to the kids. They wouldn’t let go of each other.

Each passing moment felt like an eternity as we awaited a sign of rescue. One early morning, on the distant line where the sea met the sky, a silhouette began to emerge. It was a ship. It cut through the dense smoke and steam like a symbol of salvation. The realization washed over, sparking a surge of emotions that ranged from joy to disbelief. Whispers threaded through the air as we strained our eyes, hoping the apparition wasn’t a mirage. As it drew nearer, its identity became unmistakable—the emblem of Paradis adorned the sails of the ship. A wave of relief swept through the group, rippling through their exhausted and worn faces.

Anchored offshore, they watched with bated breath as smaller boats were dispatched, navigating the waves to reach us. The group gathered along the water’s edge, waving hands, while I sat behind. Murmurs of relief circulated as the boats arrived, oars slicing through the water with rhythmic determination. The tension slowly unraveled; this journey was finally drawing to a close.

Armin came to pull me up by the hand. “We’re not leaving you here,” he silently said. I knew, at the time, that all of them wanted to.

As the boats reached the shore, they wearily assisted each other onto the vessels. Not to risk infection in his leg that was already too real of a possibility, Levi was carried onto the boat.

Everyone was attended to. Medics hurried back and forth like ants. Thirst was quenched, mouths were fed and bodies bathed, to an extent. I sat alone at the stern. The rhythmic hum of the ship’s propeller reverberated through the deck like a steady heartbeat, salt-laden sea breeze toyed with my hair, and the distant calls of seabirds mingled with the lapping of waves against the hull and distant, tired conversation.

When my gaze shifted across the deck, I saw Reiner sitting on the opposite side, his solitude mirroring my own. We sat in acknowledgment of each other’s presence.

I am the same as you. Would he have done what I did? We were never that alike. We both wanted to be stopped dead in our tracks, but being stopped means you have already set foot en route. Still, standing at the door now, having him watch me like a lynx in the forest, I feel like we are back on that ship. Back then, I felt nothing.

I feel fear today.

Reiner extends his hand in what seems like a gesture of reconciliation. A wary pause hangs between us. I observe his calloused palm through a great struggle—the last time our hands touched I nearly killed him in Liberio. It feels like, every time we part, we part with the promise of killing each other.

Tentatively, I take a few steps forward, willing to entertain the notion of a truce or a swift death, and place my hand in his. Before I can comprehend the true intention, Reiner abruptly pulls me towards him with an almost practiced motion, and his other hand wraps around my throat. Pressure prickles in my head, blood pools rapidly in my cheeks. Panicking, I pat my free hand up his forearm, fingers fumbling with his fist.

“Reiner—” I choke out in a stutter, but his grip is white in anger.

Voice strangled, air supply cut, my mouth falls open to swallow as much oxygen as I can. In the desperate struggle for breath, panic setting in as the room spins, I realize I need to do something before my consciousness goes. Summoning the last reserves of strength, my instincts take over, and I jab the cuff of my wrist upwards. Clinking sharply, rough metal meets the edge of his jaw—a toothy hiss escapes Reiner’s mouth, and the grip on my throat falters. The sudden release allows me a gasp of air, a desperate attempt to replenish starved lungs.

Reiner’s fury remains unabated. His response is immediate, fueled by a visceral rage, and the air erupts with new aggression as he launches himself at me and sends us crashing into furniture. Struggling against the force, I manage to wrestle with him, each of us vying for momentary dominance. My back meets the large shelf, shaking the heavy frame of it, and books fly to the floor, airing out earthy, musty smell of parchment. Something large and made of glass falls and shatters on the carpet with a thud. It doesn’t come as a surprise that Reiner swiftly takes control. My movements are severely limited, and there is no strength in my body. Still, I fight. I can’t seem to stop, even when I deserve to die. Even when I want to.

The elegant, carved wooden table in the middle of the room becomes our new battleground. Reiner, fueled by years of pure resentment, manages to overpower me with ease, pinning me down by my throat with the weight of his forearm. The chains connecting my hands become a makeshift defense, holding back the full force of his assault as I push them up against his own throat. The metallic links stand firm with the intensity of Reiner’s weight forcing down. His fingers dig deep into the ditches of my elbows and my arms bend from the pain, but that falters the pressure on his neck only momentarily—I am aware that this is my only chance of survival here.

Reiner’s face tints red. Undeterred, he seizes my hair with a brutal grip at the roots, yanks it up for momentum, and shoves down faster than I realize it. My head collides with the hard surface of the table. The slam is loud and reverberates; pain shoots white and radiates through the back of my skull.

We both freeze, turning our heads towards the door, almost to ensure that no unwanted witnesses will interrupt our confrontation.Silence hangs thick in the air, and only the tick of a clock can be heard. I grit my teeth, tasting blood drip on my tongue from the inside of my nose, refusing to yield to the scream of pain choked in my throat. Instead, I thickly swallow it.

We lock eyes again. Reiner breathes out. His wheat-colored mustache is trimmed with sweat, as is his forehead.

“Just do it,” I grunt. “This is your chance. Get it over with.”

Reiner winces. If he wanted to kill me, he already would have. He would have snapped my neck upon the click of the door.

“Too easy now.” The bitterness in his tone makes my stomach churn. His weight shifts. Reiner lets go of my throat and hair, and I allow my hands to fall down to my chest, chains banging against my sternum.

Exhaustion settles over us like a suffocating shroud. As the tension gradually dissipates with every breath taken and given, he extends a hand—not in aggression, but just a genuine gesture. I cautiously accept, chains rattling as I rise from the table and to my feet. The chandelier above bears witness to the fragile truce that has emerged, and the room is adorned with the wreckage of our struggle: glass shines like scattered crystal across the blood-red carpet that is embossed with golden vines around its edges. Books have fallen bellies-up, yellowing pages bent however they landed.

I wipe at my nose with the back of my hand, and it streaks red. I glance at the door, and then back at Reiner as he flattens his hair.

“Nobody heard,” Reiner notes. “Trust me.”

Sniffling the blood back into my throat, I pull a chair back and sit down at the same table I was being choked on seconds ago. Reiner kneels to pick up the books and sets them back onto the shelf. I watch him carefully align the backs in a straight line. The glass under his boots crackles like new ice.

Reiner has lost a lot of the weight he normally carried, but there’s still an air of intimidation washing around his firm posture. His hair has gotten longer by a couple inches, pale yellow like bleached hay, still well-kempt, as usual.

“You have every reason in the world to hate me,” I silently say.

He hesitates to answer, fumbling with a book in his hand. “Yes.”

“Do you?”

“Hate you? You’re a shell of a person.” Reiner turns. “I don’t think you even care for the answer.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” My eyes drop to the floor. There are many shards of glass buried in the plush carpet. Bigger, smaller—dull and sharp.I glance back at Reiner and see that he noticed where I trailed off.

“Take what you want. They’ll pat you down anyway,” he answers every thought in my head.

Reiner pauses the cleanup and joins me at the table, eyes narrowing as he studies me. The weight of his stare hurts, as if it could pierce through the layers of my being and expose the vulnerability I try to hide.

I was not ready to meet him. I could have sat down and faced anyone else, dead or alive, but I had not braced myself for this. Not that I lack the words to tell him, or things to apologize for—it all sits at the root of us and how alike we are, even now, sitting a chair’s distance from one another that is infinite and uncomfortably close, my hands bound by chains, his wrists bound by the other hand, marked by sin. In all honesty, I think I never expected to face him again. Not after the dust had settled. Not ever.

Reiner’s treason is the mirror image of my own. Facing him is like confronting a reflection. We waltzed to the same grating melody, two sides of the same coin—warriors shaped by circ*mstance, molded by the burdens of duty, burdened by the consequences. Sinful to the bone, grief and guilt dangling our lives off the edge of a cliff.

“You got so far, Eren. Look around you,” Reiner gestures to the room, to the world beyond the window. “This is the world you made.”

“This is not the world I wanted,” I murmur.

“You know, Armin allowed me to read your retelling,” he says, getting up again, as if sitting so close to me made him uneasy. “I read all of it, front to back.”

Reiner walks over to one of the cabinets and pulls out a decanter. At the very bottom of it swirls a deep brown. The vessel shines under the chandelier, reflecting broken light. He pulls the stopper and drinks a mouthful. Silent, I watch him swish the alcohol in his mouth, observe as he grimaces at the strength of it.

“Your death won’t change anything now,” Reiner continues, tone tainted by sorrow that is too personal for me to want to pick up on. “I know how badly you crave it, and how tempting it seems to be rid of that suffering. But even at the feet of people you hate, you leave a void, a legacy, a memory. Whether you’re here or not, your impact endures, love or loathing alike.”

His words resonate. Yes, even in the pursuit of death, I linger.

“I always wanted to kill you out of pity. Never hatred,” he says, “Now, I feel like even the pity is missing.”

I stare at Reiner from where I’m sitting, and my bones weigh heavier than they ever have. “You had many chances while the pity was still there.”

“As did you—and I was willing to let that happen,” he rasps out, rough and forced. “I am the enemy to you, and you are the enemy to me. We’ve killed each other’s friends, families, comrades. We destroyed each other’s homes. Are we not beyond redemption here?”

“No.”

“How?”

“You were ready to die in Liberio.” I lean against the table, chest hitting the smoothed edge of it. “Why do you think Falco was there?”

Reiner freezes at the mention of Falco. He breaks eye contact, gaze dropping to the floor, and he drinks more from the neck of the decanter. His thumb toys with the stopper, until finally dropping it back on. “You wanted him to hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“Who I was to Paradis.” Reiner pauses. “Who you then became to the world.”

“No,” I say. “I saw you for who you were. I knew of your pain. In return, you saw me for who I was—that I wanted to be stopped. You were the one who heard what I asked for. The reason you didn’t die when I transformed was Falco. You had given up. You only did it for him—and by protecting him, you saved yourself.”

He looks at me with unease. “Eren, it didn’t matter. We all failed.”

“I know.”

“Even you did, if all of what you told Armin is true.”

“It is.”

“Did you truly intend to spare what was left of Marley?”

Soundlessly, I nod. Reiner clearly hesitates to accept that truth—I can see in his eyes that it’s eating him, the possibility of that success. “You know I have no reason to lie,” I add. “The remorse I felt was already plenty. You can’t imagine what it’s doing to me now.”

He positions the decanter back on the shelf and returns to his chair. Sitting still, he looks down at his hands and cracks his knuckles. “Do you know when you get out?”

“No. Armin said all of you voted in favor of my probation. I found that alarming.”

“Well, your life becomes a bargaining chip for ours,” Reiner admits to what I already guessed. “A public appearance is set to take place sooner or later, where you will also advocate for the Marleyans on Paradis.”

“Because no one wants you here?”

“For good reason. Trust me, I don’t think we would be here if we had a choice. We’re refugees in a country where half of the military force demands a mass murderer freed in return for compliance.”

I sigh through my nose. “No wonder Armin doesn’t sleep.”

“Not the only reason he doesn’t sleep,” Reiner dryly adds. We look at each other for a second until it hits me that he made a joke, and I shake my head at it.

“So you’ve heard,” he concludes.

“How is she?”

“Doesn’t look any different yet, but she’s a small girl. One day that belly will pop out, and we need to have your speech ready before it happens. Armin wants you to address the people for our protection.” He hesitates. “Mainly Annie’s, but I worry about the kids, too.”

“Falco and…”

“Gabi.”

“Right,” I say, tone just slightly sour. Of course I know her name. I was fresh off of Sasha’s death, which made me realize that the visions of the future were absolute. At that point, I was so angry at the state of it all I could have begged Gabi to kill me as well. “Is Armin proposing an ultimatum here?”

“The first of many—since you wield a disgusting amount of power, somehow. He believes it will help mitigate the political tension and shift the focus away from the military. However, the ultimate goal is to return all military leadership to the hands of the Military Police—probably something along the lines of peace as long as you live, as long as your terms are addressed, which should also grant you your freedom.”

I absorb the information for a minute. Armin wants to leverage the remnants of my influence to forge the leadership back into its real shape. I’m not sure if his vision of peace is attainable here. With two military forces coexisting, I can see the merge, but that’s the extent of how far the current Eldian nationalism would stretch. In a period of civil unrest, it seems smart to have a united force. At the same time, they seem to be gearing up against one another more than any other potential threat, since realistically, there should be none left. It keeps pestering me; the awareness that peace and freedom are natural enemies. In the middle of it all, speaking against discrimination and prejudice towards a handful of Marley Eldians, half of which are responsible for real war crimes towards Paradis, seems rather rich. I’ll give it to Armin; he has definitely picked up Erwin’s affinity for a good gamble.

“People just need to hear that Paradis is willing to embrace a new era,” he adds, and I snap out of thought. “Your public appearance can catalyze that transformation. Historia may keep her royal status, but Armin guesses that within some time Paradis might abolish the monarchy altogether. He hopes it would just be a constitutional reform, but… there is always room for a violent revolt. No good country comes from being fully controlled by a military junta.” Reiner faintly smiles. “I would know. Marley drowned in its stratocracy.”

“Military dictatorship—and it was a front,” I note. “Willy Tybur stood behind the initial Warrior attacks. It was also Tybur who plotted to unite the whole world against Paradis after complete inaction to the conflict. If there was anyone who could have advocated for world peace, it was him. The actual threat of The Rumbling didn’t seem like a possibility until it was too late, and Marley’s resentment had already grown.”

Reiner frowns. “You know a lot about the Tybur family?”

I grimace when I realize where the information is coming from. “I ate Lara Tybur.”

“Right. That you did.” He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. “Interesting, how… Willy Tybur risked sacrificing the world for that plan, fully aware of the power Paradis held. Instead of pushing for negotiations, he tried to ruin the island, despite knowing that you would have even more power and time after you destroyed the internment zone.”

“And he allowed Marley to be a military state.”

“Then he’s no better than you,” Reiner says, “and you’re already a complete piece of sh*t.”

We talk until the clock strikes eight times. As the echoes of the eighth chime fade into the room, a heavy silence settles between Reiner and I. His face tells me that my time here is up.

“Well… I’ll see you sooner than I want to,” he murmurs, standing. There is a sense of resignation in his eyes. I know he recognizes the inevitability of our paths crossing here, no matter how much we may want to resist them.

“Likewise,” I respond, the word hanging in the air like a promise or a foreboding omen. With that acknowledgment, I start to rise from my seat, the chains around my wrists clinking as I do.

Reiner watches me with a guarded expression. There’s no need for further words. The door opens, revealing two men dressed in Military Police uniforms, waiting outside—but not my prison guards. They gesture for me to leave the room, and I comply without resistance. As I step into the hallway, the door closes behind with a muffled thud.

Levi stands sentinel in the hallway. Upon seeing me, he pulls off the wall, and his gaze instantly zeroes in on my disheveled appearance—hair tousled, crust of blood by the nostril, bruising marks around my neck. I can almost hear the unsaid questions racing in his mind. Levi looks for a justification through flashes of emotions that he, for all his known restraint, struggles to contain.

“I told you to call,” he finally grunts through his teeth.

I raise a hand to my nose, wiping away any lingering evidence. “It’s fine. I deserved that.”

“Not from him.”

I try to dismiss it by shaking my head, but Levi steps closer. His hand grips my arm and turns it, revealing the already dry streaks of red from before. It’s not a forceful hold, but there’s an unmistakable urgency in his touch. Swiftly, he pulls me behind a column, away from prying eyes, out of earshot, and lifts my arm like an inquiry.

“He wasn’t going to kill me,” I mutter, but the excuse sounds feeble even to my own ears; I think he was, if for a second. The intention was definitely present. Reiner can put up a good front, but there was none this time.

Levi’s grip tightens before he releases it. Frustration etches between his eyebrows; or maybe it never left. His hand flies up to his face and he rubs his eyelids, then leans against the wall on his forearm, head dropping down onto it. A sigh hits the lined wallpaper in front.

I meet his upwards gaze, and that’s when I notice he’s shaking. Not visibly, but his fingers tap against the wall, trembling ever so slightly.

“Levi,” I silently say. Hearing his name seems to momentarily ground him. “It was nothing.”

“You have no idea.” He takes a steadying breath, the tremor in his fingers barely subsiding. Levi’s voice is low and intense. His words are gruff, a veneer of irritation forever masking deeper sentiment, unspoken and unexplored. “This is what happens when I let you out of my sight.”

Heat pools in my chest at the words. I recognize this feeling. It’s bitter, like guilt. Sour, like a regret. It feels like poison, and it ruins me like an illness. It’s the same dull ache I feel every time he leaves, and it resurfaces now, with him in front of me, as if it were pulling something out of me that I could never name.

I lean on the same wall and rest my temple against it. His hand is so close to my forehead that he could easily touch it—but that possibility only hangs on the edge. We watch each other through calm breaths.

“You’ll know this time.” My voice is a whisper. “I'll talk to you.”

Levi’s fingers twitch against the wall. Slowly, I tilt my head forward until his knuckles brush against my skin, lingering just barely on the scar that has formed from the stitching.

A shiver courses through me—that small touch carries a weight that anchors me to the present, tethering me to its kindness. I feel a surge of warmth, an inexplicable sense of comfort, and impossible fear. It’s a contradiction—a touch that both soothes and unsettles. It’s as if something within me stirs, a dormant feeling awakening from slumber. I’m caught in yearning and in restraint. The throbbing in my chest heightens, and I tilt my head further down, seeking out reciprocation.

Levi’s knuckles graze against my forehead in a languid caress. Each pass feels deliberate, unhurried, time itself bending to accommodate the exchange, seconds stretched to an eternity. The pads of his fingers, sheathed in cold sweat, trace small paths.

I don’t have the words to define it. I don’t have the understanding. But I do sense it.

Always looking at me like a mirror, Levi’s eyes search mine, as if he was looking for the same answer. For a moment that barely exists, it feels like the air separating us could vanish. But just as quickly, he steps back, wedging an undeniable distance between.

“They’re taking you back,” Levi says, just on the edge of losing his composure. “I’ll guide you down.”

From the frosty window of the carriage, I watch him walk off to the stables. He moves with usual grace, but something in me compels me to watch him a moment longer. As he reaches the shadows, his hand rises to his lips—a gesture so subtle, it’s almost imperceptible in the night.

Same hand.

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

The tracks from my daily walks have not filled back up. It hasn’t snowed once this week. Still, the air packs quite a bite when I step out today.

I stand by the gate for a moment, completely captivated by the beauty overhead. The predominant blue of the season gradually yields to a soft glow of orange on the eastern horizon, two opposing shades engaged in wordless conversation before the impending sunset, like fire wrestling ice.

There is odd solace in the sight. My fingers grip the wired fence, dusted with frost that melts into my palms, and I watch my breath rise in the low rays of sun, enveloped by it, soaking up the rare embrace of its golden dusting.

“First light we’ve gotten in weeks.” Armin steps closer to the gate—to me. Our shoulders slightly brush. “Feels warm just looking at it.”

“It’s beautiful.” Even my voice is weak in wonder. “I know we have to go, but…”

“Have a few more minutes. They’ll wait.”

My brows curl as I turn to him. “You can’t make the Queen wait.”

Armin just barely smiles; it’s only thanks to the sun that a small shadow pours into the dimple on his cheek. It would otherwise be invisible. “I’ll be out front.”

His footsteps depart, and I’m left standing by the gate, bathed in the dwindling light.

When I was told that I would see Historia later in the week, I tried not to think much of it. Quickly, hours of masked worry bled into days, and I can admit now that I have spent all of my time wondering how that would go. While the distance between us has grown, the connection remains.

Our reunion holds some promise of resolution for everyone. That possibility eats at me, chewing me into the role I must fill, and I tremble under the weight of it. Of any meeting, with any of the people I used to know, actually; like refeeding when I was gravely ill as a child. One fall, I got so sick I couldn’t keep a bite down, and lived off plain applesauce. Father would reintroduce solid foods back to my diet slowly, gradually, for my stomach to let them settle before moving on to the next, until I could eat a full meal again. It feels like the same is happening to me now. Meeting everyone, having to stomach it; having to see if they keep the bile down.

When I look at Historia, I see her in flashes: as a child through Frieda’s eyes, as the new Queen of Paradis, as Cadet Lenz, as raw anger, as crystal tears, and as my sister. Out of all the shifters whose memories surge within, Frieda has always stood out. She was a true vessel of love. As the most recent of Founders, her essence imprinted on me heavily—so much that every time I witness Historia in fleeting shots of the past, Frieda’s lens colors my perception. I taste the innocence of childhood, the pain of an elder sibling, and these elements infuse my image of her with a warmth that resonates through time. Frieda’s love becomes a filter through which I view Historia, a strange kind of sisterhood from the body of a man, transcending boundaries of gender and physicality alike.

We won’t get to speak alone, but just seeing her is enough. Knowing she lived through her birth satiates my worry.

There were other things that tried to enter my mind this week.

My eyes wander over the town’s skyline. I don’t have to turn around to know that Levi is still leaning against the wall of the prison, waiting.

I have learned to pretend they don’t exist.

The first day was the hardest. While Levi’s presence had become a somewhat comforting familiarity in the prison, it felt like a new wall had been erected overnight. He still joined me around the perimeter, but we would tread cautiously through the snow, each step too loud, too obvious, somehow. Levi avoided meeting my eyes, and I, in turn, found myself glancing at him when he wasn’t looking.

During those daily walks, he kept an almost deliberate distance, as if to avoid the closeness that was momentarily there in Stohess. It was like a dance of restraint. Every step, a careful measure to prevent any recurrence. There were moments when our gazes almost aligned; yet, like magnets of the same pole, we repelled, rather than attracted.

Each day, the unspoken grew in weight. My walks began to resemble a choreographed routine. We were navigating some invisible minefield, and Levi was holding the compass: a slight adjustment of his trajectory here, a subtle shift there—small attempts to steer clear of any chance, any opportunity for me to bite down on, ask a question, clear the air. The silence was louder than any conversation we could ever have.

But as the week drew to a close, it felt like we had come full circle. What started as an attempt to avoid each other now seemed like an affirmation—a tacit acknowledgment that there was indeed something to run from. The act of running away was, in itself, the validation. Of what, I didn’t know. I only knew the answer, not the question.

“Do you think Historia wants to see me?” I decide to ask, directing it somewhere over my shoulder. This is the first I’ve spoken to Levi about her, in any way.

“I don’t know,” he calmly admits after letting the question simmer. “You’re the reason her monarchy is being threatened, after all.”

“Not as a tool for diplomacy. As me.”

“You’ll see it in her eyes.”

So would I see anything in his?

I turn, slowly, deliberately so, to meet Levi’s stare with intensity that transcends the mere act of seeing. The faintest aftertaste of that one moment hangs between us every day: the knowledge that he still cares. Now, I just search for a sign, like always. A reflection—like always. An opening.

And as always, there is none. So it lingers, that trace of longing, like it has learned to do so well.

Our journey to Mitras is quiet. I sit across from Levi, eyes fixed on the passing scenery outside, and try not to look at him again. Whenever I do chance it, his attention remains elsewhere, almost indifferent. Armin utilizes the ride to become completely absorbed in a bundle of documents. The rustling of paper only punctuates our silence.

As the landscape transforms, Mitras looms on the horizon, signaling our imminent arrival. The city is a timeless curation of regality, marked by towering structures adorned with intricate carvings and grand columns. The streets are cobbled, worn by the passage of time and the footfalls of those who came before.

As we approach the massive gates of the Royal Palace, I rise in my seat, leaning forward to look out the small window. I catch sight of the guards, clad in satin black armor that looks to absorb all light. Lined up alongside the door, their faces are concealed fully behind masks, offering only a slit for vision. Unlike Levi’s winter balaclava, they are plated over with thin metal.

“I’ve never seen armor like that,” I mutter to Armin. “They’re like the knights of old.”

“You’re right; it’s new. We’re still testing designs here, but the goal is to absorb more impact without sacrificing too much mobility,” he explains, following my gaze outside. “What you see is the Queen’s Sentry.”

“Cream of the military crop,” Levi adds. I can’t tell if he says it in a mocking way.

Armin looks up at me. “Captain Levi was offered a position to guard the Queen.”

“And?” My eyes shoot to Levi.

“I turned it down,” he says, holding my stare. “Before, I was a soldier for what we thought was all of humanity. Now, I’m just a soldier for Paradis. Loses the appeal at some point.”

We leave the carriage shortly after it stops. My wrists are finally not bound by chains, and I was allowed to wash my clothes last night. I would assume I look almost presentable, but I haven’t seen myself in the mirror since… Well, if I only truly knew. Too long. I’ve begun to lose sight of myself. I’m hoping that changes soon, and that my heart doesn’t stop at what it sees.

The Royal Palace sprawls across an expansive front garden, commanding attention with its sheer size and grandeur. Tall gates adorned with intricate wrought-iron designs mark the entrance, leading to a shoveled cobblestone pathway that winds through a snowy garden—surely, a sight to be seen in spring. In the center, a grand fountain, now silenced by the winter chill, stands as a dormant centerpiece.

As we approach the facade, I’m drawn to the stone carvings that depict scenes from the nation’s past, towering columns supporting the entrance, paint that seems fresh enough. The windows, though large, appear small against the vastness of the build, giving the structure an imposing and regal presence. Even in the shapeless cold, the palace exudes a sense of permanence and authority.

Two sentries pull at the gold-painted double leaf door, and step back as it opens. I observe the guard closest to me. Their hand is resting on the holster around their hips, palming at the heel of a gun. I look up—at the eyes. Recognition flickers behind the mask, and I find myself locking eyes with someone I thought I had left behind. The guard maintains a stoic exterior, but the connection is undeniable there. I don’t break eye contact as I pass them, and even stare over my shoulder.

Armin, walking beside me, takes notice of the subtle exchange. “What is it?” he asks in a low voice.

I shake my head, trying to drop the unease that grips me. Nothing, I want to say—but I think it was something. Instead, I turn to Levi, and am surprised that our eyes meet.

Mikasa, he mouths.

I look back over my shoulder, but the doors have already closed.

Of course—top of our class. She’d make it to the royal guard. I am not a stranger to her, but I’ve diverged far from who she knew. The choices I made go against every moral principle Mikasa holds dear. The girl who believed in protecting others, who valued life and cherished it, would struggle to reconcile with me when I betrayed everything she stood for. In doing so, I might have lost any chance of her forgiveness. Nonetheless, I wouldn’t dare to ask for it anytime soon.

Four armored sentries guide us through the Royal Palace—two leading, and two stepping behind. Their every step comes with the clang of metal that echoes against lacquered dark wood flooring, silenced by lines of plush, deep blue carpets. The atmosphere is one of controlled authority. Flickering light from ornate lanterns dances across marbled walls, and catches my eyes.

We reach another set of gold-painted doors, the tops of them rounded in perfect symmetry. A spacious council room is then revealed. It’s adorned with regal furniture—chairs so plump in velvet they make me hungry. A large, oval table dominates the center of the room.

I take in the figures already present. My stomach wrings when I see Jean; he stands animatedly, engaged in a spirited conversation with Reiner, who is sitting. Their voices rise above the hushed murmurs of others. By the tall windows, other figures are silhouetted against the pouring daylight, features momentarily obscured.

As we step into the room, the Royal Sentry in front announces our arrival with a salute. “Commander Arlert. Captain Ackerman. Eren Jaeger.”

A collective pause hovers, eyes turning toward us. I catch Jean’s just briefly, and see his expression morph into utter shock. I know he must’ve been fully aware we would meet, but it probably only hit him now.

Reiner reaches out to pat Jean on the arm. That makes him swiftly recollect.

“Please, be seated,” Armin says, motioning loosely at the table. He inches towards me and murmurs: “Take the one at six o’clock.”

Mechanically, I follow his order, and pull my chair back. Both Armin and Levi take seats on the opposing end of the table, which are so oddly spaced that I imagine they must be assigned. Jean sits next to Armin, Reiner stays where he was, and they are joined at the table by Connie, Pieck, Annie, and Hitch.

The air is palpably tense. Everyone is dressed in full military regalia, chests glimmering in medallions under the chandelier above. I observe how each member at the table holds their own blend of emotions towards me. Their stares are almost pitiful, but I choose to look them in the eyes. How can it be that I have, once again, taken the role of both a weapon and a means to a new beginning? Destroyer. Liberator. Why am I both?

My only familiars, Armin and Levi, positioned too far for my liking, exchange a subtle glance. I can almost hear the words passing between them, that they have to stay alert. And I’m fully aware: in a room full of people I’ve taken everything from, it only takes a couple of seconds. It was rather quick with Reiner.

Instinctively, I look at Annie. Her hair drops in a soft wave behind her ears, curling inwards where they meet her shoulders. The contours of her face, once firm, now seem softened by the quiet transformation growing within her.

Annie’s presence is both striking and subdued. She appears contemplative, gaze steady as it meets mine. I know the loss of her father has left her burdened with grief, and yet, the fury I expected to see is… absent. Instead, there’s a watchfulness that transcends anger. If it’s wrath, it’s the most silent one I’ve felt—and most terrifying of all.

I hear the door open behind, but don’t have it in me to turn around. It feels like there are spears pointed at my throat.

“Her Majesty, Queen Reiss,” a voice announces, prompting a collective rise from the occupants of the room. I quickly follow suit, stumbling to my feet.

Clad in a regal uniform that seamlessly merges power and grace, Historia strides into the council room with a measured pace. She is aided by two sentries. A gold circlet rests atop her head, sinking into braids of pale blonde hair that is much longer now than what I remember.

As she takes her seat at the head of the table, her eyes sweep the room, until they meet mine.

Time stops, but so does my heart. Her composed demeanor falters for just one breath, lips parted, brows pulled tight, and I think of Levi’s words again: “You’ll see it in her eyes.”

Historia regains control before anyone notices it was lost. She turns her attention to the attendants, inviting them to be seated with a soft gesture.

Armin stacks his wad of papers neat against the table, drawing attention with the sound. “As discussed in our meetings prior, we are revisiting our proposal for the Jaegerist faction today. Our main goal is to advocate for the safety of Marleyans on Paradis, as well as promoting the idea of a united military. In return, our offer is to grant Eren Jaeger freedom under probation.”

Quickly, I look at Levi. He watches Armin like prey.

“We are all aware that a public appearance from Eren holds immense significance to our situation,” the new commander continues, “but it also poses a number of threats that can’t be ignored—such as the opposing force.”

“What is our current standing?” Historia asks, turning to Jean.

“With transfers from the Garrison, we are just short of 5,000 men in the Military Police,” he replies. “A couple hundred of cadets graduating early spring, but it takes a while for that number to factually count.”

Armin looks at Hitch. “Private, do we have any insight on military-trained Jaegerist numbers?”

She nods before answering the question. “We’ve been monitoring them for weeks. Fewer than us, but the real number is hard to determine; they’re decentralized and mostly underground, making it difficult to get an accurate count.”

Levi, leaning back in his chair, adds to the inquiry. “Do we still not know who’s leading them?”

Hitch considers for a moment. “Publicly, Louise is one of the more prominent figures, along with Wim, Holger, Surma—but it’s unclear if she’s the sole leader or part of a larger, more covert leadership structure.”

“She’s not the leader,” I silently say, picking at my hands.

When silence prolongs, I look up to see that every face seated around the table has turned to me. Suddenly, I almost want to tilt back in my chair until the back of it snaps.

“You’ve been in prison for eight months,” Pieck debuts in a slow voice. “The Jaegerists were never a cohesive group, and you know that. It could easily be her.”

One of the sentries behind Historia shifts. I watch the guard for a second, and turn back to Pieck. “The Jaegerists might not have been a traditional organization, but they were bound by a true cause. It takes more than just circ*mstance for someone to lead them; you need to have conviction. Louise might have some influence now, but not to lead a movement of this scale.”

“I guess we’ll just have to find out, then.” Pieck leans back in her chair with a lazy smile. “Infiltrating your ranks wasn’t that difficult, Jaeger. I could do it again.”

Before she can elaborate further, Jean intervenes quietly but firmly, placing a hand on her arm. “Pieck, not now.”

I glance around the table, feeling the weight of their scrutiny. Armin, Historia, and even Levi seem to be gauging my reaction.

“Fine,” I say. “So tell me what you want me to do.”

Armin slides a page towards me. “These words in your voice are all we need for now. It’s only a draft, and it doesn’t have to be word-for-word, as long as you make the message clear and concise. This would address their concern of being heard without giving away too much. We don’t want to inadvertently reveal vulnerabilities here.”

I extend my hand to pick up the paper. It lies flat against the table, so I fold the edge, but it nicks the tip of my finger. With a silent hiss, I lift it up to my mouth, a drop of blood collecting on my tongue, and slowly skim the first line.

Feet shuffle, guns co*ck, and several chairs loudly scrape against the floor.

I glance up, immediately noting the clear tension in the air, the wide-eyed stares, and the tightened grips on weapon holsters. Levi, Historia, Armin and Reiner are the only people who have remained seated. Both Royal Sentries are pointing their guns at me.

My finger leaves my mouth. I look at Armin.

“Old habits die hard,” he says, looking at everyone, but lingering on Annie, who has even stepped back. “He can’t transform. I swear. None of us can anymore.”

Connie silently curses as he pops his holster close again. “Every f*cking time.”

“What would your guns have done?” Levi frowns, crossing his legs. “We’d all be dead in a flash.”

“At least one of us would’ve popped him in the head,” Jean murmurs.

All of them hesitantly sit back down, and I watch the change in their faces with curiosity. It’s mostly embarrassment and a lot of confusion. We grew up surrounded by Titans and lived with shifters in our midst. The reaction was involuntary and completely valid, because, no matter how much time has passed, none of them have seen me since the Rumbling. Object permanence. Evidently, I hadn’t even thought of it; maybe I’ve become too aware of my increased mortality.

Even Pieck and Annie stood up, and they used to be shifters. Annie might have a different reasoning on her end this time, but Pieck is smart enough to still doubt me, and she clearly displays that.

I turn my attention back to the page I’m holding. It’s short, marked with small writing on the sides, and some notes underneath. “Who wrote this?”

Armin skims the attendees. “It was a collective effort, I think.”

“Do I have to read it now?”

“Yes. Out loud, please,” Historia says before Armin can. “I’d like to hear if it sounds like you at all.”

That doesn’t ease the tension. While I’m not Willy Tybur, I’ve seen him rehearse plenty of speeches through Lara’s memories. That should aid me, somewhat. He would always lower his voice when speaking to a crowd, as if it gave him some sort of advantage.

Clearing my throat, I sit back in the plush chair. “I stand before you today—”

“You’re sitting,” Connie interrupts. “Maybe you should actually stand up.”

Jean elbows him.

Cold sweat shoots down my spine as I begin once more, now on my feet. “I stand before you today, not as a symbol of destruction, but as a man who has witnessed the consequence of it. Our world has been marred by conflict. Today, the sun was born to forge a new path.”

I quickly look up, and my eyes are drawn to Historia. She softly nods, encouraging me to keep going.

“Our strength lies not in division, but solidarity,” I continue reading. “We must unite for the sake of our own people, and the prosperity of Paradis. Eldians have suffered loss, witnessed the pain of our lovers, our children, our siblings, our elders, our land—but let us not be blinded by anger. Instead, let us channel that rage into having a tomorrow.”

“Our past is a part of who we are, but not who we can be. To rise above, we must look beyond. The outsiders among us are no longer our enemies; they, too, seek the same sunrise each day. To cast aside the shackles of prejudice and extend a hand of understanding is to erase the generations of hatred before us. Had that ever served us well?”

My hand trembles just from holding the paper.

“As I stand before you, I pledge to dedicate my remaining days to Paradis. Let there be tranquility in our streets and unity in our ranks, for there shall be peace as long as I live.”

Only two more lines.

“May good reign in our midst,” I read, feeling my throat choke, “and may mercy prevail over our wrath.”

A heavy silence follows. As I lower the paper, there is an almost palpable connection in the air—like a thread woven through the hearts of everyone here, screaming silently that our shared aspiration for peace is present, despite a future so uncertain.

Without making much noise, I sit back down, eyes digging into a small, round spot of blood on my pants where I must’ve held my papercut.

“I think that was good,” Hitch speaks first. “Almost genuine when he says it.”

“He sounds like he has a gun to his head,” Annie silently notes next to her. “I don’t think he should be doing this at all.”

“Maybe he just can’t read that well.”

“Our society is grappling with the moral implications of his actions,” Armin cuts Hitch off. “Some officials advocate for a public appearance that would expose the depths of his guilt and possibly quell the rising tensions. Others still argue for a quiet resolution, fearing that bringing it to light would only serve to fan the flames. I see the good and bad in either; we just need to make sure which one is more effective.”

“It’s too late,” Levi speaks. We all turn our heads towards him. “There can no longer be a quiet resolution. People know he exists. They know he’s alive, and that we’re deliberately keeping him in prison. Ask anyone: they either want him dead, or free.”

“Well, is freedom leverage enough to garner any kind of unity?” Reiner leans forward.

Levi shoots him a glare. “It’s what will be done with his freedom that matters.”

“So what does his freedom serve us that his death can’t?” Pieck joins in.

“A couple of weeks ago, his execution would have triggered a civil war. You were all opposed to it,” Levi notes. “Is that back on the table now? Keep in mind: whatever happens to Eren is going to happen to you. You are all Marley refugees. When someone has the upper hand, they simply have no reason to show mercy—especially if it’s to their detriment. To show mercy is to withhold an earned consequence, and you have earned consequences.”

Pieck leans on her forearms, hands clasped in front. “His life is our freedom. Peace—as long as he lives,” she loosely gestures. “Isn’t that what you’re saying?”

Levi holds her stare in reply.

“Then why are we entertaining the idea of probation?” Pieck asks. “This already works great with where he is. He can be alive, in prison, for the rest of his life.”

“So can you,” Levi grunts. “Somehow that idea is never entertained.”

Armin has already taken a deep breath to interject, but is stopped by Historia’s raised hand.

“We promised to be honest with each other,” she says, calmly staring Armin down. “It doesn’t have to be pleasant.”

Levi thanks her with a tilt of his head and straightens in his seat. “That speech won’t make the people feel heard. Jaegerists or not, the public wants to be represented, which we are severely falling behind on. Sure, we’ve shelled out resources for families directly affected by the Rumbling, and we’ve tackled several issues that thrived under the previous leadership, but this representation includes wanting fair judgment when it comes to the Warriors whose mouths our farmers feed, when they would rather be feeding their own.”

Connie shifts with a sigh. “That’s a whole can of worms we can’t open today. The farmers and field workers dread the following harvest season after half their yield failed this fall—and we already have infertile land to begin with.”

“Feeding five people isn’t starving the country,” Pieck quietly notes. Jean flicks his hand at her arm again.

“It’s about principle,” Annie murmurs to her, “that it could be five of theirs, but it’s five of ours.”

“Because everyone knows a kicked dog bites,” Levi comments, glaring directly at Annie. She diligently holds his stare.

“You are our people now,” Historia calmly says as she looks across the table. “It was my call to house you in Stohess, and there was no hesitation in making that decision. The city is half-empty. We’ve offered the same level of housing and comfort to every wall-adjacent family, and they’ve refused it. People don’t want to leave their homes. And if their houses are damaged, they don’t want to leave their villages. They’ve stopped running, for the better or worse. There is nothing to run away from anymore… for the better or worse.”

Historia maintains a steady voice as she continues. “Our real priority is to survive this winter. I mean that in every way possible. We can only assume there won’t be active warfare between civilians or militaries during the cold, as every war halts in winter. If we manage to settle the political climate by the time this snow thaws and the ice recedes, Commander Arlert will conduct surveys beyond the island to search for any remaining survivors and untapped resources. We will need experienced individuals for such tasks, and you, our Marleyans, will have an opportunity to contribute.”

“As for Eren,” Historia’s gaze shifts to me, “he will be granted probation. However, his actions don’t imply a severed connection. Eren belongs fully to the military, and by extension, to this country. He will serve our people through all means necessary and demonstrate his commitment to the path of peace we strive to walk. The extent of his role will be seized accordingly.”

Our eyes lock. She is not small or irrational as a leader—she is cautious, decided, always open to hear, but analyzing if it is prejudicial.

Historia leans forward, her expression firm, measured, eyes as blue as they ever were. “And it needs to be visible. Real. Weep, if you may, and bleed, if you must. The public has to perceive your alignment with the existing military as a genuine choice. Your grief has to convince. We’ll schedule your release as a public event, one that you asked for, making it known that you willingly join our efforts.”

Jean, who has been silent until now, speaks up. “We have to be prepared for potential riots. Every single word he says will be scrutinized the second they’re spoken. Public sentiment is fragile, so we’ll deal with some resistance—possibly more than expected—but security should be tight as long as we snuff out potential gathering spots and manage to disarm anyone with a weapon in a timely manner.”

The room is silent for a moment as everyone absorbs the gravity of the situation.

“A lot of people think you went too far, Eren,” Armin cuts through that silence, looking down at his hands resting on the table. “Like there had been another, more peaceful way—and maybe there was. But after everything you’ve told me, the chance of a real alternative becomes slimmer every day. Admitting it has been a hard fact to swallow. You can’t change what you did. We are aware that you would.”

“I would,” comes my silent whisper.

“No one in this room has forgiven you. It would be a miracle if we did. Still, we choose to show mercy, because that is the bar we wish to set for Paradis, and for the new world.”

Almost instinctively, I look at Levi to find that he is already looking back.Has he forgiven me?

“What if this fails?” Levi asks—not to me, but the others—without breaking our eye contact. “What if you use him, and it doesn’t work?”

“He still lives. Eren has already been spared,” Historia answers his question. “He paid for it through the cost of ideals, the cost of war, the cost of violence, the cost of oppression and prejudice, the cost of freedom, and his right to life just by being born.”

It strikes me with a sense of purpose, her acknowledgment of the multitudes I’ve paid.

Strangely, I do want to live. Not just survive, or get by. I want to contribute. I have to, for the amount I’ve taken, for every sacrifice that wound up empty, for the life I was given, though undeserving, because it has been spared by the people I’ve hurt the most.

But Levi persists. “So what would make you kill him?”

My heart drops at the question. Almost urging her to speak, I seek Historia’s eyes.

“If that was the only way for us to live,” Armin answers in her stead.

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

It’s early still, but today is the day. I felt the weight of it settling the moment I woke up.

Pale morning light washes in through slits of windows in the hallway, casting a muted glow. Only one guard with me this time. Our footsteps mingle in a silent rhythm. I wonder if it’s trust or a sense of privacy that has come into play.

Stepping inside the warden’s bathhouse, the wooden door softly creaks, announcing my intrusion into this haven. I am met with soothing warmth that envelops the room. Weathered and aged wall tiles in a minty shade glisten in lantern light, while dripping water echoes all around. The air hangs heavy with steam, the scent of soap, and the earthy smell of heated stones.

Tiles beneath my feet are cool to the touch. There’s a small wooden bench against one wall where towels, neatly folded, await their turn of service. I can almost feel the warmth emanating from the wooden tub, beckoning me to lie in it.

As I undress, the air kisses my bare skin. Light hits my body, flowing down from the lanterns suspended to the ceiling by chains. It traces the lines of my frame, from the broad expanse of shoulders to the tapering silhouette of hips, casts a warm hue upon the valley of muscle. Stepping into the bath, water embraces me without hesitation. Steam rises around my legs, enveloping me in tranquility, and I shiver at the contrast in temperature.

Bathing feels like a ritual—a cleansing of both flesh and spirit. I take my time with that solitude, pleasant this time, and soak it all up. The water is hot. Almost unbearable. But I revel in it, rubbing away at my body until it hurts to be touched. Soap glides over layers of sweat, and when rinsed, my skin feels waxy and dry. Clean, to the bone. It feels too good to leave, but I know my time here is limited. If I could, I would lie here until I disintegrated and went down the drain.

The towels left for me are dampened from the steam and smell slightly like mildew and wildflowers. I remember, from our cadet days, that we would store bedsheets and towels together with bagged, dried flowers to keep them smelling good. I hadn’t expected for that memory to resurface—it makes my heart flutter in confusion.

There is a mirror in the corner of the room. Though slightly fogged from the steam, it’s unscathed and in one piece, honing a frame worn by the hands of countless users. As I look into it, it reflects someone I’ve never known.

The stranger staring me down is much different from the memory I held of myself. In many ways, he is still a boy. In more, he is not. My gaze lingers on the contours of his face, searching for familiarity, but finding traces of those who came before. Frieda’s delicate features whisper in the curve of his lashes, the softness of his lips, arch of his neck just like Lara’s. The ghost of my father manifests in the stern set of his jaw, the pattern of facial hair. Kruger’s remorse hollows cheekbones, dulls the shine in his eyes, shadows under them betray sleep missed.

It’s a mosaic of my face. I look like I always have, but nothing like myself.

As I trace the lines of my body with my eyes, I read the legacies of those who carried their burdens before me. The mirror lends portal to a deeply ancestral ache, each contour, each feature swinging between past and present, snapping threads that connect generations, all of their fraying edges ending in me.

I grimace and observe myself from all angles. Months slipping away in confinement have allowed my hair to reach a length I hadn’t anticipated. Wet and stringy, it has grown, cascading past my collarbones in untamed strands. My shoulders have squared, eyes still that same pale green, skin missing the sun’s touch. Time has visibly gotten to me, if only a little.

The rhythmic drip of water from a leaky faucet is like a metronome.

A knock on the door behind, accompanied by the metallic creak of its latch. I turn to see the guard’s head. In his hand, he holds an object, wrapped in deep blue fabric.

“What is that?” I ask.

The officer’s features betray a sense of vigilance as he extends the item toward me. His demeanor holds a degree of caution. “From the Queen. I’ll retrieve it after.”

I accept the bundle, fingers delicately unwrapping the folds to reveal the contents. Nestled within the rich blue fabric lies a straight razor. It’s sharpened and polished, with a deep black handle, the blade of it gleaming faintly with my movements as I flick it open. What a sweet gesture—I feel a smile stinging the corners of my mouth.

I look up. “Thank you.”

“I will be staying here until you’re done,” he replies.

It doesn’t matter. This is a privilege, not a weapon, and it doesn’t matter that it’s granted under a watchful eye.

As the guard positions himself at a discreet distance, I turn back against the mirror and begin to soap up my face. Carefully, I glide the straight razor against the skin of my cheek, pulling it flat to avoid cuts. Hairs pop as the blade runs over them. You can barely hear it sing over the running water that unevenly hits the sink.

In the cadet barracks, the ritual of shaving was a communal affair. It was like a rite of passage that marked our journey from raw recruits to soldiers in the making. I remember the symphony of clinking razors and sleepy conversation, but always laughter. As a fresh-faced recruit with no knowledge on how to shave, I absorbed all the nuances by watching my fellow trainees. It was too embarrassing to admit that you didn’t know, so you pretended like you did—and peered in others’ mirrors for hints. Now, it’s like muscle memory, whipped into perfection during those formative years.

✣

“Holy sh*t. You look presentable,” Levi says, almost in disbelief, closing the door behind.

As I stand there, dressed in the regalia of a soldier, my hands subconsciously adjust the collar—a gesture ingrained from years of donning this attire. The weight of these boots against the floor makes even my steps firm. The scratchy wool is unfamiliar to my skin. The coat, adorned with the Queen’s emblem, feels tight across my shoulders, and the cotton shirt, while clean, lacks that lived-in comfort of the clothes I’ve been wearing in captivity.

Levi’s eyes quickly survey the transformation. His scrutiny lingers on the kempt appearance—the shaven face, the neatly combed hair, some color in my cheeks, still left over from the heat of the bath. The act of putting myself together feels more like a performance under his stare, but something about it is freeing.

I stand before Levi, a soldier in uniform again.

“It’s all decorum,” I respond, stepping back to the full body mirror. My hands pull at the belt around my coat, flatten the pockets. There’s vulnerability in the reflection. “Wish I had more time to get used to it again.”

“Good thing we won’t have ODM gear for this,” Levi grumbles. He vehemently objected to that choice in every meeting.

I shoot him a glance over my shoulder. “You think I don’t remember how to put it on?”

“Not that. You’d walk all funny. The new tweaks had us wobbling for a couple of days.” He pauses. “If you’re done, we should go. Most of them are already here.”

“For the meeting?” I take a final look in the mirror before turning.

“Last one—I hope,” Levi adds.

Together, we exit the room, descending the grand staircase. Polished marble steps softly echo with each footfall, but our walk to the council room is silent. Everything is silent. Each day leading up to this has felt like the quiet before a storm.

Weeks of meticulous planning behind, it felt smart for the event to land on Historia’s birthday: a decent excuse for a degree of festivity that would bring the people of Paradis together. The celebration is to be set in an open space, away from walls, as to speak, symbolizing a departure from the confined narratives of our past. The real reason was to avoid the evacuation of living quarters in order to fill them with Military Police officers—too many questions and potential for panic. By Armin’s suspicion and consequently correct guess, there were a number of soldiers who affiliated with the Jaegerists in one way or another, so every rank was carefully vetted. It bred the difficult decision to opt for a flatter landscape, rendering the ODM gear useless. A bullet travels faster than any of us could react, but we retain some advantage by staying ground-level.

Still, though mostly a guise for my appearance, it will be a celebration. Historia’s leadership drastically differs from the ones before her in the sense that she doesn’t seem to sit atop what belongs to her, like a dragon, or take much pride in her noble status. Instead, she gives to those in need. Historia called for donations to be allocated to families facing hardships, emphasizing her true commitment to community care. All of it extends beyond immediate necessities; there was enough in the Royal Capital to go around now that her leadership prohibited the hoarding of resources.

I have collected a considerable number of hours outside my cell. Between yard time, rides to Mitras and sitting through council room gatherings, there were only nights left to kill. I’ve been spending them in front of the speech, studying it, adding to it, and removing parts that sound stifled, rehashing the message over and over, like a broken gear. My corrections would be confirmed or denied in the following meetings, until we were left with what rests in my coat pocket now. Annie never changed her stance; she still believes I shouldn’t do it. The more I think about her words, the more convinced I am that she might be right.

The meeting begins as they usually do, though there is more tension present this time. Armin, seated next to Historia, shuffles through a stack of papers before glancing up to survey the room. His eyes move deliberately from face to face, ensuring everyone is in their designated position. Levi sits to his right, watchful. Connie and Jean, flanking the Marleyans, exchange looks as well. Hitch and her squad fill the remaining seats around me. But all as one, they seem to be moderately uncomfortable with the fact that I don’t look like a prisoner anymore.

Armin’s gaze turns toward the checklist of details that need to align. With a subtle clearing of his throat, he begins to address the room—looking at Jean first. “Rundown on our informant network, please.”

Tearing his eyes away from Connie, Jean refocuses the attention. “Surveillance is posted up at key locations, especially within the Military Police quarters. Select officers are keeping an ear to the ground, listening for any whispers or unusual activities. We’re relying on these insiders. I’ll be coordinating with them to gather intel; they might have picked up on something.”

“Are we clear on evacuation?”

“Yes. Our routes are set.” Jean nods at a guard to my left. “Officer Rott and his squad will be posted around the stage. We have three hundred checked soldiers stationed for security. Half of them will be on standby.”

Armin turns to Hitch, who is sitting slouched. “Private Dreyse?”

“Commander.” She straightens at her title. “We’ve reviewed the backgrounds of every officer involved in this operation. Any connections to known Jaegerist factions or other questionable affiliations have been removed and are already being investigated. Once we identify more suspects, we’ll conduct thorough interrogations. Pressure tactics, psychological assessments—whatever it takes at this point.”

“Like we discussed, the Royal Sentry stays at the palace to guard our Marleyans,” says Historia, catching Armin’s question before it passes his lips. “As we cannot afford any lapses in security, it will be on full lockdown. Only Mikasa’s command will be present at the event.”

Armin acknowledges her words with a nod, gaze shifting to Reiner. “Any concerns or requests from your end?”

“Some form of open communication,” Reiner replies, arms crossed over his chest. “I’d like to know how it goes. And if there’s anything we can do to help, we will.”

“That can be arranged.” Armin glances at a soldier who makes a note of the request. “Niccolo will join you after the Blouse family arrives. He doesn’t miss a chance to see them.”

Those words put a noticeable wedge in the atmosphere. I try not to look at anyone’s face.

“Captain, your role in security is paramount,” the new commander continues. “Keep sharp at all times. We’ve taken every possible precaution, but it might be a matter of seconds here. While we need to be fully aware that anything might happen at any given time, it is much more likely to occur the moment people see Eren.”

“And it will,” Levi silently notes, like a given.

Armin gives him a weighted stare. The semblance between him and Erwin in that moment, in this morning light, is uncanny. “One can only hope that their loyalty to the Queen won’t allow for it. In any case, we come prepared. Remember that we all adapt based on the crowd. I need a seamless execution here.”

While the commander's meticulous eye ensures that every detail falls in place, I stare straight at Historia. Blankly, without thinking much of it, just taking in the view. The large window behind illuminates a line of gold around her small silhouette, puffed up by lacy clothing, like a cornered animal trying to appear bigger than it is. Unruly hairs stick out of her crown of braids, shining white in the sun, making the real crown seem like it sits atop thorns, spines and prickles.

She turns twenty today. With the responsibility she carries, you’d think she was much older, but I see it in her eyes—the fear. Brows low, lips tight, Historia watches whoever is talking, and I feel the sweat gather cold on her lower back like my hand was pressed against it. I know how that brave heart pounds against her sternum, missing a beat here and there, feeling like it could jump out of her mouth, and I know what she’s thinking, looking each of us in the face: why are children weeding out shadows that might mar this fragile peace?

When she finally looks at me, I don’t have the courage to turn away. In that fleeting moment, I can almost hear Historia’s thoughts. Screams of decisions made and those yet to come. A beg for me to take her hand and lead her out of this room. A spark of uncertainty, silent sorrow, and the pact of war and sacrifice that binds us, all coexist in one short, clipped look across the table.

The speech presses down on my chest. Carefully chosen words meant to sway minds. I studied each line, absorbing the essence of the message, until it stopped making sense. It’s a call, a promise, a plea for understanding, which can mean a future to some, but also mean nothing to pain; to someone with a world lost.

“You of all people know how blind rage is,” Levi’s words play in my head.

Of course; I was born a vessel for it. But I don’t know how to contain it in others, much less myself.

✣

As attendees gather, the air fills with conversation. The cold is quickly drowned by the warmth of hot drinks and fresh food distributed by older children from Historia’s orphanage. Mouth-watering scents mingle with the cool breeze. Barrels containing fires dot the surroundings, providing not only heat but also communal focal points where people huddle together in shared anticipation. Their murmurs and shared stories weave through the air, punctuated by occasional laughter and the comforting crackle of the fires. Faces are illuminated by their soft glow, cheeks quickly growing red from the warmth.

In the spirit of unity and support, there are provisions for families in need. Food packages and donations are actively distributed to those who require assistance, fostering Historia’s sense of community care. Though it is the Queen’s birthday, the atmosphere is not extravagant by any means, but rather familial—it radiates a genuine desire for solidarity and resilience. Makeshift stalls are set up all around, where local artisans showcase their crafts. Handwoven blankets, warm clothing, and edible goods form a small marketplace atmosphere. In one corner, a group of musicians play soft melodies on stringed instruments. Their music becomes a backdrop to the lively hum of people. Children run around, laughter and squeals matching the lively melodies played. It feels wrong for joy like this to exist in the forefront of death riddling the world, even when it’s all I fought for.

Historia, embodying her role as the people’s Queen, moves among them, engaging in conversation left and right, while I watch it unfold from my vantage point behind the stage’s curtain; almost as if I need to stay in the shadows for her to get all the sun.

“That’s a lot of people,” I remark, eyes lingering on Historia still. “Is it safe for her to walk around like that?”

“Royal blood lost its value,” Armin replies, “and they like her.”

“Do they like her enough?”

“For now. The sentries are always nearby.”

I let the fabric fall and turn around, chasing a chesty breath on its heels. “Armin—”

“It’s too late for another option,” he already refutes my plea, adjusting his collar in discomfort. “This needs to happen, Eren. Even if only to see where we go from here.”

“I’ve always said more through actions, because I had the power to.” I loosely gesture at myself. “What do I have now?”

Hesitantly, Armin reaches out to take hold of me by my shoulders. We stand at an arm’s distance, looking each other down.

“You still wield influence. More than you realize,” Armin silently says. “I understand that this is a different kind of power than you know, but we need to use it. Historia may be able to offer materialistic support; you owe words to the families. To most of them, you gave futures. You carved a path for our children. Willingly or not, they have to walk it, because now, there is no other way.”

I don’t break away from his stare. Our children. I wouldn’t dare to ask if Annie’s pregnancy is genuine, or another device; not here, and not now.

Before I can gather my thoughts to respond, Jean’s voice breaks the moment. “Commander, all units are ready.”

The interruption pulls us back to the task at hand. I nod at Armin, and he lets go.

“You’ll hear me call you up,” he says. “Be prepared for anything.”

“I will.”

As Armin leaves for his own speech, the ambient sounds of the crowd and distant echoes of his voice on stage awaken anxiety in me. In the lull between his words and people cheering at various announcements, Levi approaches, expression more unreadable than ever. He stands next to me, looking out the thin sliver between the stage curtains, observing the scene with a critical eye, frown growing deeper with each passing second. I watch as well, ignoring the small distance between us.

“What are you thinking?” I finally ask.

Levi gives a brief nod toward the stage. “Whether any of it will work.” A brief pause. “You?”

I meet his gaze evenly. “Same thing.”

Levi’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t press further.

Clenching my fists in the pockets of my coat, I listen for the cue to go. When Armin’s voice fades away, leaving a momentary hush in the crowd, breathing is no longer automatic. Levi stands beside me, posture rigid, and I can sense the tension radiating even from him. The murmur of people is joined by occasional cheers and applause.

A glance towards Levi reveals his fear as much as it does mine.

Suddenly, I whisper: “I’m scared.”

“I’ll be on that stage with you,” he replies—his way of saying “me too”.

I turn back towards the gap in the curtains. Armin, from the podium, catches my eye. He nods subtly.

The signal to proceed.It’s time.

I take a deep breath. The air feels heavy and dense, like water washing up to my neck, but Levi and I move forward, stepping out from the concealed backstage into the view of the expectant audience. The transition from shadow to light, from silence to sound is too sudden. A sea of faces, illuminated by the soft glow of lantern fires, comes into focus.

A collective gasp ripples through the crowd. Whispers spread like wildfire, and the air crackles with shouts, erupts in silent cheers. The ones cheering don’t seem to want to cease. I catch the lingering gazes of others, eyes widening in recognition, some in complete disbelief. Stares that could kill, stares that thank me. Murmurs wash through the assembly. Between each other, families exchange looks of every kind. Some people pick up their children to allow them to see me better—others, for a swift exit.

The contrast between the celebratory atmosphere and my presence is steep. Air itself holds its breath, waiting for the next move. I can almost sense the audience’s pulse with my own.

Armin strides towards us, delivering a brief nod before relinquishing the podium to me. The metal railing is completely cold beneath my fingertips as I step up. Levi remains only one step behind.

The crowd moves like mercury, watching me in hushed anticipation.

I grip the edge of the podium and inhale through my nose. Just as I’ve opened my mouth to speak, a particular shout pierces the air, breaking the collective buzz. “It’s really him! It’s Eren Jaeger!”

This ignites a chain reaction of cheers and yells. A swell of support rises from civilians who align themselves with the Jaegerists, and their voices fuse into a chant before I even utter a single word. Some wave hands, while others thrust their fists into the air in a show of solidarity.

I feel a light touch on my lower back. It’s Levi.

Always a reminder to stay alert.

Slowly, and just barely, I raise my hand. At the sight of it, the volume of the crowd dissolves into a stunned silence, spreading like a wave. With bated breath, they wait for me to speak. It almost worries me how quickly I commanded this attention.

“People of Paradis,” I begin. “I stand before you as a face unfamiliar to many, but a voice that all of you have heard. It was through the Founder that I spoke to you, laying bare my intentions and professing a plan that, against all odds, succeeded.”

At Lara’s memories of her brother, I straighten, tilting my chin just slightly higher. Confidence. Dominance. Conviction.

“I made a declaration. Not just of my desires, but of our will to forge a new path, free from the chains of a past that sought to imprison us. To slave us. To kill us. In the face of adversity, Eldians have time and again demonstrated an indomitable spirit. In loss, we gained—in grief, we prevailed.”

There is so much hope in their eyes. Every face I look upon stares back at me with transparency like I’ve never seen before.

“We knew nothing of the world beyond for many peaceful years,” I continue. “Our intention was never to harm anyone outside the walls. In fact, the majority of us were blissfully unaware that there were others.”

Something inside me clicks: I’m straying further away from the final speech than I thought I would.

Still, I go on. “With full knowledge of our innocence, Marley chose a different path. Uniting the world to hate us, they subjected us to relentless attacks, unleashing horror upon our people, claiming that their sole motivation was fear. Fear—fear of the power we harnessed, in our blood and inside our walls. Why provoke something you fear? Why throw rocks at a dog, knowing it will drive him wild? These are the actions of a predator, not a nation cowering in fear.”

They deserve to hear it. Brainwashed for ages, punished for speaking the truth, memories wiped—knowledge is a freedom, too.

“In the face of those who sought to strip away our liberties, my response was not submission, but a right to stand my ground. They tried to take our future. We were more than justified in seeking to reclaim what is rightfully ours.”

The screams are louder than before.

“And yet, I stand before you today, not as a symbol of victory, but a reminder to not be blinded by our anger,” I continue. “Instead, let us channel that rage into having a tomorrow. It is no secret that our world has been marred by this conflict. We cannot ignore the price that was paid to secure our right to live.”

“Look beyond the island, and you’ll witness a world worn down by strife and suffering. We can’t afford to perpetuate conflicts among ourselves when the threat lies in our dwindling resources. Our survival depends on unity, on developing what little we have left, not squandering it in futile battles. Paradis stands alone now. There is no ally waiting on the horizon to come to our aid. If we turn on each other, we play directly into the hands of extinction.”

I pause, letting my words settle. Again, this reminds me… At one point in time, the Scouting Regiment was making great strides—toppled a fake king by throwing a coup, imprisoned a suicidal regime, and made ground-breaking discoveries that would benefit the country. But before that, we were seen as a waste of taxes, a human disposal, a certain death. Underfunded, fighting to prove to the government that there could be life outside the walls, slicing through the flesh of our own people morphed into brutal monsters, when it was always a game to be lost. Most people hadn’t even seen a Titan. They would never believe the horror until they witnessed it themselves. By then, it was usually too late.

None of these people have seen what it looks like outside of Paradis now. I don’t think they would cheer for me if they had. That kind of emptiness and desolation is impossible to describe, and even harder to accept as real. Their shock would quickly turn into anger—the same anger Levi harbored against me the first few times we talked—a collective question of “How could you do this to us?”

The audience is quiet. With a soft breath, I continue. “Regardless of our differences, the Eldians we house from Marley are no longer our enemies. They seek the same warmth under the sun as we do. The strength of Paradis lies not in division, but—”

Mid-sentence, a shrill voice cuts through the murmur: “Shooter in the crowd!”

Before I can even grasp the situation, I am already in motion. All I feel is a force slamming into me that knocks me off balance. In an instant, I crash to the ground, Levi’s body shielding mine with suffocating weight.

A sharp crack pierces the air, the sound reverberating through my skull. The world fractures for a split second.

A searing rush flashes near my head, putting a hole through the wooden podium.

I flinch instinctively, eyes wide, muscles tensing in response to the sound of a gunshot as I smell the proximity of danger—the graze of a bullet that narrowly missed its mark. Panic claws at the very edges of my consciousness, threatening to consume me.

Screams blend together in a chorus of fear. Footsteps of guards across the stage rumble thin wood planks under my back. Levi shouts at someone over my head. Then, the world narrows down to our shared space on the cold ground, and nothing else remains.

My senses sharpen, every nerve on edge. As I look up, our eyes lock immediately. A charged energy passes between us like a jolt of lightning.

Our bodies are close—too close, intimately close, close in ways and parts they have never been close in, and Levi doesn’t pull away from it. The heat radiating from his breath washes over my cheek like a caress in the cold. As if life itself were to flash before my eyes, I become extensively aware of each detail—the sharp smell of my sweat traveling up the collar of my shirt, whipping my nose, the weight of Levi’s torso, the shared shock that reverberates through us both. Sweat coats his forehead, and I can feel the tension in every line of his frame. Levi’s breath, shallow and quick, matches the rhythm of my own. I smell tobacco in it. I inhale greedily, like a smoker without a fix. And all I can think of, grazed by death, is that I don’t want to fight it anymore.

The thought hangs in the air like a tantalizing temptation that I can almost taste in my mouth. What a truth it has been to avoid. What a relief it is to face it. What a pity that it’s too late now.

I lie under him, still in my defeat. There is poorly masked panic in Levi’s eyes. I find myself drawn to the subtle nuances in his expression—the tension in his eyebrows, the fear of loss he never stops carrying around, masked by strength that diligently follows suit. His grip on me tightens for only a second.

“Stay down,” he orders, tone brooking no argument.

I nod, heart pounding in my ears, as he begins to move.

Cautiously, Levi attempts to crawl forward, seeking a vantage point around the corner of the podium. But as he inches closer, the metallic crack of another gunshot thunders. The bullet strikes the ground perilously close to him, sending a spray of wooden shards into the air.

Levi whips his head back, forehead snapping down against my shoulder to protect his eyes. “f*ck. f*ck.” He quickly retreats, pulling me upright with him. The podium is an inadequate shield, and offers little shelter, but it’s our only refuge.

I breathe fast through my mouth. “They know we’re still here.”

“This is taking too long,” he hisses. “Something is wrong.”

“Do we wait?”

“No. We have to get out of here.” Levi looks over his shoulder. “You see any guards?”

I scan my side of the stage. Amidst the chaos, it’s almost impossible to spot a single green uniform in the dim light. “None on my end,” I say, turning back to him.

Levi’s eyes narrow as he takes in our surroundings. Then, his hand swiftly moves under his coat, retrieving a sleek handgun. Slowly, wide shoulders guarding the motion, he puts it into my hand.

I’ve always been a shifter, relying on primal strength and brute force. It has been so long that the weight of a gun is unfamiliar; dense metal that demands a different kind of skill and resolve, a tool designed for a different kind of warfare. For years, my arsenal was flesh and blood.

I flash Levi a bewildered look. “I can’t.”

“I didn’t ask. Take it.”

The metal feels cold against my skin. Looking down at it, I remember what Armin said. “Do you have a knife?”

“A knife?”

“Anything sharp.”

Levi shoves his hand behind the fold of his coat and pulls out a dagger the size of my palm. It sits neatly in a brown leather sheath. Without saying a word, I exchange his gun for it. He gives me a questioning look as I stuff the weapon up the sleeve of my coat.

“People out there still think I can shift into a Titan,” I say, making sure the dagger stays put. “Them seeing my blood lends me more power than the sight of a gun in my hand.”

He lowers his head in disbelief. “You can’t count on bluff alone. Eren, that’s—”

“Look. There.” I point my finger at a group of officers emerging behind a column of the stage. “That’s Rott’s squad.”

Right away, Levi leans over my lap. Without hesitation, he signals to the soldiers, directing their attention to us. The urgency in his gestures conveys a clear message: how many?

One of the officers sends back a single lifted finger. Only one reported shooter. Identity and location unknown. That uncertainty adds to the tension, but at least the focus is singular.

Levi turns to me. “We have to split.”

Panic rises within me like a tide, and I can’t help but voice it. “What if there’s more than one?”

His response is swift and clipped, leaving no room for reassurance. “Can’t afford to assume. We have to act as if there’s more. You make a run for the guards—I’ll go the other way.”

I glance at the soldiers. The distance between me and them is big enough, and I become gripped by some visceral fear. Escaping with no ODM gear is a huge risk; neither of our legs are a match for good aim and the speed of a bullet.

Levi motions for the officers to cover us. Though startled, the men show a commendable level of readiness as they lift their guns. Slowly, he begins to shift back to the edge of the podium.

I grab his arm. Too many words linger on the tip of my tongue. “I—”

“I’ll find you,” he cuts me off. “I will.”

Levi’s inability to express the depth of his feelings has always been evident, but in his clear-cut stoicism, I find a kind of desperation. His eyes betray everything words could never convey. I want to believe them more than ever now.

With a firm nod, I release my grip on his arm and brace myself for the run. Adrenaline courses through my veins, electrifying every muscle in my body. I feel the weight of seconds ticking away. A deep inhale steadies my nerves, and I plant my feet firmly on the floor, coiled like a spring.

Our eyes lock in a final, charged exchange. And then, in unison, we break away, each launching in opposite directions.

I sprint towards the edge of the stage, pulse thudding in sync with my footsteps. Gunshots ring out, tearing through the air with a sickening volume, hitting wood, putting holes in draped fabric. Without hesitation, I vault myself over the edge. The officers reach out to pull me in their midst.

Safe behind the column, I turn in panic, eyes scanning the stage for any sign of Levi. He’s not there. Good—that means he made it.

More distant gunshots ring through the air as the soldiers lead me behind the stage. We stick to the shadows, moving swiftly towards shouts on the other end. The hum of panic in the crowd serves as both a mask and a hindrance, providing cover for our movements, and amplifying the unpredictability; as if there was a threat behind every corner. In that dusky light, chaos and urgency only grow. The guards guide me through the pathways backstage, weaving through bustling personnel and hurried activity. In the midst of the tumult, I recognize a face: Jean stands between more officers, giving out orders and coordinating evacuation.

Despite everything between us, he looks visibly relieved when he spots me. Jean gestures for some of the soldiers to continue their tasks and approaches us with clear urgency.

“Chief Kirschtein,” one of the guards salutes.

“Officer Rott.” Jean acknowledges the greeting with a look. “I’ll handle Jaeger. Get these people to safety. Use whatever means necessary.” He turns to the soldiers waiting behind. “The rest of you, assist with crowd control—there’s children here.”

The guards disperse, adhering to Jean’s orders, leaving me standing with the newly appointed chief. Without uttering a word, he gestures for me to follow him away from the traffic of people.

His eyes scan me, like confirming that I’m unharmed. “Did they get you?”

I shake my head, finally getting to catch my breath. “No. I got off stage as soon as it started.”

“Where’s Captain Levi?”

My mind falters at the question. “He’s not here?”

Jean doesn’t immediately respond, and I see the wheels turning in his mind. “If he’s not with you, he might be caught up somewhere. Stay close. Let’s check around.”

Both of us begin weaving through the backstage area, maneuvering around crew members, props, and hastily erected barricades.

“We’ve got multiple reports of shooters,” Jean says over his shoulder, his pace brisk. “Some are said to be Military Police, which is why we’ve diverged from the initial plan.”

“Armin already said it was a possibility,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady despite struggling to keep up. “We knew that could happen. I thought that was the plan.”

His jaw clenches in guilt he carries as the Chief of Officers. “You’d think we knew better than to not shoot our own. It keeps coming down to this, again and again.”

“Well, no sh*t. You had Hitch on background check.”

“Shut up,” Jean snaps. “At least we came prepared this time. A checkup will reveal who fired their weapons. We’ve kept track of the bullet count each officer was issued, as well as the serial numbers of each officer’s gun. If we find one that shouldn’t have been fired, we’ll know.”

As he goes on discussing the contingency plan, a sudden realization freezes me in my steps.

Jean glances back at me, sensing the shift in my demeanor, and stops as well. “What?”

“Historia’s out there.”

“The Royal Sentry is with her,” he asserts. “She’s capable.”

“Half of Paradis is here, and we have rats in the MP. Didn’t only Mikasa’s command come with? How many people is that?”

He stands still, fingers fidgeting with the rifle in his hands, and his face is suddenly riddled with contemplation.

“Give me the number, Jean,” I press, anxiety rising.

“Twelve. But—”

A commotion erupts. It seems to be coming from the main square, and it could be anyone. When we whip our heads back to look at each other, that eye contact is the only affirmation I need to launch myself back into the chaos.

Instinctively, I push through the crowd, Jean at my heels.

“Eren, slow down,” he hisses, yanking at my elbow. “You don’t know what you’re walking into.”

“The first shot came at the mention of Marleyans,” I retort over my shoulder, pace unyielding. “If they want something, it’s going to be an ultimatum.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Why else would a soldier take that kind of risk so publicly? They want to be heard.”

As we approach the main square, the crowd seems to part before us, almost creating a path. The petrified expressions on their faces reveal the scene ahead: Historia standing stiffly in the middle of it all, the barrel of a gun pressed against her back. Only a few soldiers stand around her, rifles held up at civilians. Barely enough of them to fully surround the Queen.

The sight freezes me in my tracks. Not expecting me to stop, Jean lightly bumps into my shoulder.

Every instinct urges me to make a move, but I opt to assess the situation first. I’m not nearly as invincible as I used to be. I can’t afford to make mistakes; not even one.

“Cover for me,” I whisper to Jean, looking straight ahead.

Without protest, he co*cks the gun and lifts it up over my shoulder. “Officer Abel, lower your weapon.”

Paced and slow, we start walking towards the center of the square. The soldiers reposition to stand in front of Historia.

Abel points his rifle directly at me. “Stay where you are.”

“You won’t shoot,” I note.

“Already did. Stand back.”

The hilt of Levi’s dagger is nestled in the folds of my coat. Without a moment’s hesitation, wrapping my hand around the blade, I slice through the palm of my hand. It stings more than I remember, but I can’t let that show.

Onlookers gasp at the act, and panic taints the air. Holding my injured hand aloft, I let the blood drip down my wrist, into the sleeve of my shirt, in a silent but potent warning.

“No one moves,” I say, slowly. “No one.”

Their group registers my implicit threat. I lock eyes with the agitators, one by one, watching the red glint of the dagger catch their attention. Guns lower, if only by an inch. Jean, standing at my side, doesn’t flinch this time. He understands the psychological impact here. But I do feel, and hear, his breath hit the back of my head, heavier than it did before.

With the corner of my eye, I notice the body of a much smaller gun swim into view, flanking my other shoulder; the hands of a man whose presence haunts my thoughts.

“Buy more time,” Levi’s voice comes soft, like a murmur. Relief washes over me at the sound of it. “Mikasa is right there.”

“Only now?” Jean murmurs back, just as faintly.

This distraction does work to our advantage. In the pool of faces, Mikasa, clad in the fine armor of the Royal Sentry, maneuvers behind the assailants. Her movements are precise and measured, though slow, to avoid making too much sound.

The rifle is still pressed against Historia’s back. Oblivious to the approaching threat from behind, the officer speaks up again. “You won’t transform. Too many people here; you’d kill them.”

“I’ve killed more,” I reply.

It’s almost as if the audience shudders. I wish I didn’t have to say that, though the result is immediate: I see their fingers tighten around the guns, knuckles strained white, heads sinking into their shoulders at the realization of my capacity.

In a seamless ballet of coordination, Mikasa closes the distance some more.

“Drop your weapons, and we’ll talk,” Jean calls out.

Officer Abel shakes his head. “It’s too late for talking. We tried that. It failed.”

Behind my back, I hear Levi whisper to Jean: “She’ll take out the one behind Historia. You take both on the right side.”

“What do you want?” I press on, taking another step.

“How many children did the Marleyans kill?” Abel screams, Historia’s throat in the ditch of his elbow as he bellows to the crowd. “How many resources have we wasted in recovery of their terror? Our blood stains our soil, shed at the hands of the Warriors in the Queen’s protection. What price have they paid?”

I stop in my tracks. Mikasa is already there, sword raised above her head.

“Go,” I mouth.

With characteristic precision, swift and silent, and without much mercy, she incapacitates Abel, the lead soldier. Following her cue, the lethal efficiency of Jean and Levi’s aim clear the surrounding officers, cutting short pleas for another chance. Guns clatter as their bodies crumple to the ground around Historia.

Complete silence follows. Only the cry of a child can be heard.

I maintain my stance, hand still raised above my head, and cover the distance between Historia and I in long strides, stepping over bodies that are still warm. In front of her, I kneel in blood-soaked snow.

“What are you doing?” she whispers. The trembling of her body is betrayed by her skirt.

“Submitting,” I whisper back, meant for her ears alone.

Then, for all to hear, I raise my voice, “As I kneel before the Queen, I pledge to dedicate my life to Paradis.”

She is silent at first. But within a few blinks, a delicate, pale hand is presented to me, like a blossom unfurling. I take it into my bleeding palm, covering her fingertips in blood.

Our hands form a covenant.

Historia lifts her head to address the crowd. “People of Paradis, witness this pledge.” Her voice is firm, concealing the shaking in her shoulders. “Marley is no longer our enemy. To rise above, we must look beyond. To disobey is to cross a line where peace won’t follow.”

These words resonate through the square. A stinging chill nips at my knee from shoving it into snow, but I remain still.

“As I stand before you, I spare the life of Eren Jaeger, for there shall be peace as long as he lives,” she continues, looking back down at me. “May the better of our souls reign in our midst.”

“And may the mercy of Paradis prevail over our wrath,” I finish, pressing my lips against her knuckles.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

Solace lives in the rhythmic thud of my boots against the frozen ground. The laps I run, already worn into snow by weeks of restless pacing, mirror my thoughts. They are the same in their circular nature, solidifying more and more with each pass, starting on the left foot, until landing on the right. They run in an endless stream, like a river. No beginning, and no real end.

The powers that be decided to postpone my release until any movement within the MP could be contained. But because of my impulsivity and choice to reiterate the danger I could still be, it took over a month to reach that point. Guards, once steadfast in their duty, exchange wary glances as they patrol the prison grounds. My encounters with officials are tense and guarded. Suspicion festers like a wound that refuses to heal. The notion that I may still be a shifter put Armin through a great deal of responsibilities, as the illusion of transformation cast me into the role of a perceived threat again. Of course, it only granted momentary control. Not that I still possess that power—I only had the influence of fear. An aftertaste, bitter. No one wants to go back to how it was, but I’m not sure how eager they are for change.

It was an uncertain month. Cold, unforgiving, and very long. Most days I could barely see outside the window, and the edges of its frame were coated in thin, blooming ice. It was also lonely. Due to the frequency of storms, most officers remained stationed at their original posts, and I was not granted much yard time. Going from regular trips outside the prison back to a dull solitude and counting hours by the changes of guards left a mark: it allowed my mind to wander again. The one thing I wanted the least was for my memories to stray where I feared they would.

Among the countless thoughts that found their way into the recesses of my head, there was one truth that lingered, refusing to be dismissed. I had evaded it for years, burying it much like a dog would bury a bone, knowing just where to look, but hoping I never had to. In denial, I marched on, flattening the ground atop. But in the quiet moments, my fingers instinctively dig back into the soil, spreading it loose.

It took a brush of real mortality for that temptation to awaken from slumber. It stood exposed, too potent to ignore or wish away. For all the power I’ve ever yielded, I am too weak in my affection. I’ve already knelt in front of it, without being given an order. A dogmatic submission that needs no explicit command—it simply is.

And I’ve felt desire before. Of many kinds, and many lives. But this is a love that consumes with an intensity that defies reason, so overbearing that it would breed wrath—so sincere that it begs for a lie. What a force it is, beyond boundaries or rationale, numbing me down to a hollow core and begging for admission. A force that wishes to finally be put into its rightful place.

I think that in my festering anger, an equal measure of love was born. In paradoxical coexistence, in a delicate duality, both remain eternally present within the confines of my body. Like fear, a sense of admiration. Like hurt, a glimmer of understanding. He is peace, and I am freedom, and we are not natural enemies.

Gasping for air, I stop to lean against the fence. Sweat trickles down my brow. I wipe at it with the sleeve of my shirt, and fabric sticks to my skin from the damp.

Armin wasn’t the only one who faced repercussions—Levi provided a weapon to a high-security prisoner, which barred us from any kind of interaction until my release. In this month of isolation, I haven’t seen him once. Countless times, I could almost hear the cadence of Levi’s footsteps down the prison hallway, finding his limp in the slow stride of other officers. My resilience has been tested plenty, but never more than now. I never knew what comfort his silence would bring me, until it was only my own, and not his.

I sink to my knees and scoop up handfuls of snow. Eager, I press them against my forehead to cool off. It quickly succumbs to the warmth of my skin and melts under the exuding heat. Cold water trickles down my hands, my face and neck, into the collar of my shirt, running over my chest in electrifying streaks. Huffing, I sit through the sensation as my pulse quickens before it finally slows.

When the guard’s voice cuts through the air, announcing the end of my time out here, I reluctantly rise to my feet. He watches as I gather myself. Wiping my hands into my pants, I follow the guard’s lead back towards the prison building.

Our walk is silent. The biting chill slowly begins to gnaw at any exposed skin, and all sweat grows cold. When the cellblock comes into view, I notice that the door of my room is open. My muscles tighten in learned anticipation as I exchange a quick glance with the guard. He gives me a nod, indicating that I can proceed.

Levi sits by my desk, writing. His back is turned against me, and he doesn’t turn when I enter.

When the door closes behind me, excitement mingles with hard restraint. With little hesitation, and not a word spoken, I proceed to undress. The shirt clings to my skin, damp from sweat and melted snow, but is pleasant to remove. All that can be heard is the faint ruffling of my clothes, and the soft thuds of them dropping.

I sense Levi’s attention, though he keeps it fixed on the task at hand.

Kneeling by the barrel of water in the corner, I dip my hands into it. It’s so cold today that my skin prickles. With quick, practiced motions, I attempt to wash away the sweat and fatigue that have accumulated.

As the water drips down my face and back into its source, I steal a glance in Levi’s direction, and see the profile of his face, though he remains seated. Something in his posture suggests a pause. He doesn’t fully turn, maintaining a degree of privacy—or avoiding a direct gaze—but I know I am now in his peripheral.

“You could’ve asked me to leave,” he silently says.

“I don’t mind,” I reply in a steady voice. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

Levi finally turns, facing me with a deliberate motion. His eyes lock onto mine, as if my bare body wasn’t in the room with us, and there’s a look in them that feels like spite. “I need to take you to the stables. We’ll start breaking in a horse for you.”

“That’s it?” Cupping water, my hands run through my hair. “Thought you might have more to say after all this time.”

He observes in silence. “I don’t. Not here.”

“Are we going today?”

“Whenever you’re done. The guards brought in a change of clothes.” Levi nods towards the bed. “It gets cold after the sun sets.”

I stand up. Without seeking them, I feel his eyes fall on me like a weight, and try to imagine what they see. Water trickle from my hair, over my stomach, in lazy streams. Not enough of it to soak; just droplets rolling on skin, illuminated by pale sun leaking in through the window. Softly, they hit the floor as I move to dry off and dress into clean clothes. Levi follows every motion bathed in the light, marking each bead that cascades down. Hard to decipher the words said with that look, but I won’t try and guess.

“You’ve lost weight,” he notes, concise.

I freeze, but only for a second.

“Some,” comes my reply. “So have you.”

“How?”

“Your hands.” I nod at his fingers that rest on the back of the chair, before pulling a shirt on. Barely noticing it myself, I move closer, like there was a tide drawing me in.

Levi stares down at his hand, as if contemplating some newfound fragility. Then, his eyes narrow, shifting to mine. “How did yours heal up?”

I glance down at my palm, as if noticing the scar for the first time. “This? It’s nearly gone.” I extend my hand, palm up, as if offering an explanation, and run my fingers over the area, tracing the path where the wound split skin. “Took forever, though.”

Levi leans in slightly, studying the cut. “It’s scarring over.”

Small patches of dry, flaky skin cling to the edges in evidence of the body’s attempt to mend itself. The color is a muted pink, too bright and unnatural, compared to my dark skin.

“I cut deep,” I admit, rotating my hand to catch the light. “But it healed, like everything else.”

✣

The stables come into view soon. Behind the wide building, a vast pasture stands, where snow blankets the ground, shimmering in the soft light of the winter sun. Approaching the entrance, I can smell hay and manure. Levi and I enter through a creaking wooden door. Passing through, I run my fingers over the rough texture of the stall, feeling the grooves and scratches etched into wood by years of use. The smell intensifies, edged with pungent sweat. It hits me like a wave, earthy, rooty, and almost comforting—trainee days flood back like a learned instinct, reminding me of the countless hours spent mucking out stalls, tending to animals, dozing off in the hay bales stacked in barn lofts when exhaustion claimed my body.

Nights were not only filled with horses settling in their stalls, but also the hushed conversations of tired cadets. Stories swapped, fears doused, advice shared, and the weight of each day’s challenges lifted through laughter. Witnessed only by the rough-hewn beams overhead, bore by each other, here lived our whispered dreams of becoming elite soldiers. Of leading better lives. Hushed confessions of love, hasty expressions of it—too cramped in the common barracks to let it fly, too young to even grasp how quickly those feelings would be forced to fade out. We were all soldiers, born out of the anger of children. Untamable, that sort of rage is, no cap strong enough to seal it off.

We step into the dimly lit barn. Stalls line the sides, some empty, some housing their residents, who acknowledge our presence with wary glances, ears flicking in lazy curiosity. Their sound of shifting and soft whinny create a rhythm I know too well. Shafts of sunlight pierce through the small openings, casting golden beams onto the straw-covered floor. It crunches under our boots as we walk.

The tack room stands in the corner, filled with equipment used in training and grooming. Saddles hang neatly on their racks, patiently waiting for their next use. Well-oiled leather, metal, and polished wood shine alike. Rows of bridles, bits, and halters hang neatly on hooks, each bearing the marks of countless fittings and adjustments. I run my fingers over the supple leather as we pass by, feeling up the stitching and worn edges.

“These are the new ones,” Levi says, his voice low, as if not wanting to disturb the animals. “They’re young, so they all need tamed.”

“Always had a tame horse before,” I murmur. “Are they wild?”

“No. Just young. Some already got saddle broken, and most are used to seeing people. Soldiers tend to bring their tame horses in, so they won’t be as skittish as you might expect.”

As we step out into the pasture, the cool air stings my eyes again, as does the hanging sun. Our faces are concealed by masks, but wind still manages to cut through.

In the field, horses move gracefully like dark omens against the white backdrop. Their breath rises against cold air. Some, manes and tails flowing, prance around playfully, circling each other in a trot, leaving traces of hoofprints in untouched snow. Distant hills frame the pasture, contours softened by a thin veil of winter mist. Everything seems still. The untamed beauty of the sight is mesmerizing.

As Levi and I move further into the pasture, the horses regard us with wariness. Their eyes, sharp and intelligent, follow our every move, assessing the intruders in their domain.

Levi gestures towards a group nearby. His knowledge is evident in the way he discerns their temperaments. “That one, with the star,” he points to a sturdy brown mare, “she’s got some kick, but should be manageable. You might want to start with a horse that’s more likely to hold a saddle than going for a feral one.”

I nod, absorbing Levi’s insight. “How long does breaking in a horse take?”

“Depends on who you pick.”

“I mean, on average?”

He stares off into the distance. “Months. But that will give you plenty to do.”

I step closer, my hand cautiously extending toward the mare. She snorts, eyeing me with caution. “Hey,” I speak in a soothing tone, letting her familiarize herself with my presence.

The mare, along with the rest of the horses in her group, reacts to my approach. As if in unison, they take a few cautious steps backward. I halt, realizing I may have been too hasty, and turn to Levi in defeat.

He watches as the horses distance themselves. “Once they trust you, they become more responsive. It won’t be as easy out in the open. If they have space to move, they will.” Levi gestures towards the stables. “Maybe you should start in there.”

I pull my mask down. “I think I’d rather work with one in the pasture. I want them to have the freedom to choose whether they trust me or not.”

“It will take longer.”

Yes, like any sentient beings, they get to choose whether to form a connection or not. It’s a principle that resonates with our quest for freedom and autonomy—coexisting in a space where trust is earned, not demanded.

“I know, but I want to try. In a stable, they’re confined. Controlled. Trust, to some extent, can be coerced. Out here, roaming, it becomes a voluntary offering.”

Yanking his own mask below his chin, Levi frowns. “Do you feel the same about yourself?”

“In a way. A prisoner always yields to power, right?”

“You tell me.” His response is casual, almost nonchalant, as if the answer is self-evident. “You’ve been a free man for nearly two hours now.”

I blink, processing the information, but his words don’t immediately sink in. Two hours—since we left the prison? My mind searches for the significance of the timeframe. And like a sudden revelation, it hits me.

The shock registers itself on my face as a slow dawning understanding. A quick glance around, taking in the surroundings anew. There was no grand announcement that my release was today. It’s not as if I had personal belongings to gather from my cell, but something in me had expected at least a warning.

I turn to Levi, jaw loose in surprise. “Today’s the day?”

He nods in confirmation, almost amused by the look on my face. “Sorry, no fanfare. We thought, the less attention it gets, the better.”

“So, what now?” Uncertainty paints my voice. “Where do I sleep? What do I do?”

“You report to me. You’re not… entirely free, but you’ve got a lot more freedom than you did in that cell.” Levi continues, laying out the structure of my new life. “You’ll be living at the orphanage. It’s a safe place, away from prying eyes, and you’ll have your own quarters there.”

“It’s not far from here, is it?”

“No. Just a couple miles west.” He nods behind me. “Since you’re on probation, you will also deal with community work. When the weather allows, they might call you out to the farmlands. For now, you will mostly be working construction, tending to animals, or whatever else needs done. It’s a way to contribute and keep you occupied.”

A question forms in my mind, and I voice it, breaking the silence that follows Levi’s explanation. “What about you?”

With a scoff, he says: “Like a dog on a leash here. I have to make sure you don’t deviate from assigned routines.”

“And if I resist or try anything?”

“I’ve been given the authority to take necessary measures.”

“But I’m out. Right?”

“You’re out.”

A spark of childlike excitement ignites within me at the state of it all. Rolling my head back, I chew the inside of my cheek to resist smiling. Without a second thought, I squat down to gather a handful of snow. Fingers tingling, I mold it into a snowball. Then, rising to my full height, I take aim and launch it towards him.

He’s so shocked that he doesn’t even flinch. Levi’s eyes close for a split second as the snowball makes contact, leaving a streak of powdery white on his dark coat.

The pasture fills with my silent laughter. It’s such a foreign joy to laugh at something—the sound of it is strange, and my stomach tightens, as if my body was discovering a forgotten muscle.

Catching my breath, I snap the mask back over my nose. “Had to see if that would kill me.”

“Let’s go get food for the horses.” Levi slowly pats the snow off the breast of his coat. “But great idea; they might like you more if they assume you’re an idiot.”

I turn to comply with his suggestion, but a sharp, cold sensation hits the back of my neck. I whirl around, eyes narrowing, only to find Levi standing there, hands awkwardly tucked into his pockets, as if he had nothing to do with it.

“I had my back turned.” Shaking my head, I pick out snow from my hair. “Where is your honor?”

Levi maintains his façade, glancing away as if he’s genuinely disinterested. When he turns to me, his sudden alertness speaks volumes: he steps away, gaze fixated somewhere behind my shoulder.

“Now, don’t make any sudden movements,” he instructs in a low voice, hand raised mid-air. “Stay still.”

Curiosity piqued, I slowly follow Levi’s line of sight, rolling my head over my shoulder. There, approaching with a curious gait, is a black horse. It takes a few tentative steps, ears perked forward as if drawn by something intriguing, until it stops.

“Might’ve been your laughter,” he remarks silently. “They’re sensitive to unusual sounds. Normally, that drives them away.”

I remain frozen, watching as the horse inches closer, nostrils flaring as it sniffs the air. “This one seems…. Do you think—”

“Try reaching out,” Levi whispers, answering my question. “Slow, steady. Keep your movements deliberate. Let it get used to your presence before attempting to touch it. If it steps back or shows signs of discomfort, give it space.”

Encouraged by his words, I extend my hand, fingers outstretched in a gesture of goodwill. The horse eyes me for a moment, searching for signs of danger, and then, with a hesitant but conscious movement, it takes a step closer. I hold my breath, still as Levi instructed, allowing the animal to close the gap. Its hot breath mingles with the cold air as it sniffs my outstretched hand, the palm of which I remember to keep open.

Soft, velvety lips delicately brush against my hand, exploring it for potential treats. In a playful, but very determined manner, it nudges and sniffs, seeking out any hidden morsels. The sensation is amusing, and I softly hum in delight. With the same hand, I carefully reach out to touch the horse’s head, fingers grazing its mane. The texture of its coat is warm and coarse, a deep, glossy black gleaming under the faint sun that falls through the clouds. The animal stands with a proud and sturdy posture, muscles subtly defined, while large, brown eyes, hugged by lashes nearly the length of a finger, reveal curiosity.

“I think it likes me,” I silently say, tracing my fingers back and forth over the stubbly coat. Leaning to the side, I glance down at its hindquarters.

“Male?” Levi asks.

“Definitely,” I note with a snicker. “Is there anything I can I feed him?”

“I’ll get some roots from the barn.”

I’m left alone with the stallion for a brief while. Levi returns, holding a basket of vegetables. But as he approaches, other horses in the pasture seem to notice the basket—or recognize what it may hold. They start to close the distance, eager for a treat.

“We’re getting flanked,” I say, reaching in to pull out a carrot. My stallion sniffs the vegetable, his nostrils flaring in recognition of the sweet scent. As I stretch my hand, he almost delicately takes the carrot into his mouth, the warmth of breath washing over my skin. “You know, I think he’s been handled before.”

Levi steps closer, letting the stallion get accustomed to his presence through another carrot. “Seems like it. The older kids at the orphanage tend to the stables, so it’s possible he’s someone’s favorite. Does look young, though. I’m not sure if you can ride him yet.” Levi glances at the approaching horses. “Let me try and check his teeth.”

Levi moves beside the stallion, unhurried, as if he were testing the waters. With a gentle, firm hand, he lifts the horse’s upper lip, exposing rows of teeth. His fingers run along the incisors, feeling their contours and inspecting the wear. The horse is surprisingly calm, so Levi then shifts to the molars, gauging the development. His fingers move skillfully. For a moment, I fear they will get snapped off.

Upon completing his inspection, Levi steps back. “I’d say he’s about two. A bit over, since his molars are coming in.”

“Is that good?”

“That’s what you want.” He wipes his hands, using the snow as a napkin. “He’s physically mature enough to handle that kind of weight. Let’s feed the others and head to the orphanage. We’ll have dinner there, so you can ask around for the kid who knows this horse.”

We distribute the remaining vegetables to eager muzzles reaching out for offered treats. The air fills with the sounds of content munching and occasional snorts. Some of them are nippier, backing off right after they’ve had their fill, some greedily push at my hand for more.

“Is Historia there?” I ask as we set back out to the barn.

“She comes and goes,” Levi replies. “I’m sure you’ll see her.”

“Is she alright?” Then, I quickly reel back. “Sorry. I don’t mean to ask so many questions. I feel like that’s all I’ve been doing.”

“You can ask yourself. It’s not like you’re a stranger to her.”

The truth is resounding.

“I guess not.”

✣

The journey to the orphanage takes us through the waning light of the day. The sun sets behind, casting long shadows from the trees and over the road. As we approach the building, I’m struck by its further development. More has been done since I was last here.

We step inside, and warmth finally envelops my body. I pull the mask over my head, dampened by my breath, and shove it down my pocket. A maid greets us, handing me a small bundle of toiletries and essentials—what seem to be clothes, a towel, and a bar of soap. Simple necessities that feel oddly foreign after spending so long without them. Hanging just a step behind Levi and the girl who is leading us through the hallways, I quickly lift my bundle and sniff the soap. It wefts something of citrus, but is mostly plain and sweet.

The floors creak softly beneath our steps, air infused with the comforting aroma of a home-cooked meal wafting from the kitchen. We pass by a communal area where children gather around long tables, engaged in various activities. The atmosphere is lively, filled with chatter. It’s so alive that it almost makes me miss the silent solitude. I’m not sure whether I actually want it.

We reach a door up the stairs, and the maid opens it, revealing a room that she announces will be mine. It’s furnished with a bed, a small desk, and a window overlooking the courtyard. A large chest stands in the corner for any belongings I might accumulate.

“Make yourself at home,” the maid softly says, touching my shoulder so softly it almost goes by unnoticed. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. You will hear the call for dinner in about an hour. For now, you should rest.”

Levi and I watch as she departs, hands clasped tightly behind her back. Then, I shoot him a questioning look.

“I’m just down the hall,” he answers it. “That’s the furthest I’m allowed to be from you.”

Those words nick me like a thorn. “That’s surprising.”

“Why?”

“I was under the impression that…” My words falter. Hesitantly, I place my new belongings on the nightstand with care. “Well, I don’t know. This is an amount of privacy I hadn’t expected.”

“If you overstep, surveillance will tighten. We’re starting out way loose here.” Levi’s expression remains impassive for a moment. Abruptly, he straightens, as if remembering something. “Rest. I’ll see you at dinner.”

Perplexed, I watch as he swiftly leaves. The door closes behind him with an ominous finality.

My room echoes with sounds of life, traveling through the walls from downstairs. A lot of the disbelief begins crashing over my head, starting with the idea itself that I am free to open the door and walk out of it. The window has hinges, and can actually be opened. There is a mirror on the wall. I own something again. A bar of soap, clothes, and a communal towel, but they are all in my possession. I can only imagine what bliss it will be to have running water at hand, whenever I desire it.

As I lie down on the bed, so soft that it engulfs me like a mouth, I think of Levi’s sudden departure. Despite the abrupt exit, there’s a haunting gentleness in his demeanor now. The care he offers hovers on the periphery of my awareness. It skirts the edges of revelation, but never fully steps into the light, hiding its colors, which take the same shade of my hesitation. I wonder if he was as eager to see me as I was to see him. I wouldn’t dare to ask, but at least I can wonder.

Wrapped in a faint scent of soap trailing from the nightstand, a slumber of uncertainty soon allows me to doze off, clothes still on—even the boots, still dripping. Days could have passed, and I wouldn’t know it; that’s how deep my sleep is. The call for dinner, which comes with the sound of a sharp bell, pierces through my dreams and jolts me awake. Rubbing my eyes, I rise from the bed, muscles protesting the sudden movement, mouth dry, head pounding. I must’ve pushed myself too far running earlier in the day.

Finally collecting enough strength to stand up, I flatten my clothes and open the door to leave. And like always, Levi stands waiting in the dimly lit hallway; my sentinel.

“The soap,” I say in a husky voice, “where do they get it?”

“They make it here, with goat milk,” Levi replies, so quiet I almost don’t catch it. “Were you asleep?”

“I’m exhausted. I think I passed out the second my head hit that pillow.”

Walking downstairs, he points at various rooms, noting what they’re for—the showers, the laundry room, the storage room, the kitchen. As we reach the dining area, a row of lanterns reflect across the polished floor, casting a comforting ambiance. The room is filled with long wooden tables that are being set for dinner. Children of various ages scurry around like ants, helping the maids carry trays and plates. Conversation mingles with the clattering of cutlery. The scent of food wafts through the air, practically pulling me closer—I didn’t realize how hungry I was until my mouth started watering.

The spread on the serving table is simple yet hearty—stew made with root vegetables, freshly baked bread, and a bowl of greens. We begin lining up. The orphans all seem to be accustomed to the routine, chatting with each other as they patiently hold onto their plates. Levi and I take our seats at an unoccupied section, further away from the traffic. Other residents glance curiously, some offering smiles or shyly looking away, hiding in the skirts of the maids.

As I chew my first bite, the flavors explode in my mouth, and I realize how accustomed I had become to prison rations. That, and how fresh the food is. Levi picks at his with a measured pace, occasionally looking around the room, or replying to questions from the kids. I, on the other hand, find myself devouring the meal with an almost primal hunger.

Within minutes, my plate looks licked clean. I have room for more, but the thought of being able to have more than one portion seems surreal.

Leaning closer to Levi, I murmur, “Is it okay to get seconds?”

He turns, assessing my earnest expression. “Of course. Just ask.”

Grateful, I make my way back to the serving table, where a wheat-blonde maid ladles another generous helping onto my plate. With an almost idiotic enthusiasm, I find myself returning for a third helping as well. By the time I finish, the staff and children have begun cleaning up, which makes me realize I might have gone overboard.

Levi, who had been quietly observing, notes, “You eat like you’ve been starved.”

I let out a heavy sigh and look at him without saying anything.

“Sure. I guess you have,” he concludes, swirling his cup of water.

“What time is breakfast?”

“Well, that’s just a greedy question now.”

Smiling to myself, I ready to bring my plate away, but a little girl hurries to take it from my hands. She can’t be more than six or seven years old, with a mop of frizzy, brown curls framing her face. As she gazes up at me, she tilts her head to the side, staring at my face with pure innocence.

“Are you a girl?” she asks, sweet and completely unfiltered.

Awkwardly, I glance at Levi, who hides his smile behind the cup of water in his hands.

Softly, I frown. “No.”

Her eyes narrow in contemplation. “But your hair is long. Why?”

I crouch down to her level. “Do you think I should cut it?”

She ponders this for a moment, then shakes her head. “No. It’s pretty.” Then, with a quick glance at one of the maids, as if recalling her manners, she continues with: “May I take your plate, please?”

“Of course. Thank you.”

But as she takes the plate from my hands, she seems eager to continue our conversation. She leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is Captain Levi your dad?” The girl points not too discreetly at Levi, who is still observing our interaction with an amused glint in his eyes.

I laugh, “No, he’s… he’s a friend.”

She nods in understanding, eyes widening with curiosity as she glances between us. “Are you staying here?”

“Yes, I am. I’ll be around for a while.”

“Good. I like your hair.”

She skips away, joyous air following like a trail as she carries my plate to the kitchen. Levi sets down his cup and joins me as I get up to leave. As we near the staircase, Levi’s body language shifts, signaling that he’s about to head in a different direction than up.

I glance at him. “Where are you going?”

One hand in his pocket, he replies, “Heading out. For a smoke.”

“Didn’t know you smoked,” I lie.

And like whiplash, like punishment for lying, the memory of his breath, tinged with tobacco, hits me. I remember the weight of his body on mine like it’s still there, and almost drop to my knees from it. The thought of that smell, woven with raw urgency, makes my blood boil.

Suddenly, I can’t stand to see him in front of me, leaning against the stair post, bathed in the soft glow of lantern light. I can’t stand that he appears almost ethereal in it, nor can I stand the play of shadows on his face. The sight leaves me unsettled in ways I can’t overcome. I am aware of what I feel and when I feel it—and that awareness kills me like suffocation would. It kills me like a kindness. It kills me without speaking, without asking questions, but rather by being within reach, never attainable, never close enough to allow itself captured.

For a second, I contemplate joining him, but the surge of emotions make me rethink that decision. Panic flares up within, urging me to retreat to the safety of my room. I quickly murmur a half-hearted farewell, my voice betraying, I think, everything, and then hasten up the stairs.

Even in my quarters, the grip doesn’t cease. Breathing through my mouth, I kneel by the bed and helplessly dig my forehead into the mattress.

For nothing to matter as much as this, how strong does it have to be? Such ache, a desire of this size, it has no room. Ever-present, relentless, it carves me from the inside out. I would beg for it to cease, but that would mean asking him to kill me—and he already is.

In a way he doesn’t mean to, and in a way that I never asked.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

All breakfast tables are abandoned when hoofbeats ring out in the distance.

Leaning over my bowl of porridge, I watch children gather around dewy windows, pushing each other’s heads aside for a better view. Older kids lift the little ones up on their shoulders to avoid bickering. The maids, who usually do well to maintain order and discipline, find themselves powerless against the sheer joy, and despite their attempts to corral tens of fluffy bedheads back to the tables, the excitement is contagious—clutching at their long skirts, maids young and old scurry to the entrance themselves.

I look over at Levi, who is staring blankly at the window. “Is it her?”

“Must be,” he replies without tearing his eyes away.

When Historia walks through the door, they stick to her like honey. It’s quite a commotion. With a wide smile, she kneels to greet the children, and almost gets toppled over. Short arms wring around her neck, small fists grab affectionately at her long, pale blonde hair, kisses find their way to her cheeks. Questions buzz like little flies around a bowl of fruit, one after another. Historia’s cheeks are shining red, manifesting the kind of happiness she had only grazed years before. She talks to each child and intently listens, no matter the answer—even if they can barely string a sentence together, her eyes pool with understanding.

As Historia’s attention flits from one face to another, a glimmer of recognition lights up her eyes when she spots Levi and I. With a gentle smile and polite whisper, she disentangles herself from the swarm of children and starts making her way towards me. Walking, at first; but quickly, she breaks into a brisk pace.

Locked in her sights, I feel a pull in my chest that draws me forward. Without a second thought, I rise from the table, leaving my breakfast behind. When Historia finally reaches me, her arms outstretched, I waste no time to envelop her in a tight embrace. Lifted off her feet, she clings to me. Quiet laughter bubbles up like a spring.

“How I’ve missed you.” She buries her face in the crook of my neck. The warmth of her breath sends a shiver down my spine. “I’ve missed you so much, oh, you won’t believe it.”

“No, I would. I have, too,” I whisper, inhaling all the sunshine and love that clings to her.

Historia’s fingers hastily tangle in my hair as she presses closer to me. I can feel the gentle rise and fall of her chest against mine, the softness of her cheek pressed against my collarbone, how hard her heart pounds against my own. Despite the small stature, there is so much warmth and solidity in her embrace, as if she carried the weight of the world within her. And in a sense, she does—all the children of the orphanage stare after her in awe, for she has given them a life they may not have had.

As I gently lower Historia back to the ground, she releases a contented sigh. Reluctant to let go completely, her fingers linger wrapped around my arms, as do mine with hers. We take a step back to look at each other. Orange morning light streams on us from the window.

“You okay?” I reach out to brush a stray tear from her cheek.

Historia quickly nods and blinks back the tears, stifling a laugh. “I just— Yes. Yes, I am. Most days, I can’t believe you’re still here. The last time I saw you, before—”

“I know,” I interrupt, “but I didn’t.”

“You didn’t,” she says, like convincing herself. “Despite everything, you lived.”

A surge of gratitude wells up inside me. The depth of her kindness and compassion overwhelms. Sliding my hand down Historia’s arm, I gently take her hand with both of mine, feeling the warmth of her touch seep right into my soul. Bringing her knuckles to my lips, I press a quick kiss against them.

“Thank you,” I whisper, eyes closed, voice just above a murmur. “For everything you’ve done for me. Everything you still do.”

“You don’t have to thank me.

“Historia, you are giving me a chance that most would not.”

“A life for a life,” she softly speaks as she pulls our hands to her chest. “I wish I could’ve done more, but… there is a lot to tend to these days.”

“I know.”

“...like that awful hair, for one.”

At that, my eyes shoot open. “What?”

“That.” Already on her toes, she reaches up to tousle my unruly locks, biting back sniffles through a smile. “Eren, something could nest in there, if it already hasn’t.”

Despite my best efforts to maintain composure, I can feel heat rising to my cheeks. “Listen…” I protest weakly, letting go of her hands to smooth down my hair. “Haven’t had a reason to care, alright?”

Historia’s silent giggle fills the room. She sneaks past me, walking over to where Levi is sitting, and lightly pats him on the shoulder. “We won’t be gone for long.”

He looks up at her, but says nothing. So with a childish glint in her eyes, Historia yanks me by the arm. “Come on.”

I look back at him as she pulls me away.

Her room turns out to be no more special than mine. It’s just as small and cozy, much like the rest of the orphanage, with the same plain walls and simple furnishings. Only a couple things add some of her warmth and charm to it, almost making it feel like a real home. I wonder if any part of her prefers it here over the Royal Capital quarters.

The centerpiece of the room is a tall mirror facing the bed. It reflects the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the window. A clutter of books and papers are scattered across her desk in the corner, most of them children’s drawings or cards riddled with stiff, wonky writing. It’s clear that Historia spends a lot of time here; the potted plant on her nightstand is blooming in small, pale blue flowers.

“Sit here.” She gestures to the end of the bed. “No, no, on the floor. You’re taller than I remember.”

Facing the mirror, I cluelessly obey. I watch in the reflection as she settles herself behind me on the bed. Layers of her long linen skirt flow around my shoulders like a river, and a hairbrush meets the back of my head.

I audibly gasp from the sensation. Bristles soft as grass glide through tangles of hair. Despite the simplicity of the task, there is so much intimacy to it—I haven’t let anyone touch me like that in ages. Now, with each stroke of the brush, years of tension melt away. Feeling safe and cared for makes my heart thump, same as it would from fear.

“You look well,” Historia says in a voice soft with affection.

My gaze sweeps over her face, taking in every detail. “So do you.”

Slightly, the smile fades. “Do I?” she whispers, almost to herself. “I feel like I’m losing my shine. Sometimes I like it; when people don’t see me as just a pretty little thing anymore. Like there was finally some credibility to me, if only I looked a bit worn.”

“They see you as a leader and a mother,” I murmur. “Maternal, not worn.”

As her fingers work through a particularly stubborn tangle, I yelp. The sensation shoots through my scalp like a lightning bolt, causing me to instinctively jerk away.

“Ow!” I exclaim, rubbing the sore spot on my head.

“Did it hurt?”

I turn my head to meet her eyes directly. “Should I show you?”

“...sorry!” Historia squeals and proceeds to blow a stream of cool air at me. “You’re lucky you don’t have lice yet.”

“What do you mean, yet?”

“This is an orphanage. Can’t go long without the occasional breakout. And they don’t discriminate; even I got some last time. Nasty little things almost drove me up a wall.”

Each stroke grunts against my scalp. Tender, with a weight of her concern. I sit cross-legged, leaning slightly forward as Historia patiently works through the knots that have accumulated over time. Her touch is firm and practiced.

So eager to have a moment with her alone, so silent when the opportunity finally arose—just like I thought it would happen. Sitting at her feet, not much taller than I was as a child, I stare up at Historia’s reflection like I would at my mother. Bathed in the unassuming mirror’s dull glow, her graceful spirit frames me in white. Dark like an omen, I am taken care of by the light.

“I wouldn’t let anyone else do this,” I mumble, feeling a twinge of guilt. “And… I don’t think anyone else would, at this point.”

“No?” She remains on the task.

“No.”

As she continues to brush, I let my mind wander, allowing the repetitive motion to lull me into a state of calm.

“How have you been holding up?”

I consider her question for a moment. “Well enough. I think.” I offer an unsure smile. “I thought about you. Levi wasn’t allowed to come in, so… I didn’t know how you were doing.”

“Oh, Captain Levi wouldn’t tell you anything about me even if he was,” she replies with the same kind of smile. “We have an… odd relationship. You know, different from most. He recognizes what I want to do for you, and the lengths I go to during council meetings to meet those results. Unlike many others, he actually agrees with them. But for some reason, he has no desire to ever stay any longer than he needs to.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Historia shrugs. “Beats me. He was offered good retirement—turned it down. A position in the Royal Sentry—turned it down. Special forces, expedition prep, no luck there either. The only thing he gave a shot was you.”

Heat blooms in my chest. His presence in my thoughts is becoming more frequent and completely undeniable.

I lean back slightly, so the back of my head meets her knee. “I avoided him. For a long time.”

“Because you knew.”

“That he would talk me out of it? Yes, I knew,” I murmur. “So did you—but you never said anything. Not to him, not anyone. It was too late. I had gone where he could no longer follow.”

She stops brushing my hair. With both hands, Historia gently takes my head. “Come here.”

The touch grounds me. Encouraged by her words, I shift closer to rest my head in her lap. Her skirt smells wonderful; like laundry so fresh it could’ve been picked off the lines this morning. With long, languid strokes, she slides her fingers through my hair. They don’t hitch on any knots.

“He followed you to Marley,” Historia says, silent as a mouse. “Protected you with all he had and all he did not. He would do so for as long as you live.”

I swallow hard, feeling a lump form in my throat as I wrestle with my admission.

“I... I think, so would I,” I confess quietly. Her skirt trembles like a leaf under my shaky exhale. “Before it all, I might have said something. I just didn’t know what. Didn’t know how, or when. I only had a few years. And then, everything I became aware of, all that breached my mind, any kind of hope, it turned dim. I had never felt that way before, but what did I have to offer?”

“Well, the path to paradise begins in hell,” Historia whispers. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“Maybe. But I’d already faced the realization that it was going to end. Hell was my end.”

“Was. Is it still?” Her hand stops, cupped over my ear. “Eren, we make the most of what we have now. That includes you. Another chance to live is no small feat.”

“Living with what I’ve done is no small feat.”

“No one is making you say you enjoyed it. Just that you did it.” Historia pauses. “The people wouldn’t lie. They can be simple and have few truths to believe in, but not stupid. When faced with the question of ‘us or them’, there is no one who wouldn’t have made that sacrifice. The one difference was the scale of it all, and only you were capable of it. The gratitude for perceived liberation, the horror of the means by which it was achieved, we all feel it. But I find myself thinking about what that required, and… I’m sorry it had to be you. That it had to be anyone.”

When I look up at her, Historia’s eyes search for mine as well.

“I worry that I don’t regret it,” I whisper, watching her eyebrows arch in concern. “I… I can’t. I think it still lives inside me.”

“It?”

“All of them.”

She sighs. “Has it gotten better? Even a bit?”

“Easier to tune out. Not easier to live with,” I admit. My gaze drifts to the ceiling as memories start flooding back in. “It took a long time for it to settle that I lived. Even longer to allow the idea that I deserved to.”

Her expression softens with empathy. “I’m sorry you always carry it alone.”

I lean into her touch, the warmth of her hand a balm to my soul. And then, without warning, my eyes well up. As silent as I can, I cry into the folds of her skirt, turning my face downwards to hide it. My hands grab at the soft white lining like sheets on a bed. Each sob escapes me in quiet, trembling waves. Historia’s dress becomes damp with the evidence of my sorrow. I cling to her, like seeking refuge in her kindness.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I don’t know why I’m...”

But even as I speak the words, I know the answer. It is exactly what she said: the weight of all that I have carried for so long, the burden of my guilt, the salt of my regret in every wound, the knowledge of all that I have done and all that I have lost, suffering inflicted and endured in this body and others alike.

I am scared. I am always being consumed by something larger, something more powerful than I am, not once grasping the luxury of a real choice. If it’s not the future, it’s the past—and if it’s neither, it’s today. It engulfs me like a house on fire with no doors and no windows to it.

And still, I can’t love. Facing my mortality was much easier when I knew how long I had left. Now, I may have years ahead of me, and I may only have a day; so I fear the possibility that I may not be around long enough for it to be worth it. It is a terror that is deafening and a love that haunts even when the sun shines.

“How long will you stay?” Historia asks. The question is laced with more than her words say; she doesn’t mean the orphanage, or Paradis.

“As long as I can,” I reply, voice muffled, the answer coming easily as if it had been waiting on the tip of my tongue. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

“And if I asked you the truth?”

What is a relief to face is also a lament for the time lost in avoidance.

“For as long as he’ll have me.”

She is silent for a moment, tracing lines like silk over my forehead. “Then you will always have a place here. His faith in you never wavered.”

Finally, it has consumed me. All of me, at once.

✣

As February gives way to March, and March does to April, the transition feels more like a blur than a distinct shift. Days, while distinguishable with the rise of light and the fall of dark, seem to have grown wings, and winter gradually surrenders to spring; though not without a fight. Some days, it feels more like a war.

March arrives with a vengeance. One day, the sun burns a white hole in the clear blue sky, warming the earth and coaxing saplings from their slumber. The next, dark clouds roll in like a foreboding omen, unleashing torrents of rain that turn streets into rivers and fields into lakes. The winds are the first sign, howling like a banshee as they whip through forests, bending them to their own will; gusts of such ferocity that they threaten to uproot even the sturdiest of trees. And when the thunderstorms come, they shake the air. You can almost feel it, so charged it becomes. Lightning streaks across the sky like glass would shatter, and the sound of it keeps the orphanage wide awake every time.

The rain falls in sheets. Streets flood, houses flood, fields flood, the water rising higher and higher with each passing hour, and those waves of late frost come, as if winter fights to maintain its ruthless grip on the land, refusing to yield to the inevitability of spring. But despite it, a sense of hope remains—a feeling that something great is just beyond the horizon. And as April dawns, the storms space themselves out and slowly subside, giving way to clearer skies and warmer nights. The snow begins to melt, revealing life sleeping beneath. It is slow to awaken, but seeks for its reign.

Renewal and rebirth all around. Not only in nature, but myself as well.

Long hours are spent toiling away in construction. Each day begins and ends with the clang of metal. Rhythmic hammering and the smell of freshly turned soil become routinely constants. I find myself drawn to tasks that require brute strength and unwavering focus—hauling bags of heavy materials, pounding stakes into the ground, laying down tracks. There is a lot of solace in the physicality of work, and a sense of purpose I haven’t felt in months. It demands my full attention and leaves little room for the intrusive thoughts that have plagued me for so long, replacing them with satisfaction upon progress made.

Another constant remains: the stables. I tend to my black horse as I would with others alike, mindful of their herd mentality—a trust of one is the trust of another. Over the months, I’ve learned to move slower, finding whispers that are soothing and touches that feel gentle. Days without bolting or snapping are to be celebrated. Soon enough, there is not much commotion when I enter the barn.

After weeks of patience, repetitive words and actions, tending to my horse with care I’ve never offered myself, I finally feel ready to attempt a bareback mount. He must’ve woken up in a mood, because his nostrils flare all day, as if he were to sense my intentions. After going through our regular reps, I speak softly, offering reassurance, and reach out to stroke his velvety nose while guiding him to the steps I’ll use for mounting. When I throw my leg over his back and settle atop, everything feels perfectly balanced—but that changes in an instant.

With a surge of energy, the horse bolts forward. I cling desperately to his mane in a struggle to remain on top, but it’s no use. The animal bucks wildly, sending me tumbling to the ground in a whirlwind of soaked dirt. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs and leaves me gasping for air as I lie stunned on the ground.

Slowly, I pick myself up, feeling bruised and battered, but determined still, which is a quality I’m sure will finally kill me one day. I glance over at the horse, which stands only a few paces away, eyeing me with defiance. It’s almost like he asks, “How dare you?”

With grit and determination, I dust myself off and approach him once more.

He doesn’t throw me off the fourteenth mount. Historia’s bedtime readings must have gotten to me, because I knight him Fenrir that night.

On Sunday, my only day of respite, I rise with the dawn. Weariness sits in my muscles from the week’s labor. I feel it… everywhere. Slowly stretching, I allow the quiet of the morning to envelop me; silence is a rare treat here. Only my soft grunts of relief can be heard.

I gather toiletries and make my way to the bathhouse. The heat and steam will do wonders for my tired body.

As I step inside, the sound of running water greets me, and I realize I’m not alone. Holding the door handle still, I contemplate leaving before I regret not having done so. Most mornings, Levi is already getting out by the time I come down, and we only greet each other in passing.

This is not one of those mornings.

This is a morning I have deliberately avoided for months.

Hidden only barely by the low stall, water cascades in rivulets over him. Despite the steam obscuring most of my view in milky puffs, I can still make out the strong lines of his muscles, defined curves of his shoulders. His movements are fluid and efficient, but not at all rushed. I know Levi heard me come in, so for a moment, I allow myself to not look away. I linger, soaking in the sight, and it leaves me more exposed than he is.

There’s a strange allure in watching him. Stripped of armor, he is only a man; it’s too often that I forget he is only a man. But it’s too often that I forget I am only a man as well—Levi possesses nothing I haven’t seen before, and still, nothing I have. Is this what he saw when he looked at me?

Is this what he felt, too?

I step into my own stall and don’t wait for the water to heat up. Instead, I let it hit me cold to shock the thought away.

I’ve been good about it. Too good. Timing my showers, showing up late for breakfast and leaving dinner early. Levi is always around me, but I somehow make sure I am never around him. Hoping that water will wash away the thoughts that plague me is futile. It pounds against my skin, cold as ice, until it will pound against my skin, hot like fire, and there is nothing I can do anymore. I know I can’t keep avoiding it. I can’t keep avoiding him—I don’t want to.

“Morning,” I hear Levi’s voice cut through the stream.

My heart clenches in my chest. If I don’t look, I may still have a chance. “Morning.”

“The water’s hot for a reason,” he notes.

“I’m just tired,” I reply stiffly. “Long week. Felt longer than most.”

There’s a moment of silence before Levi speaks again. His tone is softer this time. “Like all of them.” With the corner of my eye, I see that he turns the tap close. “See you at breakfast.”

When he leaves, I do the unthinkable. It doesn’t take very long, either, and the water does little to wash away my shame.

How repugnant. Comforting to know I still possess the drive, but debilitating how easily swayed I was by it. I could probably thank all the hard labor. Hours spent in construction and repetitive motions that demand strength and endurance seem to have awakened something primal; a hunger, as if the physical exhaustion fuels a different kind of craving, one that burns hot and deep, consuming me from the inside out.

At night, as I lie unconscious, I am tortured by restless dreams, visions and memories of bodies intertwined, so vibrant every time that it feels like I have touched them with my own hands. It’s unsettling, the way my mind seems to betray me, conjuring images that leave me wanting—a constant battle, a war between desire and restraint. More and more often, I find myself clawing to remain on the edge, uncertain which side will ultimately prevail.

I’ve been good about it, yes; so good that I broke within seconds. Angrily staring myself down in the mirror like I am still on death row, I towel off and dress.

The dining room smells sweet when I enter, but it does little to ease the guilt that coils in my stomach. I load my plate with food mechanically and feel Levi’s eyes on me as soon as I take my seat. Easier to just focus on the food than talking; let the silverware clink against plates for me.

“Any plans for the day?” Levi casually asks.

My wet hair drips water onto the polished wood table. I wipe it with my sleeve and glance up, meeting his eyes for a moment before quickly looking away. “Not that I know of.”

“I was thinking of heading out to the shooting range later. Thought you might want to join me.”

All of my defenses crash at a simple invitation.

I’ve kept my distance. I’ve kept my desires in check. I’ve kept our interactions clipped and professional, trying to convince myself that I can bury so deep it will never resurface, when it always finds a way to claw back up. I’ve stripped away the layers until a raw, bloody longing.

I have always known I wanted him. For years, I’ve known. I want him with a desperation that borders on obsession. I want him in heaven and hell alike, blood and flesh, dead or alive, mine or someone else’s, giving or taking; I want him, willing or not, hateful or loving, in black or white, or all the shades of gray—I’ve wanted him so silently for so long that now, all I want is to scream. I would beg for it, if that’s what it took. I would spend the rest of my life kneeling for a second of it.

“Sounds good,” I say, voice betraying nothing, throwing caution to the wind—giving in to all that will kill me.

✣

Levi leads the way. Backpack slung over my shoulders, I follow closely behind.

The forest stretches out in towering trees. Dappled sunlight pours in from the dense canopy above. The air is cool, filled with the earthy scent of pine, ground beneath our feet soft and springy, blanketed in a thick layer of fallen leaves and moss. Shafts of gold pierce through, casting patterns of light and shadow across the forest floor. Birds flit through the branches above, singing our arrival to one another. The soft babble of a nearby stream could almost be heard, but only if we were to stop and listen.

I marvel at the beauty. Despite the destruction wrought, as was intended, most of the island remains remarkably unscathed. Branches reach skyward in the resilience of nature. It becomes alive with a riot of colors, venomous greens mingling with browns.

We stay on the path for a couple more hours, until my eyes finally catch sight of a structure looming in the distance. It’s nestled at the end of the forest, partially obscured by thick foliage.

The armory stands stout and sturdy. The building itself is made of weathered, mossy stone, its walls adorned with rows of tall windows that are reinforced with metal braces, and a roof, pitched and tiled, chimneys rising from its surface, releasing plumes of smoke into the sky. Despite its utilitarian purpose, there is an elegance to the design. Every detail, from the carved door handles to the twisted iron bars on the windows, belies fine skill.

“That it?” I call after Levi.

“Sure as day,” he replies.

Racks of shotguns, pistols and other assorted weapons line the armory walls. Polished, they gleam in the fading sunlight that comes in through the door. It smells of gun oil in here. Muffled voices and metal clinking are the only sounds I can pick up on.

We’re greeted by an officer who emerges from the backroom. He eyes us both with a practiced look. “Captain Ackerman. Credentials and permit, please.”

Levi doesn’t miss a beat, routinely reaching into his pocket. He hands a slip over to the man, who runs his eyes over it more out of habit than questioning.

After a moment, the officer nods in approval. “And what’s the reason for picking up a weapon today?”

“Heading out to the shooting range,” Levi replies. “Target practice.”

The soldier hands back Levi’s permit before turning to me. Recognition takes a second to paint his face.

“Eren Jaeger,” he says, almost uneasy. “You are not allowed to carry.”

That casts a shadow over the otherwise routine transaction. I didn’t want to be reminded of my probationary status any more than I already am every day: restricted at every move, always being watched.

I glance at Levi, unsure of how to respond.

“He’s with me,” he replies firmly in my stead. “We’ll only need one.”

“Of course, sir. Let me know if you require any assistance.”

Assessing the weapons, Levi finally selects one—a sleek, black rifle with a scope mounted on top. He takes the gun from its rack, cradling it in his arms with a sense of reverence and the same care that he applies to everything else in his life.

Levi hands it to me without looking. I accept it without asking. Stained wood glides smooth beneath my fingers, and the metal is cold.

“How’s that?” he asks. His voice is husky today.

Without a word, I lift the rifle and point it at the wall. The weight is almost unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. The stock lines up hard against my shoulder. I focus on the balance.

“Good. Sturdy.” My gaze drifts to the scope mounted atop the barrel. Its lenses flash with light as I rotate the gun. Fine craftsmanship—each component seamlessly melds into the next, creating a weapon that is both functional and elegant.

With a steady hand, I reach out to adjust the scope, feeling the smooth rotation of the dials beneath my fingers. The focus brings distant objects into sharp relief with a simple twist. When I peer through the lens, I’m struck by the clarity it offers.

With a sense of reverence, I lower the rifle and hand it back over. “This one is great, actually. Is it new?”

“The most recent replica of a Marleyan rifle,” Levi explains. “It’s got more bang to it than ours did.”

He signs off on the rifle and bullet count. With the necessary supplies in hand, we make our way to the shooting range. As we arrive, I can’t hear any echoes of gunfire, signaling that we’re the only ones here today.

Located in a secluded area, nestled close enough to the forest, the place is all too familiar. Rows of targets line the far end. Their wooden surfaces are riddled with holes from previous rounds. Target practice has always been a chance to focus my mind and body on a single task—something I’ve taken great respite in as of late.

Levi and I enter one of the outdoor booths and let our backpacks fall. It’s a simple wooden structure, equipped with a roof, and offers a clear view of the targets set up downrange.

“Am I really not allowed to carry?” I ask over my shoulder, removing my coat for less constricted movement.

“You’re permitted to handle firearms under supervision. What he probably meant is that access to the armory is restricted,” Levi replies. The sound of clothes rustling leads me to suspect he is doing the same. “Good thing you’re always under supervision.”

I huff. “So hand it over, then.”

But before he gives me the gun, Levi pulls out a rounded glass bottle from his bag. Amber liquid sloshes inside as he sets it down on the wooden rail between us.

“We drink every time we miss the target,” he declares.

“What, you drink now?”

“I also smoke now.”

I feel my face drop. “You hardly ever miss a target.”

He clicks his tongue. “Guess you’ll have to try harder not to.”

“You’re that willing to carry me back to the orphanage? I don’t think I metabolize alcohol like I used to.”

“Fine. The shot has to stay at least within the eights. We can bring it down to sevens later.” Levi takes the bottle and unscrews it. He drinks first, downing a mouthful like it was water, before handing it to me. The alcohol casts an orange shadow on my shirt. Whiskey wafts into the air as I take it from him.

“And I’ll give you a head start,” he says. “First shot’s on the house.”

Unlike Levi to give anyone an advantage. Maybe he’s not a competitive man.

Kneeling, I pick up the rifle. “You know, I was one of the top ten graduates of the 104th.”

“You ranked fifth.”

“Amongst hundreds of trainees in the Southern Division alone, I’d say five is a decently high rank.”

I raise the rifle to my shoulder, aligning the sights with my nearest target. The world stills for a moment. Slowly breathing out, I squeeze the trigger. The rifle kicks back against my shoulder, and recoil sends a jolt of adrenaline through my body. The shot rings out; birds rise in flocks from the trees, seeking out silence elsewhere.

“f*ck,” I whisper under my breath—the scope shows no fresh holes at all.

Levi takes a moment to observe my shot. Then, he kneels beside me. “You missed it.”

“Good thing that first shot was on the house.” I hand him the rifle. As he takes it from me, our fingers brush against each other. It burns more than the whiskey in my throat.

Levi lines up his shot with effortless grace, fully calculated. To see that amount of concentration in him is intense. The forest around us seems to hold its breath, waiting for the sound to come. And when it does, it’s like a thunderclap. Levi’s shot hits the target dead center; a perfect bullseye.

“You f*cking dog,” I groan.

“Yeah, I got some bite.” He hands the rifle back to me. “Your turn.”

With a deep breath, I align the sights with the target once more, trying to steady my nerves. My heart hammers in my chest when I squeeze the trigger. The shot rings out, but no longer as satisfying. I watch as the bullet strikes just shy of the mark, missing the eight by a mere inch.

“Damn it,” I mutter. “I used to be a decent shot.”

“Well, I used to have both eyes. You win some, you lose some,” he says, almost amused.

I take a gulp from the bottle. The alcohol lights a fiery trail down my throat. It’s decently strong, but I welcome the warmth it brings, chasing away the chill of the evening.

With a challenging look, I pass the bottle back to Levi. He takes a swig, despite having hit the target, eyes never leaving mine as he tilts the bottle back. There’s something in them. Levi’s eyes never lie, and there is a truth in them now that I can’t read.

Like an illiterate child, I watch as he hits the target nearly dead center once again.

“Nice shot,” I mumble.

Levi passes the rifle to me. “Your turn,” he says, almost teasing now.

So we continue like this, trading shots as the afternoon wears on and the sun begins to dip its toes into the horizon. The scent of gunpowder mingles with the smell of pine and sap wafting through the surrounding forest; it intoxicates me more than the alcohol does. Each shot becomes a little less steady, a little less precise, but the further our bullets stray from the center, the closer we become.

I take aim again. The world seems to sway as I line up the sights, and my vision swims in a sea of green and gold. With a deep breath, I pull the trigger, but the shot goes wide, missing the target by a considerable margin.

“Great,” I laugh under my breath, passing the rifle back to Levi. “It’s getting f*cking worse. We need to do the sixes now.”

“No sixes yet.” He takes it from me, grinning. But as he lines up his own shot, I notice a slight wobble in his stance—a tremor in his hand that wasn’t there before. The shot rings out, but this time it veers off course, striking the target off-center. Levi’s smirk falters for a moment, replaced by annoyance so mild only I could pick up on it.

“Just the wind?” I nudge him with my elbow.

Levi shoots me a mock glare, lips rightfully on the neck of the bottle.

With a steadier hand than before, I take aim. This time, I focus on my breathing, letting the rhythm of inhales and exhales guide my aim. I watch with satisfaction as the bullet hits the target almost dead on.

Levi takes another swig. His eyes linger on mine for a moment longer than usual. When I hand him the rifle, instead of aiming down the sight, his gaze remains fixed on me. There’s a new intensity in his eyes that draws me in despite my efforts to look away. His fingers tighten around the grip of the rifle, but his focus isn’t on the target.

It’s on me.

As the shot is fired, I flinch by reflex, expecting Levi’s bullet to strike the target with its usual accuracy. But when I glance over, I see that it has gone far off. So far, in fact, that it has ripped a hole outside the target.

I go to take aim once more, but can’t seem to steady my hand anymore. My palms grow clammy as I struggle to focus. The rifle feels heavier, and my breaths come in shallow, uneven gasps.

I am acutely aware of the space between us. If I were to turn my head just a fraction, I would be closer to Levi than I have ever been before—but I don’t move. The scent of alcohol lingers in the air. It blurs the line we dare not cross.

Levi shifts to position himself behind me. His body is close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from it. I tense at the unexpected proximity, but before I can react, his hands close over mine, guiding them back into position on the rifle. His touch steadies not just my aim, but something within.

I feel his mouth and nose press lightly against my right shoulder. Lips parted, Levi breathes hot into my shirt. It permeates through the cotton like a branding iron and burns my skin.

I try to focus on lining up my shot, but his breath tickles my senses. It grazes my ear like a feather, sweet with the note of caramelized sugar, slightly buttery, even; evoking an image of golden-brown milk bubbling away on a stovetop. It’s subtle at first, like the string of a honeysuckle on the tongue. But as Levi leans in closer, dragging his mouth over the back of my shoulder like a plow, his breath envelops me like a cloud. It kills me, not knowing whether it’s by choice. God, how many lives do I have?

My grip on the gun falters. I clutch the rifle until my fingers cramp, but lose sight of the target completely. I think my heart is about to crawl up my throat.

“Eren,” Levi’s voice breaks through the haze. “Keep it together.”

His whisper is closer than his breath was. It’s only a velvety murmur against my ear, but it cuts through the fog like a knife. My name, a sermon. From him, always.

I swallow hard, fighting to regain control of my senses, to steady my trembling hands and focus on the task at hand.

Wood. Aged oak. Solid, smoky, leaking pale, milky sap. Every note of it rolls with the words he speaks. Pear and dried fruit complement the drip of honey in his voice. I taste it on my own tongue when I hastily swallow the unsaid.

“I am,” comes my cowardly reply, though my voice comes out a little more strained than I intended.

This is torment. It kills me.

Again.

It kills me.

I close my eyes, willing myself to breathe. Slowly, painstakingly, I force my fingers to tighten around the rifle, to steady my aim and block out the torrent of desire threatening to consume me. With a shaky exhale, I pull the trigger. The gunshot rings out.

Focus anywhere but the target, recoil slams me back into Levi like a physical force. A sharp, burning pain shoots through my brow bone where the scope hit, which is quickly doused by a new realization—that there is no distance between us anymore.

All the desire I’ve ever been a vessel for accumulates in my chest, and I don’t even attempt to regain my balance. Pierced by want alone, my senses are overridden by the closeness of Levi’s body, rippling strength in the arms around me. Like wax, my spine melts into the shape of his torso, barrel of the rifle slamming down into wood as we both let our arms drop.

Levi’s nose brushes against my cheekbone, languid and deliberate, like he’s savoring the sensation of my skin against his. Every nerve in my body goes raw. He breathes in and out with a low whine, as if the smell of me physically hurt him.

It kills me.

Just slightly, less than a muscle’s worth, I turn my head, enough to see him with the corner of my eye. Half-lidded, our stares meet.

His is warm. Warmer than I’ve ever witnessed it, and only ever in flickers. But when that warmth doesn’t fade, I begin to wonder if mine betrays the same. It has to. With the last senses to be possessed, I pick up on the note of spice—a hint of cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, a touch of black pepper, a shaving of ginger. His desire, the smell of it.

Stunned by a wordless haze, I lean my face against his again, and he allows for it. Our skins brush together in a moment of complete surrender, as if the boundaries between us have dissolved into bullets and hard liquor, and there is nothing left but a raw, primal need pulsing between. Even if this is all I ever get, I will selfishly believe that he lets it happen for no other reason than sharing the burden of my want, for it is heavy as lead and unfit to be carried by one.

When I pull back, bright blood is smeared on Levi’s cheek. It sits there like a stain of sin. Instinctively, I lift a hand to my pulsing brow. Must’ve split it; he did say the Marleyan rifles had more bang to them.

My fingertips glisten red. Without thinking, I bring them to my lips, spreading the tang of blood on my tongue. It’s warm. Salty. Like metal left out in the rain, bitter, coating my teeth with a gritty texture that lingers. There’s a primal edge to it—a reminder of my mortality, a taste that evokes both revulsion and fascination.

When Levi speaks, his voice is filled with a depth that sends shivers down my body.

“What does it taste like?”

With that, my resolve shatters like glass.

“I can show you,” I whisper, leaning in closer to hover my lips just inches from his.

But I refrain. Almost as if driven by some unseen force, my lips graze Levi’s cheek, tongue rolling over skin coated in sweat, gathering the blood that stains it. Forged in shame and longing, my desire prevails. There are no words for it, and not one explanation. The taste of him completes my search, though all of it is as familiar as I knew it to be: it’s damp soil, it’s leather, it’s tobacco.

It’s a taste of the paradise that comes after hell.

And in that moment, as I meet his eyes again, I know that something irrevocable has shifted. Levi’s composure left us long ago. Now, all I see in him is shock and arousal, both equally present and fighting for control. But control, real control, he does not possess any longer.

Levi’s lips meet mine with a pained hunger that blazes through every fiber of my being.

And there is no turning back now. There never was.

Urged by an unstoppable force, I throw myself at him, pushing him until his back meets the rough wooden wall of the booth. His breath catches in his throat, starved for my intensity. Desperation claws as I press my body against his, seeking the closeness I’ve yearned for. My hands pull at his shirt, trace the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his neck, trying to memorize every inch and burn them on my palms—fingerprints no longer mine, for only his skin to remain.

With a low groan, I kiss him, craving the taste like a parched man craves water. I am desperate, I am ugly in my desires, but I am reprimanded at last. Levi’s kisses are hungry. Frantic, kept for an eternity from loving. His lips move against mine like there was never another meaning for them, fully conveying the words we could never speak. And how could we? No words exist for a drive this forceful. Like a disease, it ruins us, it hurts us, and it kills us. But I am willing to die. For him, I would die forever.

There is no room for restraint or inhibition. We’re both driven by an insatiable craving that can only be sated by each other.

“I... I have to stop,” Levi murmurs between our lips, voice soaked with stifled desperation, actions betraying fully what is said. With each kiss, his resolve weakens, giving in to the overwhelming want that consumes.

I growl in protest, and he bends to that will. Our lips meet again and again, each time deeper, greedier, wetter.

“Eren, we can’t…” he manages to utter. He is strained with longing. But his lips seek out mine once more, unable to resist the pull. His words become a desperate mantra, repeated like a plea for salvation: “...I can’t... I can’t... can’t.” The words go lost in between. But even as he speaks them, his lips don’t fail to find mine.

Levi’s hands run over my arms, up into the sleeves of my shirt, stirring silky, damp armpit hair. He takes his time to caress the definition of each muscle, pulling them out of place. I tilt my head back, basking in the sensation, mouth open, clinging to air. Levi’s fingers trail over my torso, mapping out lines with a reverent touch, like worshiping who I am—all that I am, as I am—tracing my body to commit it to memory like strategy on paper.

Eyes closed, I surrender to the fire that demands release. My hands trail down the length of Levi’s thighs and graze over the strong, thick muscle beneath his clothing, eliciting a low hum from my chest. I can feel the power and strength contained within him, and it drives me mad, like an animal that was beat, drool pooling in my mouth, foaming at the thought alone.

“You... have no idea what you do to me,” I whisper against his neck, thumbs pressing against the insides of his thighs. “Every time you look at me. Every time you’re near… I feel like I’m losing control. And I don’t want control.”

Levi’s breath hitches at the confession. His fingers still against my skin as he absorbs my words, and I am the only man in the world who would ever notice it.

“You never wanted it,” he speaks, and his voice is rough. “Neither did I.”

Being drawn to chaos is a curse.

“But I need yours.” I press my forehead against his temple, breathing whiskey down his face. “Your control. I only ever listen to you, and I can’t keep denying it. I can’t stay away. It’s killing me... It is. It kills me.”

He hears my plea. Levi’s thumb ghosts over my lower lip before slipping into my mouth, taking me by the jaw, pulling me away. I taste the gun oil. The salt. The dirt.

“I won’t resist. It’s too late,” he silently says, lips hovering inches from mine. “Too late, and… I’m tired.”

Yes—tired. I am tired of pretending that I don’t want him. I am tired of denying myself the one thing I have craved more than anything else. Denial has exhausted me. It has worn holes in me, like a sun-bleached flag on a pole.

I kiss Levi again, hands bold in where they land, palms dragging tight along the stiffness in his pants with no shame. He shakes with new want, and I am no better, groin sinfully hot, pulsing in the same beat as my heart. We are on the edge of abandon. We are hanging over it by a thread.

Suddenly, Levi turns his head. He muffles gasps for air against his shoulder, but his eyebrows are low in a frown. I breathe low and heavy, following Levi’s line of sight.

A distant sound. Hoofbeats.

I scramble backward, pressing my back against the opposite wall of the booth. My breath still comes in ragged gasps, and his heat is leaving me. Without a word, the understanding is exchanged; Levi quickly straightens his clothing while I adjust my own. We compose ourselves rather fast; if only our spread legs wouldn’t betray two hard ridges. I guess you would only know if you were looking for it.

Levi and I sit in silence, waiting for the soldiers to ride by, looking each other down like dogs. Forbidden desire lies heavy between; I would drool and pant and roll over on command, but my nerves are frayed with the fear of being discovered. So without thinking, I reach for the bottle of whiskey again; my hands tremble as I unscrew the cap and take a long swig.

Levi motions for me to pass him the bottle. I comply, rolling it over. He drinks deeply, throat working as he swallows, expression warping from the strength of the whiskey. How attractive a man can be, disheveled like that, veering on the edge of being broken and submitting, eyes glazed with alcohol and a need to f*ck me into complete blindness.

“What are soldiers doing out here?” I ask to fill the silence with something other than my arousal.

“They’re on patrol. We should hitch a ride,” Levi says. I can still hear the shortness of breath he tries to hide. “Might not make it back by nightfall otherwise.”

I peer over the wooden rail. “You think? We still have light. It only took a few hours to get here on foot.”

He almost laughs. It makes white hot shoot through my body. “What, now you want to wait?”

Please, never again; not a second longer.

“I could have you right here,” I calmly reply.

“How tempting.” The neck of the bottle rests against his jaw. Slowly, he rolls it in the palm of his hand, bottom sinking into his chest just under the collarbone.

When the soldiers finally appear, we greet them with innocence and pleasantries. Levi lets them meddle with the leftover whiskey, and they offer us a ride back to the orphanage without question.

We dine together in silence. He smokes his cigarette alone.

But when I leave to go to my room, Levi follows.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

I knew it would hurt.

Mine and not entirely my own, memories whisper of experiences that don’t belong to me, yet feel all too real. I’ve seen glimpses into vulnerable intimacy, thoughts of desire, manifestations of lust. Generations of shifters before have offered me a guiding light not only in battle, but also the most intimate of human experiences. I tried to resist it before, but I welcome it now.

I’ve felt it all. The pulsing synergy. How it is to be wanted, what it’s like to be taken with force, the ravenous, desirous pull of closeness. How it owns a soul, expectant in its hungry nature, how life before me has sought to bury seed and carry life, how it has also conquered and ruined many, used for power, used for greed, used for manipulation. Blood and suffering walk hand in hand with pleasure. It nests in it. I remember the sensation of skin against skin, the same in sex as it is upon death. The heat of passion, as well as the passion of a murder. The ache of longing, strong as the hurt of loss. I remember, like all of it happened to me yesterday, when it never has; I see it through ghosts. Through countless women, the violence, more common than peace. Through my father, my own conception. My mother, beneath him, beneath me, in an act so sacred to her, unknowing of the evil she would come to birth.

With remembrance comes the knowledge that pain will be a consequence. Unavoidable, almost, no matter where I turn. I knew I had to mitigate it. And while Levi was smoking, I followed the path of a memory.

As I stood in the kitchen doorway, the leftover scent of dinner wafting through the air, I watched the maids bustling about their tasks. Navigating a space too cramped for their numbers, they moved almost balletic, pots, pans and dishes clattering in their wake.

Summoning courage, I approached one of the maids; a middle-aged woman with kind, sunken eyes and hands that bore signs of a lifetime of hard work. “Excuse me,” I hesitantly began, “do you happen to have any… tallow?”

The maid went on with her work, casting me a glance. “Tallow?” she repeated. “What do you need tallow for, boy?”

For it to hurt less.

“For my windburn.” I gestured to my reddened cheeks. Without a word, I approached her, holding out my hands. Grabbing them with a damp, sudsy hand of her own, she took one look at the chapped skin of my knuckles and fingers, and clicked her tongue.

“Why, poor child…” she said, soft with sympathy. “Yes, we have plenty here. Good fat for many things. Let me get some for you.”

Wiping soap down her stained apron, the maid disappeared into the back, returning moments later with a bar wrapped in cloth. “Here,” she said, pressing the bundle into my hands. “If it helps, you come back for more anytime.”

I smiled, as genuinely as I could at the time. “Thank you.” I clutched the gift tightly to my chest. “I appreciate it.”

Now, the small chunk of tallow nestles in the palm of my hand, tied snugly in a scrap of cloth. I can feel its weight, malleable against my fingers. As I hold it, the warmth of my body begins to seep into the fat, causing it to soften.

In the darkness of my room, with the lamps extinguished since the night before, I can hear Levi’s quiet breaths beside me. We sit in silence on my desk, just far apart enough to still escape what’s to come.

He sighs. “I’ve never—”

“That’s alright,” I cut him off. “Neither have I.”

The tallow continues to melt in my hand. Its waxy texture yields to the heat of my touch. I can feel the slickness of the fat against my skin as it begins to seep through the cloth. No friction between my fingers when I rub them together.

Good for leather. For candles, and soap. For machinery. Guns. Hair.

Skin.

Delicate skin.

“Do you think we’re making a mistake?” I silently ask.

Levi turns his head away. “I don’t know. Everything I’ve done with you has turned into one.”

“Still, you kept coming back to me. You must like making mistakes.”

I thought it would be easier in the dark. That’s all I’ve ever heard. Strangely, we are somehow more vulnerable now than with the fading rays of the sun. It’s a quiet intimacy without the loud, drunken, hungry bravado, without a gun in our hands, only shy traces of whiskey that still linger. Weighed; like it knows of what is to come and feels the taste of our fear. Like the drip of sobriety has come to punish us.

Still, I am willing to take the punishment.

“You followed me here,” my whisper rolls against Levi’s shoulder when I lean to breathe him in. “It wasn’t to say no.”

“Doesn’t matter what I say.” Like a reflection, he tilts his head as well, burying his nose in my hair. “I follow you everywhere.”

Time slows to a crawl, and both of its legs are broken.

I feel Levi’s fingers trace a line on my neck, so gentle that it seems wrong. I am used to his strength, not his weakness. Stripped of pretense, we are laid bare before each other, with all of our clothes on. My want comes back like a flood. And at the curve of his shoulder, the dam breaks.

My mouth is on his before I’ve pushed myself off the table. Stumbling, I lean over him to close the distance between. One of my hands, slick with the oily residue of the tallow, finds its way to Levi’s face, smearing it across his skin as I cup his cheek in my palm. The fat smells like dirty arousal. It takes nothing away from my heightened senses. Like oil to flame, it burns in primal urgency; I know I have him. His body, his desire, and his trust, all of them mine. None of it threatens to own me when it already has for so long.

Desperate, I kiss him, fearing to lose my only chance at showing how weak I can be for one soul only, and Levi responds with an equal torment. His hands pull at my shirt like reins on a horse, composure melting away into nothing.

Breaking away, I yank my shirt off, but stop dead still to watch him undress. When Levi rolls his pants over his hips, my soul becomes a drooling dog. That kind of sight can only be taken in untouched, for I would go blind otherwise.

Stifled down over his thighs, the pants hunch at Levi’s knees when he leans back on the desk, now bare, skin like velvet in the blue night light. His co*ck is arched, resting thick and good in its own shadow, as if the darkness would shield what I crave to see most; as if it would destroy me if I did. It lies hot amidst coarse black hair, flat against his stomach, and beckons a touch.

Air leaves my chest in one single breath.

“Yes,” I say, in response to no question, but with so much humility.

No longer by my own volition, but by a power higher and stronger than anything I have ever felt take control, I drop down to my knees in front of him in religious lust. A beggar, I trail my hands over his knees, wrap them around the firm backs of his thighs, breathing in his skin. Like a rake, my nose drags across the hair on Levi’s legs. Soft, but dense, it carries the worn, day-old smell of soap and horseback, and the pants stained with spring air from our day outside.

With an open mouth, I kiss the inside of his thigh, pulling my tongue upwards, slicking the fine hair flat to pale skin with how wet it becomes. Above me, he breathes out. Levi’s hands grip the edge of the desk, seeking an anchor of any kind.

Soon, I’ve trailed high enough to pick up his musk. The scent alone sends a pain down my groin. How desperately he must’ve wanted this that not even a shower crossed his mind; inhaling him like a gun dog, it dizzies me how he wafts of sweat, urine and sem*n alike. Black coils firm against my hungry, gaping mouth, my tongue meeting it as a wool lining, seeking out all that I am offered by the hot spread of his thighs.

Spit bubbles on my lips when I drag them from the shaft of his co*ck to the very tip. Leveraging myself against his square, strong hips, I slowly rise from my kneel, mouth never leaving where it settled. In return, Levi lies back on the desk, resting only on his elbows.

“You’re… enjoying this,” he silently observes; as if that were ever a doubt.

He may have never spoken a bigger truth before.

“I dream of this,” I whisper honesty against Levi’s swollen arousal, intoxicated by the strong, sharp smell. “Of how you taste.” My tongue drags lines, every lick over the frenum met with his co*ck jumping like it knew only greed and nothing else. “How you look.”

Tilting my head sideways, I part my lips and run them like a throbbing c*nt against him, only the amount of slobber betraying my crumbling composure. Levi melts into a shaky breath, muscles shifting visibly in his stomach, his legs, his arms as he seeks out more of the damp, cushioned bliss of my mouth.

Not hard to fall for the temptation when it’s him; he is only flesh and blood, and my love is carnivorous. It eats with an infinite hunger, weak at the allure, but no more weaker than a predator tracking the scent of bleeding prey. Just as I have tasted human blood before, in my frenzy and power, I now find myself drawn to Levi by instinct: him, the ultimate forbidden fruit. The taste of that blood lingers in the back of my throat. To replace it, I take all of his length inside my mouth, inch by pulsing inch, until air can no longer be drawn. I force it in so deep that he quivers on the table. So deep that it floods my sense of smell.

This is what he can have. This is how I want him. This is the extent of my submission, of my compliance. I yield to his power, but no other; never any other. I couldn’t even yield to our god—she was never able to kill me.

Only Levi is.

Only he can.

With one harsh pull, his hand yanks me by the hair, thick heat leaving my mouth with a pop. His arm trembles from the force of having to hold me back from returning.

Levi slides off the table. Before I can react, he pushes me forward, pressing my face down onto the wooden surface. My heart pounds when I feel the cool hardness of the wood against my cheek.

My body arches instinctively. Hands fumbling with the button of my pants, I eagerly pull them down to remove any barrier that could come between. In an instant, spit-coated and burning hot, Levi’s co*ck slides against my thigh. I whine, low and eager when he takes it in his hand to position himself.

“Wait— Levi, wait,” I whisper. Desperation flares as I reach back down into the pocket of my pants, fingers closing around the small, wrapped chunk of tallow. Like an addict with his fix, I shakily unwrap the tallow and start to rub some of it into my palm. The texture slowly coats my skin.

He leans over my side. “What is that?”

“I’m not… a woman.” I keep working the fat until it becomes more and more malleable, slicking my hand with thick oil. “This is… It should help you feel like I am.”

Without another question, Levi reaches his hand down between my legs and gently scoops some of the sticky fat from my fingers. Palm open, he spreads the still thick tallow across my ass, sludging it back and forth with his co*ck, smoothing it into every crevice and curve. The sound of it is more vulgar than I could have imagined.

“I don’t need you to feel like a woman,” he whispers into my shoulder blade. His oily hand curves around my hip, sliding across my tense stomach, over my hanging erection; slowly, as if to emphasize the words he speaks. “Just you.”

He needs me. He doesn’t want—he needs.

My breath fogs the glossy tabletop. Mouth open, I reach my hand over my back. Fumbling over Levi’s slick co*ck, I press a finger against the tight ring of muscle, feeling it resist before steadily yielding to the pressure. It’s a strange sensation. Entirely new. The promise of pleasure mingles with notable discomfort.

I will myself to relax as I work the tallow deeper, coaxing my body to accept the intrusion. Each movement is met with a surge of heat; it breaks my nose into sweat, and riddles my lower back with a coat of cold. Levi’s hand steadies me. With his silent distraction working my co*ck into hardness it hasn’t felt once before, I continue to move. And as I feel myself opening up to him, I tremble with excitement; the knowledge that I am about to give myself up completely fills me with a strong rush of adrenaline.

I hear Levi spit. And then, I feel it; his thumb slides down my own finger, slowly pressing in as well. Just that sends my heart to my stomach—the awareness of us both inside me, side by side. Levi’s finger matches the rhythm of mine, moving in perfect sync. I feel the tension in my muscles giving way. Every nerve ending in my body is blown.

The same strange feeling quickly becomes intoxicating, driving me to rut back against him with increasing urgency, like I was consumed by an unknown need for more. I already knew it would hurt, and it still will. Somehow, it doesn’t matter anymore.

Unable to contain my desire any longer, I drive my forehead hard into the wood.

“Do it,” I gasp, my breath coming in ragged pants. “Do it. Now.”

With a sense of hunger that matches my own, Levi withdraws his finger. The emptiness doesn’t last long—he is already pressing against me with no room for doubt.

Inch by inch, he sinks into me.

The pain hurts like a crime.

I bite into my bicep so hard that I see white. The growls against the muscle in my mouth are muffled by feverish weakness. For seconds, long as a winter’s night each, I am no one, only the weathered shell of a body, watching my own shaking self from above; witnessing my death and rebirth in spring.

But I take him, knees sinking, seeing before my eyes how the men and women in me have taken it, willingly and not. I take him, hot and thick, and pulsing with a heart. With pride and courage, even if it feels like he is cleaving me in two; through the burn, I take all that I am given.

Levi stills and whispers my name against my shoulder, but the halt in his movements stings.

“Keep… keep moving,” I grunt, blinded by sweat and greed. My voice is hoarse with hunger, and my legs tremble beneath, barely able to support my weight as I strain against him.

“Does it hurt?”

“I want it to.” I need this more than it hurts. “Please.”

It shocks me to my bone marrow, how Levi moves at my plea, like a heart and all its valves against me, with motions so fluid, so natural and so wrong, so desperate to control what he never could before. He knows it’s a losing game, but somehow, he is also a winner at it.

I buck into Levi’s hips, sinking him deeper into me than he can handle—I feel it through his hands, his fingers digging into the muscles of my legs, trying to anchor himself to a shallow pace like a man fighting against the tide, when all he wants is to be swallowed by heat. And Levi is starving—I can tell this is something he has kept himself from. Hungrily, he touches me, without fearing to hurt, reaching a pace that is brutal and resolute.

The satisfaction of being used that way leaks in a cold string from the tip of my co*ck, sticks to my thigh, swings with every movement. His hips strike my ass like a whip. Each thrust drives deeper into me with a force that only Levi could possess, and I am powerless to him. Slumped over, presenting myself to be f*cked like he deserves it, my life almost has meaning again.

Breathing like an animal, Levi slows. I feel his fingers brush my hair to the side, letting it drop over one shoulder. Black cascades over my face just when I had begun piecing together the darkness.

He touches the back of my neck. It sends a jolt through me. Levi’s fingers are like a whisper against the exposed spot—I can sense his awareness of my vulnerability, the power he holds over me in this moment. He knows he can exploit this weakness if he chooses to.

And he does. He pins me down by the nape of my neck, like a pup to be drowned, and I submit completely to that will.With each long, deep stroke, the surrender in me rises. He knows I want him in command, just like I want him weak, just like I want him always. The potency of his hold over me is making me drunk.

Levi breaks into a strangled noise. My gut tightens at it. I can smell the impatience, how close he is, the tension building within him, a coalescence of desire and need that will kill him. With every thrust, he draws closer, moans falling ragged and broken down onto my back.

Finally, I feel it through his hands. I hold my breath to experience it in its entirety. Levi grips my neck so hard that I feel my vision fading, washing his seed inside me through rough spasms. His org*sm pulses hot and full, groans nestled in the back of his throat, like some panicked attempt to keep himself from screaming. Still, he keeps going, at the same pace, with the same intensity. Hot drips out of me, more with each stroke. It’s only when he buries himself down to the shaft and lingers to make me feel the throb that he also pulls away after.

Already, I want him back. I am left trembling and undone, aching with an echo of what was, feeling like I could have more, infinitely, without ever taking a break.

Coming back to his senses, Levi slumps over me, cheek pressed flat against my ribcage, arms loose around my sweating waist. Together we shake in breathy silence.

“How long?” I whisper.

“Longer than you’ve been alive,” he replies in a faint voice. His chest vibrates. “But never… not like this.”

We lie naked in my bed while Levi smokes. The room smells of sem*n, cigarettes, sweat and whiskey, of hay, of saddle leather, of gun oil, of an old cot and rotting wood. I never knew what it meant when someone said it smelled like sex, but I think I see it now. It’s almost thick in here. You’d have to push yourself to walk through it.

I pull Levi’s hand to my mouth and take a hit from the cigarette. The ember glows bright, casting an orange sheen against the pale skin of his chest. Tastes just like him, too.

There is a sense of contentment in his eyes, a very quiet satisfaction. So I reach out to him, tracing my thumb along the curve of his jaw. His stubble prickles my skin, unlike the softness of his lips as he leans in to press a kiss against my palm.

Levi takes a drag, exhaling a cloud that hangs in the air. Thick, like I said; nowhere for even smoke to go. He watches me for a moment longer.

“You didn’t finish,” he remarks, voice low and raspy from the tobacco.

I meet his stare, feeling a pang of what feels like embarrassment. “I know.”

“Do you want to?” Levi softly asks.

I hesitate with the answer. Part of me wants to say yes, to seek release and completion. Another part of me is scared. I think I’m afraid of pushing it too far. I am already asking for too much.

“I... I don’t have to,” I finally admit. It’s barely audible in the shame of needing more.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know.”

It almost seems like he studies me. With a soft sigh, he puts the cigarette out in my glass of water and shifts his position slightly, propping himself up on one elbow as he looks down at me.

“What did you use?” he asks quietly.

“Tallow. From the kitchen.”

“Is there any more?”

“Yes, some. But I don’t think I can… do any more.” I bite the inside of my cheek in disappointment. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t mean— Not for you.” Levi reaches out to brush a stray lock of hair away from my forehead. “For me.”

“You?”

“I want to know what it feels like. To… give myself over,” he says. “And for you to feel what I felt. I wouldn’t try to describe it. Don’t think I can.”

For a moment, I’m at a loss for words.

My mind races to process the offer. But beneath the shock, excitement boils over. “Well, it’s—it’s going to hurt. It almost makes you want to pull away. There’s also this intense pressure, this big feeling of being filled completely. It’s very overwhelming.”

Levi leans down, kissing the crease of my armpit. “I’ve been in pain before.”

Heat rises to my face as I struggle to articulate further. “Well, and it’s... strange. But in a way that is... like you’re surrendering to something greater than yourself.”

His lips trail along my skin, igniting a fire that drips right into my blood.

I struggle to maintain my composure. “It’s… it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before,” I manage to say, though my voice comes out as little more than a hoarse whisper. “In the best way possible.”

“That sounds good.”

“It does. It is.”

Levi’s hands, rough and sure, roam, like he’d already decided before my answer. He pulls at the skin on my waist, grips my hip bone hard, like a saddle, trails his fingers through my pubic hair, raking it for treasure. Soon, he finds it—half-hard, my co*ck responds to the touch, too eager for my liking, thickening faster than cream on a stove. My breath hitches as he strokes it with an open palm; almost like he didn’t care for it, but I know how deeply he does.

He leans in close. Levi’s breath is ragged and smells like smoke, voice husky when he murmurs, “You felt incredible." In awe, he says it. His hand tightens around my erection as if he couldn’t bear to let go. “Being inside you… With all the heat, and…”

Levi trails off to lap at my neck.

I could hear the rawness in his voice. I felt it reverberating through my body like a shock.

“You were so eager to be good,” he whispers, warm breath tickling the cooling wet from his tongue. “I never wanted it to end. You need to feel my desperation, too.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, though the question is more for myself than for him. Deep down, I know I want nothing more than to give in. I have always felt a guttural need to end up inside him one way or another. Whether it be in sex, or my body to feed him in starvation; it just has to be me.

Levi’s response is wordless but unmistakable. He throws his leg over my waist, knee landing just by the natural curve of my body. I try to look up by raising my head, but Levi clamps a wrist over my throat and pushes me back down, the roughness of the motion giving me a brand new pulse. And he feels it, I think, because he presses his ass down on my co*ck and huffs against my open mouth.

I hook my arms around Levi’s thighs to pull him up and push him to the side. He hits the mattress with a thump. Gone to my desire, I kiss his pale hip, stained with scarred skin and the weak blue blaze from outside the window.

“You’ll kill me,” I whisper into Levi’s abdomen, inhaling his sweat. It’s all over my lips, salty when I lick them. “You can’t give this to me and then take it away. If today is the only time I can have you, I… I’d rather never than once.”

He says nothing.

Levi shifts and rises from the bed. I watch him walk over to the desk, naked silhouette outlined against the window like a sharp relief. With each step he takes, I feel a new longing. I want to reach out and pull him back to me.

The moonlight casts shadows across his body, painting him as something from my dreams; ethereal and glowing through the sheen of sweat, tightness of his skin. Shoulders broad and square, with a strength that speaks of discipline, gone now that the sun isn’t watching. Even in the dark, I can see the lines of his muscles rippling with each movement. His posture is confident, even naked; I guess I always did like the way Levi held himself.

He returns with what he needs. One of his knees sink onto the mattress, eyes on me. I can only tell by the dim shine, or maybe the feeling it brings, like I’d already memorized it.

“You know,” Levi begins, “I faced death more times than I care to count. What liberty did I ever have to be weak?”

I lie still when he crawls back over my thighs and settles on my chest.

“A pillar of strength for everyone,” he continues, silent. “Black obelisk at the horizon, guiding the lost, saving whoever I could before they died, like it was written in stone. I knew my life was going to change. I was strong, but even I wasn’t excluded from that fear. It threatened to kill everything I ever had but me. I could go to the past, but there’s no one there.”

I know. I always see Levi for who he truly is: not the unyielding soldier or tactful leader, but a man burdened by grief, seeking solace in the arms of another, even if it brings him shame.

I stare up in a hazy bliss. Levi’s stomach, all defined muscle, flexes with each movement as he shifts his weight. The contours of his abdomen are etched with the lines of destruction. His thighs are thick and strong, as awaited from the legs of a warrior, built for endurance and resilience. Every plane of his body strikes me with a beauty I hadn’t fully noticed before—but I do now, and it leaves my blood curdling.

“I’m there. I’ll be weak for you,” I whisper against his round knee. “I’ll give you all I have.”

Levi’s hand brings mine between his legs. It’s all slick with the oil. I trail around, gathering fat on my fingers, until feeling up his entrance.

“As will I,” he answers, “but don’t leave again.”

My thumb sinks inside the heat. His stomach tenses before my eyes.

Levi’s walls are as soft as the inside of his mouth. The muscles around my thumb clench and release with each movement. I go slow, swallowing every second of it, loving the sight more than I will ever admit. The muscles yield slightly to pressure, stretching to accommodate while still maintaining a snug grip.

I switch my thumb for my middle finger, and Levi reacts with a soft, faltering gasp that flicks at my hair.

“Good?” I whisper, kissing his knee.

“Good,” he breathes, hand sliding down to his co*ck.

I wonder which one of us is enjoying this more.

My pointer slips in, and I stuff him up until my knuckles. It’s a hot and thick tightness that just swallows me. Levi melts onto my fingers with a shiver, looming over like an angel of war. Even when he is weak for me, his strength easily overpowers his fragility.

I’m so hard that it hurts. My arm burns in exertion, but the bliss that paints Levi’s face wipes that sting away. To own his pleasure this way, to hold it in my hand, to break him like no one has before makes my hunger for it grow tenfold. I never imagined the desire could be so powerful—or that it could take control over my kindness like it does now.

I pull my fingers out and push at him. “Sit on it.”

Levi presses his ass against my co*ck the second I tell him to. He aligns it perfectly, so that I get to probe at the heat my hand just left, sinking just barely inside. I gasp, feeling the head slip in further than I thought it would.

“Take it,” Levi growls.

My movements still by Levi’s directive. When he demands obedience, I comply like a blind man, and nothing changes now. Years later, I am still malleable, even when the command is my own.

With a sense of reverence, I trace my hands over his hips, and softly push him down onto my lap. Both thighs on each side of my waist, Levi lowers; under my hands, I feel his quads ripple with unspoken energy.

The tightness is crushing. Like the grip of death, it swallows me slowly, burning hot in all my length, etching out a sensation like no other. My composure topples completely then—and when I feel Levi’s ass brush softly against my thighs, I realize I am completely inside of him.

His sweat whips like leather at my senses. I jolt in my carnal desire, earning a weak gag from his mouth. Strong, the smell of perspiration drives me to the brink of madness with longing. I pull Levi down, allowing the scent to waft over me, pushing my nose against his shoulder in a dizzied need. With my tongue, I savor the biting taste of Levi’s skin, the warmth of his flesh. I can almost taste the tang of blood and the essence of life itself, calling out to me like a siren’s song, enticing me to indulge in the forbidden feast that I have entered.

Levi has consumed me whole. Destroyed me in my ravenous hunger, driven me into an insatiable appetite, carved my eyes out and shoved me blind in my heat. He lifts his hips and sinks back down, slow, slower than he did when f*cking me. Another roll, and his breath chokes—and I become greedy, like I thought I would.

With Levi still on my lap, I sit up, arms tight around his waist. It buries me deeper inside him, and his low moan confirms the hard need for it. Each time he sinks down onto me, I feel a shock run through my body. Tight heat envelops me completely, walls clenching around my co*ck, drawing me in with an irresistible force. Every thrust sends us further into desperation.

I make sounds I never have. Levi makes sounds I have heard in my dreams. Real now, they drive me wild.

Lost in the throes of my devotion, I find myself rapidly losing control. Our movements become erratic and desperate. The constant, safe rhythm we had shatters, replaced by a frantic urgency that consumes us both. I claw at Levi’s back, nails leaving angry marks in their wake, but Levi responds in kind, teeth sinking into my shoulder with a savage intensity. He breaks skin, drawing blood down my chest, but the pain does nothing to keep me from the edge of oblivion. If anything, it only sends me into a rut.

I move, sharp and angry, and my anger breaks him. Mouth full of my life, Levi comes, spilling hot onto my chest in a torrent of ecstasy. His release paints me with its warmth. With no hesitation, I reach down and wipe at the fluid, bringing it to my lips. Sweet and balmy and thick, the taste of him satiates my hunger, while the salt from my own blood satiates the thirst.

In a rush of sensation that steals my breath away, I feel it—with a final, miserable growl, my entire body convulses with the force of release. Flashes from different lives penetrate my vision; memories of the times I’ve witnessed a child conceived, a prisoner owned, a virgin defiled, all come with vivid clarity. Desperate cries of pleasure and pain that drove them to seek release, the overwhelming sense of fulfillment that followed… I feel it, finally, with my own body, with all the devastation it brings, and all the fear it feeds.

Trembling and gasping for air, I take Levi by the hips to push him back up. His entire body quivers with mine.

“Don’t—don’t.” he says wearily, forehead pressed wet against my collarbone. The small rolls of skin on his stomach crease with his sem*n. “Not yet. Stay.”

I feel every throbbing inch of him when he talks. His voice rips at my soul. Lips seeking his jaw, I taste a trail of what could be sweat, but tears just as well.

“I’m not leaving,” I whisper. “Not this time.”

As the soft rays of the rising sun pour through the window, casting a pink glow over our entwined bodies, Levi and I lie awake in bed, fingers tracing love along each other’s skin. The room is filled with a quiet serenity, broken only by the gentle rustle of the curtains billowing in the breeze, and conversation barely louder than a heartbeat. With the window open, goosebumps riddle every touch.

How can peace and freedom be enemies?They love each other.

In war and suffering, they loved each other—and even after.

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

My first breath of the day is euphoric, and the willow tree sings.

Rays of gold dance across my skin, painting dapples of light and shadow that chase each other across the contours of my body, the bed, the walls of my room. The sun is so white that it eats through the cotton sheet stretched over my head. Like a newborn innocence, it kisses me through the fabric. It reverts me into the child I no longer remember being.

Slow as a cat stretching, my gaze drifts toward the window, where the weeping tree sways in the breeze. Its slender branches dance and twirl, shivering with them the willow’s long leaves. Colored like gray smoke for their wooly underside, they flitter against the dusty glass, pushing pollen around in streaks. Each leaf shimmers with its own inner light, as if infused with the love they have witnessed, carrying the message back to their sun—betraying our secret through hisses and rustles, whispering it to the birds nesting, burying it in the soil where the tree roots.

The cool sheets slide against my skin with every breath. I look down to my bare body, where the remnants of last night still cling to me. There, on my stomach and thighs, they sit in dry streaks. As I run my nails over each spot, they flake, scattering powder into thick, short hair, like ashes of a passion bigger than me.

I let my hand fall back to the bed. For a moment, grounded in the now, I forget. All that matters is the smell of tilled soil and the sway of the willow. The circle of light bouncing off my bedside mirror, the honey sweet of lilac and apple blossoming, and the toothy caress of spring sun on my legs. And as I watch the willow sway in the wind, a sense of peace washes over. The air fills with it. It’s a white and pure bliss, as if the entire world has been enveloped in a fog—one to get lost in, not to be chased away.

I can still taste his touch on my skin. I feel him… everywhere. Every line traced across my body by his hands in the kindest intimacy known to man. I’ve given myself fully to him, bared my soul in a way I never have with anyone else—not in a way I have ever willed to. Losing this purity shed a layer of who I once was. It was like stepping out of the shadows and into the light. It chased away the chaos and violence that has defined so much of me.

I know it will come back. Blood like that stains. It’s a sobering realization to be a vessel to, to feel so pure and tainted at the same time. To know that, despite my love and kindness, I am still capable of violence and destruction—and that, despite my violence and destruction, I am still capable of love and kindness.

Whether it be my soul or my flesh, this body feels heavy and full. Slowly, I shift in bed to move it. A sharp twinge shoots through my lower back, followed by an ache that radiates from my rear. I wince at the discomfort, but it’s impossible to ignore. And… not all unpleasant. I almost enjoy the physical testament, like he branded me. It will take years to settle that this time, I didn’t dream of it.

No dream ever came close.

Sensing my stirring, Levi’s fingers press down on my arm. I lean into the touch with all of myself, pulling his body against mine.

“...hurts,” is what I catch from his mumble, voice rough from sleep.

“Worse than you thought?” I ask in return, letting my lips ghost over the fine, white fuzz coating his bicep. My voice betrays my own lingering discomfort, but it doesn’t matter.

Levi doesn’t give an answer, but it wasn’t a question that required one. It’s good that we don’t have to always speak to each other. Almost unfortunate that I always want to.

He lets me kiss his skin and breathe in the night. I take all the time with it that I can. Only a sparrow’s shrill chirp on the windowsill can be heard over my mouth pressing dry sweetness onto him, bit by bit. Not an inch missed that I can reach, not a second wasted without his flesh against mine.

With a low hum, Levi turns his head towards the window, and immediately pulls away to sit up. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” I say. What I really want to say is that I haven’t cared. At the sight before me, it feels like I never knew time existed.

In prison, I had the sun. Out here, it no longer keeps count—my days are only measured in moments that make me forget it all, and I forget everything now.

The morning light lines a glow around him. His face, softened by sleep, is illuminated by sweat. Sleep lines etch faint trails across his forehead and down his flushed cheek, red in evidence of its warmth. I continue to kiss whatever of Levi’s skin is closest, savoring the heat, soaked all with love like a wound pooling in blood. But as the seconds pass, a sense of urgency begins to creep into the air. Time is slipping away from us. Again, it escapes. It always has, in its cruel, unforgiving nature.

“We need more time,” I whisper in a sudden fear. The words in my mouth taste like pure desperation. “God, I wish…”

“One day.” Levi leans backwards on his elbow. His lips brush along the hairs of my brow, stubble grazing it.

“Swear to me.”

“I swear. One day, we will.” And his mouth against mine tastes like liquid gold.

It’s the heat of a thousand suns. Every sensation magnified, heart writhing and bleeding for something bigger than it can harness. I feel the rise and fall of his chest as we breathe in unison, move in unison—as if we were always meant to be this close. Like a wax and a wane, never further than an arm’s length.

How many times did we almost lose this chance?

How long will we have it?

A soft rap echoes through the room, breaking the stillness between us. I pull away like I was whipped. Levi’s eyes shoot to the door, mirroring the panic in mine. Before we can even exchange a word, he slides off the edge of my bed, steps to the other side of the room, and leans against the wall, behind the entrance, right by its shining hinges.

The door creaks open then, revealing the figure of a young maid standing in the doorway. Her eyes widen in surprise at the sight before her: me in bed, staring back at her. I scramble to cover myself with the sheets, hastily pulling at whatever corner of them I can reach.

“Oh! I apologize for the intrusion…” the girl softly speaks, cheeks filling with embarrassment as she averts her gaze. The small hand on the edge of the door pulls it close, as if she were blessing me with some privacy that way. “It’s—it’s well past breakfast. Captain Levi seems to have left on duty, so I was asked to… to check in on you.”

As she stammers out her explanation, my eyes drift to the handle she fumbles with. Levi remains hidden behind, concealed from our view. Glad I was the one who ended up being caught in a compromising position; that would hurt less than if it were the both of us together.

“Yes, of course,” I mutter, clenching my sheets. “I must’ve overslept.”

The maid continues, voice wavering just a pinch. “I brought some leftovers. For you,” she says, gesturing to a tray of food that stands in the hallway. “It’s not much, but…”

Nodding, I reply, “No, thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

“I’ll... I suppose… Well, I’ll just leave it here,” she mumbles, setting the tray down on my nightstand. As she does, her eyes flicker upwards at my body, and away just as quickly. The girl then retreats from the room, closing the door behind her—revealing Levi with it. Still naked, his hands are clasped behind his back in no attempt to conceal himself.

I breathe the tension out through my nostrils and swallow every inch of him. God, it really is the kind of attraction that devastates.

“Poor girl. Fought for every word.” Levi says in an amused whisper. “Hasn’t seen a man before, has she?”

“Come, eat with me.”

Levi’s lips twitch with the effort to contain himself. He joins me on the edge of the bed for the late feast. The food is cold, and the bread has just started to stale, but it has never tasted better; not after last night.

“I’m late for work. You think I’ll be in trouble?” I ask, glancing up at Levi as I chew.

He shakes his head. “There are no quotas to fill.”

“So how do they keep track?”

“Every week, I file reports on you. I’ve been thinking whether anyone reads them.”

“I can imagine. Repairing the train tracks. Setting foundations for new buildings. Shoveling manure,” I ponder out loud. “You go into a lot of detail on that last one?”

“Can’t fill enough pages.” Levi keeps eating.

His flat response earns a laugh from me. We lapse into a comfortable silence as we eat, accompanied only by clinking and the soft rustle of fabric as we shift. Once done with his part, Levi sets the cutlery down and turns to me.

“I need to…” he begins, already trailing off, as if unsure how to continue. “Before I go, I want to ask.”

I swallow the last bite of my food, feeling a small knot form in my stomach. “What?”

“Was that something you wanted?”

The question comes through an averted gaze, like shame had come as a reminder.

If Levi knew the lifetimes of want I have for him, he would never ask this question.

“It was…” I begin slowly, afraid to give voice to all the intensity. Words escape me when I look him in the eyes. “Yes. It was.”

And those simple words hang in the air, heavy with their truth. Speaking them aloud makes them real, solidifying the desire that has eaten me for so long. With each syllable, I feel the power of it again, the way it takes over my soul completely, leaving me hurt in ways that only he can heal.

His eyes search mine for any sign of regret. He looks for any hint of doubt, but there’s none to be found. All I can feel is the overwhelming certainty that this is where I belong.

“I wanted it,” I continue, voice gaining strength as I speak. I feel a sense of liberation wash over me, like shedding years of repression and denial. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted it. Even I don’t. I needed you before I knew of it. Like it was the one thing set in stone.”

Levi has never looked at me as intently as he does now. He doesn’t fail to be an excellent listener, but he hears me now, in ways only Armin has before.

“You talked to others,” he whispers. “In the Paths.”

It strikes me like a blade.

“...I never told you that.”

“Well, I read what Armin wrote.”

Instinctively, I look away. It has been so long since then that I had forgotten just how much I said to Armin—and how much I now wish I had kept quiet about. Though all of it weaves my story, parts of it I would omit to some.

“Why not me?” Levi asks. Dry and simple, and evoking all of what I never wanted to remember.

So my answer comes quiet. “I’ll tell you one day.”

Not today. And not ever, I hope. Because to think of that despair again, and to allow it into my heart again, the venom of that despondent memory, would set me back by years. Those thoughts are a place I have no desire to return to.

I have him now. For a long time, I thought I never would. I hoped he would join me in hell, where we could talk about it at last.

The path to paradise begins in hell, Historia’s soft voice rings in the back of my head.

“Swear to me,” Levi mimics what I said earlier.

“I swear. One day, I will.”

✣

Armin rules out a date for the first expedition that allows for ample planning.

Preparations are underway all across the island. Teams of new engineers and craftsmen work tirelessly to reinforce the ships that would carry the expeditionary force across the ocean. Supplies are being gathered, provisions stocked, new men trained for marine life.

I find myself assigned to a team tasked with the heavy lifting: labor at the port. Each day begins before the sun rises, with the sound of hammers striking against metal and the shouts of workers echoing across the shipyards. We toil under the eyes of seasoned workers, learning every intricacy of shipbuilding there is, the various components from the keel to the mast, and the importance of strengthening each part to withstand the rigors of the water. The weather is as unpredictable as was predicted, and water was never our forte.

I find, also, that I am not as skilled as I assumed. I was never particularly handy, because my father worked with ill people and words, not his hands. Construction is different; shipbuilding asks for a certain finesse. Despite my best efforts, there are moments when I struggle with the precision required to shape wood and metal, or when I swing the hammer too hard, leaving dents in the wood, or when I misjudge the angle of a cut, resulting in jagged edges that need to be smoothed out. It feels like I make more mistakes than progress.

It’s frustrating, to say the least. I’m not a delicate person, never saw myself as one. But my improvement slides forth through other cracks in the door—the pragmatic question of, “More bread?” roots a confidence, or receiving a brush on the shoulder that could’ve been draft pulling through the dining hall, pressing my shirt against my body. Woodwork I learn by carving lines in Levi’s skin when I press old pain out of his muscles at night. Accuracy comes in sewing my clothes. Our maids offer to do it for me, but I only ask them to show the stitching. My holes to rip are mine to repair, like they always have been.

But his softness is new to me. Every day, I wait at the gate for it, like a gundog out of service, looming behind bars. I’m unsanded wood under his palm, leaning into him at every opportunity I am given, looking to strike splinters into skin—so that the thought of me can bother him while I’m away at work. Nights are spent pining in bed, awake, wanting, hoping to hear the two knocks on my door that would bring me my peace back. Those few nights we have, the ones he allows me to own, sleep loses any meaning. Like a fern leaf, I unravel, green and young, and with life I never had. To have and to hold… To belong, to protect, with the undying loyalty of a soldier with his officer, too willing to put my body on the line—any line, however many are drawn. Like a cat and his lives, I love him with each.

And he allows me to indulge in it, the eyes and body more honest and telling than words.

Oh, Captain. My Captain.

As the days pass, the ships begin to take new shape, frames strengthened by layers of reinforced wood and metal. But even though progress is made above the expected rate, there is a clear sense of urgency in the air: the date of the expedition looms closer, and there is much to be done before we can set sail. Still, as the preparations continue, I find myself stealing moments away from the bustling port to tend to Fenrir.

I spend as many hours with him every day as I can, earning more of his trust than I thought was possible between animal and man. I’ve introduced Fenrir to his saddle, allowing him to become accustomed to its weight and feel. It’s clear how his confidence has grown; he now stands still as I secure the straps in place, muscles tense with anticipation, as opposed to trying to worm his way out before. He doesn’t flinch with me around. He smells how I care for him, smells another man’s love on me—and it tells him of safety.

Today is no different. I’ve crossed the fields from the orphanage, to the stables, to see Fenrir again. Levi allows me short solitude on days like these, though I am not to talk about it. Most times, he comes with, and sits on the hay bales, filling in his reports. Today, he said, his leg was killing him, so I walked alone.

With the saddle firmly in place, I mount my horse, breathing the thrill of being astride such a powerful creature. To be one with nature is the closest humankind can get.

With a gentle nudge of my heels, we set off on small laps around the training grounds. Fenrir’s hooves pound against the earth. At first, like most times, he is unsure of the unfamiliar weight upon his back. But then, like most times, his strides begin to lengthen.

Laughter bubbles inside my chest when he breaks into a trot. “Good boy.” I pat at his neck. What a magnificent horse he is. “Easy, now.”

I guide him around training poles in figure eights, pushing for wider and sharper turns, just to see how intuitively he moves. Definitely responsive, and a very sensitive horse—he is eager to serve, because I haven’t pushed it onto him. When horses were being trained in hordes for the military, those wise, intelligent beings falling under rubble or being eaten, backs still warm from their riders and gallop sweat, there was never much time to form true bonds. I had never had a horse like that, like Fenrir. I consider owning him a blessing of its own.

“Hey, that’s my horse!” A shrill voice cuts through the air.

Right away, my heart drops.

Out of all the days Levi isn’t here, someone is.

I instinctively jerk the reins, startled by the sudden interruption. Fenrir, already sensitive to the softest of my movements, tenses beneath me, muscles coiling in response. His ears flick back, and he steps backward, bubbling in protest, instead of standing still.

“Easy, easy.” I stroke his mane in an attempt to calm him. Despite my own racing heart, I force myself to remain calm, to project an air of reassurance. With steady hands, I guide Fenrir in a tight circle, allowing him to release his nervous energy in controlled movements. “That’s it,” I whisper in a steady murmur. “You’re alright, boy. Easy now.”

I pull gently on Fenrir’s reins, bringing him to a halt. With him calm, I finally turn in the direction of the shout. My eyes widen at the angry, albeit small figure in the distance; a child.

“What?” I yell back.

“I said, that’s my horse!” The girl shouts. “I feed him!”

Fenrir shifts beneath me again, sensing some tension in the air. I rub a soothing circle on his neck, trying to steady my own racing heart. “It’s fine,” I whisper into his ear. “Come on. Let’s go look.”

As I ride closer to the girl, her features become clear. It seems that Fenrir recognizes her as well, because he doesn’t respond to my halt immediately. But while his heart seems to fill with warmth, so hesitant to stop at my command, mine sinks.

For a moment, I’m frozen in space and time, unsure of what to do; running off is not an option with a horse still not broken in, and my cowardice can’t show. It can only be fate’s doing that the horse who picked me has also bonded with her.

With a deep breath, I urge Fenrir forward, riding closer to her, despite the unease in my stomach.

“Gabi?” My voice is too weak.

At first, upon realizing who I am, she backs away. Her face loses all color it ever had, eyes blown so wide there is white lined around her irises. It looks like her skin was heated into wax, how morphed with shock it is. But then, as if rooted to the spot, as if her bones formed poles dug into the ground, Gabi stays in place—just like I have.

“I—I feed him,” she finally says. No bravado in her voice anymore.

What do I say to her? Towering a horse’s height over her, casting a shadow from the sun over her lithe body, I stand there like a torment again. And from where I’m standing, she’s just a child, like she always was, equipped with every skill there is to execute a man. A child with no mother, or land, or home. My doing.

Killing the Devils of Paradis, that’s what Gabi wanted. But when she met me, the one man who was ruthless and dangerous enough to fit the propaganda profiling, she shook in terror. Subconsciously, she must have expected the other Eldians to be incompetent, exaggerated villains that sit there and take it, not prove her fears right like I did. I know how much Levi scared her… But I know the kind of fear seeing me again puts into her.

“Gabi,” I say again, with conviction now, the name so foreign on my tongue.

She flinches at the sound of it, but doesn’t back away any further. I press my heel down on the stirrup, ready to get off Fenrir’s back.

“Don’t come closer,” Gabi says faster than her mouth can move and lifts a hand up. “I’ll scream.”

I look around. The breeze swats at my hair. “There’s no one here.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Who are you with?”

She stares at me through her eyebrows. Everything about her posture betrays fear. I take the answer is exactly what I assumed it to be.

For a moment, there is silence. Maybe we both struggle to speak.

“I hoped the next time I saw you was at the gallows,” Gabi finally says.

I slowly nod. She is very genuine in that. “Me too, most days.”

Still like a building, she remains in place.

“Things are different now,” I silently continue.

“Are they?”

“You know they are.”

“You don’t get to say that.” Gabi’s gaze wavers, torn between resentment and doubt. It seems as though she might turn and flee any second. With a steadying breath, she continues, “People here keep saying I was like you. As if that was a good thing.”

“Weren’t you?”

“I take pride in how much I’ve grown, and how far you’ve fallen. You have nothing to take pride in,” Gabi murmurs. “Nothing but your sin and how you still carry it.”

She is right, of course. And she always was.

When I said I wanted to kill all of them, I meant the monsters, until I meant the threat of a genocide. When Gabi said she wanted to kill all of them, she referred to an ethnic group, primarily on the island, that was suffering constant siege and lack of modern technology. But neither of us were swallowed by a raging whirlpool of hatred. I was not hellbent on killing until my home was attacked and mother eaten. Gabi was not hellbent on killing until our raid on Liberio.

The difference is that I was to come. For eons, I had been coming to mark the earth. Every next battle pre-written by every mistake our ancestors made. While Gabi disproves my belief that the world would never understand, I think of what it took to convince her. Who had to die for one’s conviction. How many bodies it would take to step over before the hatred was exhausted and cold.

Falco was the innocent that was indoctrinated. If not for the predestined love he garnered for her, she would never see the light of redemption for herself. Soaked with vitriol, never to heal.

“May I step off the horse?” I ask, unhooking my left foot from the stirrup.

Gabi eyes me warily. Her hand rests on her hip, as if prepared to defend herself with whatever may be concealed. I see the uncertainty.

“Empty your pockets,” she demands.

I comply without hesitation, slowly reaching into my belt pouch and pulling out the contents one by one. I wonder if she knows that all I carry around are things that don’t matter—a dried blue flower, flattened between scraps of paper that spell out my errands, a small, green stone that I think is just glass polished by the ocean, screws, lint, and Levi’s knife, the only weapon I’ve been allowed to carry, and only by him. I drop all of these things on the ground. Fenrir flicks his ears at the soft thuds.

“There, nothing else,” I say, holding my hands up by my waist in surrender.

Gabi studies me for a moment longer before lowering her hand. She motions towards the ground, stepping back to give me space.

As I dismount Fenrir, I make a conscious effort to keep my movements slow—for both of them—not wanting to appear threatening. I want to meet her at eye level. But soon I find that, even off my horse, I tower above by almost half her height—as if it was a marking of how much weight I carry, as if it were to stretch me closer to the sun, ripping skin, fat and tendon, opposite sides of an unbridgeable divide.

Gabi’s eyes flicker between me and Fenrir. They soften when looking at him. “Still my horse.”

I glance at the stallion, who stands stoically beside me, lips nipping at the back of my shirt. “He’s nobody’s horse,” I reply, reaching my hand up to stroke his rough mane. “Doesn’t have to belong to anyone.”

She stretches her hand out again—this time, not in defense, but an invitation. “Come,” Gabi says to Fenrir. “Come here, boy.”

Fenrir hesitates for a moment. He considers Gabi’s invitation. With a tentative step forward, he approaches her, his large, powerful neck towering over her small figure. There is, of course, a familiarity in his movements, as he recognizes her scent and voice.

I watch in silence as the horse lowers his head, allowing Gabi to run her hand along his muzzle. Her fingers trace the contours of his face, rake the sides of it, like scratching him.

“He likes that. The scratches. Yeah?” she murmurs into the space between them, letting her nails work through his coat. “Good.”

“You must come here often,” I remark. “He’s clearly used to you.”

Gabi looks up at me. “Every day.”

“How come I never see you? I’m here for hours.”

“At night,” she clarifies. “I usually come here at night.”

I raise an eyebrow in surprise. “They don’t let anyone from Marley out at night. Can’t imagine kids to be any exception.”

Panic flashes in her eyes—but is quickly drowned by surrender. “You can tell whoever you want. I’ll keep doing it until someone catches me doing it.”

“I won’t tell anyone.” I study her for a moment. “How do you get past the guards? Doesn’t the Royal Sentry guard that building in Stohess?”

“That was just once. The time you wanted to play hero again. But… no, it’s just Military Police.” Gabi keeps stroking Fenrir’s coat. “Security is lax… more than, I’d say. They want your, uh—those, those nationalists to sneak in and kill us.”

“So you take advantage of their negligence?”

“So?” she shoots back. “You’d do the same thing if you had nothing to live for. After you… after everything, all I had was him.”

Again, the pang of guilt. “Thank you,” I say quietly, throat thick. “For taking care of him.”

“He was just a foal. A weanling. No mom. Those orphanage kids—” She sucks in a quick breath. “They said his mom was a war horse. So if he was weaned off early, right around when… Well, I’m sure he doesn’t know you killed her.”

“You don’t know that, either.”

“Whole war was for you,” Gabi sharply grunts. It sounds comical in her normally light voice. “Anyone who died, even the animals, died for you. The civilians killed may not be all innocent, because everyone carries their sin, but think of the real innocence you took.”

I meet her glare. Her words settle like stones in the pit of my stomach. “I have. There is nothing else I can do now but make worthless amends.”

“Is that why you’re still here? To make amends?”

“No. Because no one lets me leave.”

“Do they all tell you that you don’t deserve to die?” she whispers. “That being alive, to you, means suffering worse than death?”

Soundlessly, I nod.

Gabi’s eyes lose their shine. It’s replaced by a simmering anger. “I think you deserve to die,” she says, voice low and filled with quiet intensity. “You owe it to us.”

Her words hit me like a physical blow. Such silent vitriol from someone so young—truly, I see how someone could say she was like me.

I swallow hard, unable to turn away from her accusing stare. Gabi’s condemnation sours the air.

“Trust me, I know,” I finally admit. “I know I deserve it. But nothing is going to change what I already did to you. No matter how or when I am killed, it… There is… there is only moving on, now.”

For a second, so similar to Reiner, her anger momentarily gives way to pity. “Yes,” she agrees quietly. “But it’s something, isn’t it? Knowing that you’ll never be able to make it right.”

Like a coward, I can only nod in response again. No amount of remorse or regret will ever be enough to undo it. And as long as I draw breath, I will carry that guilt with me.

I already knew this.

But she is a child.

“It’s not fair.” Gabi steps aside, away from Fenrir, now standing directly in front of me. “It’s not fair that you get to eat, drink, move. Our war was never fair, too. It’s not that you don’t deserve to die; it’s that no one deserves the reminder that you got away with it. It’s not fair, and it never will be.”

“What is fair in war, Gabi?” I ask in return.

She pauses. “What?”

“What’s fair in a world where children become soldiers, torn by hatred and fear? In war, fairness becomes only an ideal that is quickly overshadowed by the reality of conflict. Laws, conventions aimed at regulating the conduct of war and minimizing unnecessary suffering, none of it matters when the first shell drops. The nature of warfare defies any notions of fairness, because any principle is violated.”

Gabi stands still. We watch each other like a hunt.

“If Marley had won, would you still be questioning the fairness in war?” My voice has dropped in pitch. It almost pushes her, the way her chest caves in. My voice cuts through the tension, confronting the heart of the matter. “What about the other side?”

I can see the gears turning. I know she’s been conditioned to see one perspective, but that has already been broken in by Sasha’s death and all that came from it.

“Fairness in war is about showing mercy even when it’s not convenient. Recognizing the humanity in everyone, even our enemies. Fairness in war starts with the understanding that there are no winners. Only survivors.”

“When did you show us mercy?” Gabi slowly whispers.

“When did you?” I whisper back.

For a moment, there is nothing but deaf air between us. Time traps us in this moment of reckoning.

Without warning, I feel something inside me shift. It’s as if a dam has burst, releasing a flood of pain that I’ve been holding back for far too long. Arms trembling, I sink to my knees in front of her, my guilt’s weight bearing down on me like crushing debris.

There, in the silence of this late spring day, I offer her the only thing I have left to give—my humility, my vulnerability, my willingness to acknowledge her pain. It’s a worthless gesture, like any gesture I can offer, but it feels like the only thing that would matter to her, even if only to degrade me with it.

All we can do now is show mercy to each other. To recognize humanity in one another.

I slowly lift my gaze from the hoof-dotted ground to meet hers. Gabi stares me down, so staggered by my notion that it makes my soul hurt. But, just as quickly as it appeared, her vulnerability is replaced by determination. I watch as her hand reaches down towards her waist.

My heart lurches with a sudden surge of fear.

“Are you going to kill me?” I blurt out. The words tumbled from my lips before I could stop them.

No answer. Each passing second feels like an eternity as Gabi’s hand delves into her pocket. My mind spins with the thought of danger, but I remain rooted where I kneel, as if I wanted it. What I asked her begins to sound different in my memory—as if I wanted it.

Then, I hear the co*ck of a gun.

Fenrir steps back, hooves skidding against the ground. Gabi’s eyes widen in alarm. We both turn in unison, eyes locking onto the dark figure at the farmhouse.

His gait betrays him. In pain, it betrays him more. But he strides forward with purpose, rifle held steady and aimed directly at Gabi. His face is a mask of stone, betraying none of the thoughts that rage within.

“Wait! I’m not—” Gabi begins, but Levi’s resolve remains unyielding.

He pulls the trigger, and a deafening gunshot echoes through the air. The bullet strikes the ground just inches away from us, sending up a spray of dirt.

Fenrir, startled by the sudden explosion of sound, rears up in terror. Eyes blown with panic, he lets out a shrill whinny before bolting off. Even I scramble to my feet and step away from the pit of soil the bullet dug.

“On your knees!” Levi shouts, gun still firm in its position, as he keeps walking toward us.

“I didn’t do anything!” Gabi screams at him, trying to wipe her eyes clean from soil against her shoulder. Her hands are up in the air in complete defeat. And in one of them, the same one that was reaching into her pocket, she holds a dried pale blue flower—much like the one I had held in my own for weeks now.

Quickly, I come to my senses.

“Put the gun down, Levi!” I yell out. “She’s good!”

“She’s not supposed to be here,” he growls, only a few feet away from us now. “On your knees, Gabi.”

Her arms tremble as she still hesitates, caught between her defiance and submission. Eyes flickering between Levi and me, she searches for some semblance of understanding. “Tell him I didn’t—!”

With a practiced movement, Levi steps forward, kicking the back of Gabi’s knee, causing her to collapse to the ground. She lets out a cry of pain as she falls forward, both palms planting into the grass before her. The flower in her hand becomes crushed from the force, and whatever fragile peace we had hoped to achieve has been shattered.

“Hold.” Levi hands the rifle to me. I take it like an order, despite not wanting to obey. His other hand is already unhooking a pair of handcuffs from the back of his harness.

“Don’t do it. Don’t let it fester,” I quickly tell him. “She’ll never get to see the light of day if you’re the one to take her back.”

“Better if I bring her in than anyone else finding her out here,” he replies, kneeling to pull Gabi’s wrists together. She winces in pain of her shoulders being yanked back, and tries to shake him off.

Without thinking, I co*ck the rifle Levi handed me and point it directly at him.

“Let her go,” I command. “You let her go yourself, or I’ll make you.”

Levi freezes. He’s not looking at me, but I know the barrel looms like a violation in his peripheral vision. His jaw tightens, grip on the handcuffs, too. But he doesn’t move. He knows I would never point a gun at him unless I meant it.

“Put it away. Someone could’ve heard the shot,” Levi says, like a warning.

I adjust the heel of the gun against my shoulder. “I will, when she goes.”

Tension stretches the seconds long as we stand locked in a silent standoff. Then, with a resigned exhale, Levi releases his hold on Gabi’s wrists and steps back, hooking the cuffs in place.

The sharp motion of the fall made Gabi’s hair come undone. Through dark strands that shine red in the sun, Gabi stares up at me, wide-eyed and humiliated, as I lower the gun. With a nod, I motion for her to go.

Gabi scrambles to her feet. Fist clenched, she thrusts the crumpled flower into my palm. As she pats her clothes clean, Gabi casts a disdainful glance at Levi. Then, she turns on her heel and walks away, pulling her hair back into the ponytail that was unraveled.

Levi and I watch her departure in silence. I hand him the rifle back without saying a word, and he takes it without answering.

“You didn’t listen to me,” he silently says.

“You didn’t listen to me first.”

Without another word, Levi stretches out his hand. In it, he holds a small knife, used commonly for carving meat, its blade glinting in the sunlight.

“She had this,” he says quietly, handing it to me. “Same pocket.”

I take the knife, turning it over in my hand.

“She made a choice,” Levi continues. “But we’ll never know if she made that choice before or after she heard the gun.”

✣

On Thursday, Armin gathers the key members of the planning committee to discuss the logistics of the upcoming expedition. I’m there because Levi is there—and since Levi is going, so am I.

Armin stands before a large map spread out on the table, surrounded by his advisors, and outlines his vision for establishing a base on Marley’s shore, emphasizing the importance of having a secure foothold on new territory.

“We need to establish a functioning base once we reach Marley,” Armin explains. “That means we’ll need to ship not only our expeditionary force, but also materials and supplies for construction. Setting up a base on the shore allows us to launch further expeditions and secure vital resources, if any.”

Jean leans forward, brow furrowed in thought. “Works in theory.”

“And in practice,” Armin says, as if to finish Jean’s sentence.

“Not unless we encounter resistance.”

“Resistance?”

For some reason, Jean seems to regret speaking so fast. “From any surviving Marleyan forces, if there are any. And later, when we chart the continents. Given the current state of affairs…” He holds his breath for a moment. “As much as anyone does, I hope to find survivors. But equally as much, I hope not to.”

“Did any of the nations have a bomb?” Connie turns to Reiner. “Marley was already experimenting with advanced technology. Any chance of a counterattack if there are survivors? And if there aren’t, would it be possible to set something off as we go?”

“Hard to say for certain,” Reiner replies. “But given the resources that were at our disposal, it’s not entirely implausible. No one wanted war with us, and for good reason.”

“What was Marley working on the latest?” Armin asks.

“Nuclear fission.”

Visibly uncomfortable with the answer he was given, Armin slowly shakes his head. “Well… For our sake, let’s hope you never advanced far. The chances of a hidden bomb… Statistically, they’re very low.”

“Low. Not impossible,” adds Reiner. His expression is grave. “There is a lot about Marleyan soil we may discover. It’s not like the rest of the world never prepared for this; we were in an arms race. We all knew what a weapon Paradis was housing.”

Connie gives Reiner a firm look. “If there’s anything you haven’t told us yet, now’s a great time.”

Instinctively, I look over to my left. Pieck sits by the wall, twirling a pen in her hand. I haven’t felt her eyes leave me since the meeting started.

“You’ve got that cave under the city,” she says, nodding at Levi. “How’d that hold up during?”

“Decent amount of damage, but mostly debris. It stayed intact,” he answers. “You think Marleyans holed up underground?”

Pieck’s gaze falls to the floor. “No. At least… not that we know of. But others may have. And any bomb would be kept underground, too. Escaping through the air would have been impossible, even with advanced technology. The steam would have made aerial evacuation fully unfeasible.” She pauses, letting her words sink in before continuing. “The only viable option for survival would have been underground bunkers or shelters. Some nations might have had such facilities in place, considering our history of conflicts and the ever-present threat of a maniac in power.”

I ignore the slight.

Jean nods thoughtfully. “So if there are any survivors—any at all…”

“If anyone managed to survive the initial onslaught, they would have sought refuge in underground structures, hoping to wait it out. Thing is, no one believed the Rumbling would ever happen,” Reiner says. “It’s been nearly a year. We all saw what it looks like out there. Armin is right; those chances are low.”

“Low. Not impossible,” Pieck murmurs, repeating Reiner’s own words.

Armin listens intently before responding. “I’ve thought about this long ago. While underground bunkers may have offered protection initially, they wouldn’t guarantee survival in the long term. These shelters would have sustained damage from the seismic activity caused by the titans, along with any bombs being triggered. Entrances could have been blocked or compromised. And… even if survivors were able to access these shelters, with enough food and water stocked, limited oxygen supply would become a critical issue over time—especially if the ventilation systems were damaged. Without access to fresh air, people would suffocate. Alive.”

With a quick breath, Jean shifts in his seat. “But if—”

“Jean, it’s been a year. There is no rebuilding, no adapting outside of Paradis,” Armin says. The look in his eyes is dull. “Everyone is dead. If they weren’t at first, they must be now.”

“So much for hope,” Pieck bitterly notes. “Sounds better to your taxpayers if we claim to be looking for survivors rather than scavenging resources from the lands that Eren decimated.”

Armin meets her frown with diligence. “Yes. We need resources. While the possibility of finding survivors is not entirely ruled out, it is not the primary objective of this mission.”

The role of a commander has changed him.

Pieck scoffs, twirling the pen in her hand with increased agitation. “Seems like we’re just picking at the bones of those he left in his wake.”

Silence ensues. I feel eyes turn to me, so I look down at my hands.

Levi’s voice cuts through. “You fault Commander Arlert for prioritizing the survival of our people?”

“What about our people?”

Interesting how, time and time again, this question is still brought up. Levi and I never talked about my conversation with Gabi. He never asked, so I never answered—and the rest of that day he spent charting the territory on his horse to herd Fenrir back to the stables.

To everyone’s surprise, even mine, Levi slams his fist on the table.“God damn it—there is no division. There is no longer a difference, no sides, no factions. We are all that remains. Us, the people. The only reason all of you are still alive is because mercy now matters to survival. Your offspring is what matters. Your fertility, lifespan, contribution to society are all that you are.”

Jean interjects. “We have a responsibility to our people, Pieck. We can’t afford to ignore the opportunities beyond our shores, regardless of the circ*mstances that led us here.”

The room falls into a heavy silence again, and the pit of my stomach burns.

“I…” My voice feels small amidst the tension in the room, but I push through, forcing myself to meet their eyes, one by one. “Pieck is right.”

“No, she’s not,” Levi notes.

I look at him in surprise. When Levi’s eyes meet mine, something passes between us. Vindication—a silent acknowledgment that, in the end, the choice I made was the only one I could have made. I think he has fully accepted this truth now. It was a simple matter of choosing my people over those who would rather see our race eradicated.

Either outcome would be wrong.

“You talk about our people as if they were the enemy. You’re an Eldian. Marley and the rest of the world would’ve done the same—or worse—if given the chance,” Levi says to Pieck.

Her expression tightens in resignation at his words. Pieck opens her mouth to respond, but before she can, Levi cuts her off with a pointed jab of his own.

“Your people were no different, Pieck,” he continues, voice edged with a hint of scorn. “Survival is not always a luxury. It’s also a decision. Eren understood that better than anyone.”

With the corner of my eye, I see Jean put his hand on Pieck’s shoulder.

“Drop it,” he silently tells her.

When I turn my head fully towards them, I watch the way the tips of his fingers sink into her shirt, gliding over her clothed collarbone—and how, in a movement almost impossible to notice to an untrained eye, she leans into it. There’s an intimacy in the gesture that catches me off guard; he grounds her with just the slightest pressure.

It’s in that moment when I realize they may be closer than I thought. And immediately, a question strikes me: do others notice the way our eyes meet, carrying over wordless conversations that only we can decipher? Do they hear the softening of our voices when regarding each other’s titles? Or do they see two soldiers, bound by duty and circ*mstance, with no inkling of the bond that lies beneath? We share no touch under eyes that aren’t ours—but I do know how the eyes and body are more honest and telling than words.

Perhaps the only person who could ever pick up on the nuances is Armin. His perception and astute observations have always set him apart from others. It takes a certain kind of insanity to read people as deeply and intimately as he does.

I look away from Pieck and Jean, shifting my focus to Armin, surprised to find that he’s already looking at me.

Steady and always too knowing, he stares me down, hands planted on the edge of the table as his advisors continue talking about the expedition.

Does he know? No. How could he? There is no possible way of knowing.

But then why does the look in his eyes make me feel violated?

Later that night, my heart kills me. Actually, it hurts me every day; I just know how to live with the feeling. Usually, it does not ache all for myself, but it does tonight, and it does in thrusts and tears that soak my pillow wet. Levi has not knocked on my door tonight, and it’s too late for him to come now—so I’ve allowed myself to wither like I usually don’t.

Being strong and different is a burden. Seeing, knowing, understanding too much is what makes the muscle twist. What do you do when your heart hurts, taken it must stay in your chest? Without selfish pretense and victimhood, when there is no other option and you have to survive?

Fate has been very harsh in my life. It shaped me into someone who remains calm in the midst of suffering. Too calm. Too numb to others’ grief, even when I’m the cause, but overly perceptive of it in the very same breath. What do others do when they are deep in it? God, has anyone’s grief ever reached the depths mine has? Has anyone, in this lifetime, ever done what I have?

Arm hung off the edge of my bed, I look silently at the sky and stare into the face of pain.

There is always the afterlife. Just one, or millions of them—but in at least one, I am atoned for.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

The ship’s hull cuts through angry walls of water, shaking above each wave, bow pointed towards the distant horizon where Marley lies.

At the prow, a towering forecastle rises. Its sturdy structure is adorned with sharp lines and imposing gun emplacements. The forward deck stretches out, offering a commanding view of all that lies ahead.

Moving aft, the ship’s superstructure erects into a complex network of towering masts, funnels, and a web of rigging. A series of armored turrets house the ship’s armament; guns, massive, poised and ready to fire at nothing. The barrels gleam in the sunlight, blinding white and hungry to destroy. Below the waterline sits plating, reinforced to withstand the punishing forces of the ocean. Massive propellers churn the water with slow strokes in a constant mechanical thrum. And as the ship plows through the waves, it leaves a trail of foamy white in its wake.

The deck is alive with crew members who scurry about, preparing to anchor soon. The scattered sound of feet pounding against the wooden deck fails to match the rhythmic creaking of rigging. Sailors climb the masts, fingers deftly securing the billowing sails as they strain against wind. Others man the rig, yelling across the deck.

I stare blankly into the water, as I have for hours, at the dance of water beneath the ship.

My thoughts have been killing me. My head has been pounding, mouth all chalk, like the water in my body was drying out through my tongue.

Ever since we were far enough from the shore to not see Paradis anymore, it crawled into me, like a disgusting illness. I knew I had to leave myself on that sandy beach; both the facet of me that was born in prison, and the one relearning freedom, earning life. Those are two shards of my soul that I can’t bring back across the ocean. Because when the dread pulsed through my spine, at first, I thought it better to lie down. When it started aching in my hands and feet, I recognized it again. Looked it in the face, smelled its tang of evil, and knew it had come back to me.

I was nineteen years old the last time I entered Marley as a person.

I did not leave Marley with a soul inside me.

This country was under the fog of war then, four years into active warfare. I stepped into the mouth of hell at Fort Slava. The air was so thick with smoke that I could have sworn it was night, all beat full with an acrid stench of burning fuel and meat that choked every breath. When I saw it was a pile of bodies on fire, and that the smoke wafting through was not from the charred flesh of a cow, I thought I may never eat another meal again.

My ears rang from gunfire and explosions, tracer rounds and flares that painted streaks of deadly light. Only light you could see, they were, and they came in flashes, like lightning. With each flare shot, and its tinted yellow glow, I felt a bone-deep fear that it was a transformation—that the plan had failed, somehow, and that I was out of time forever, even if I still had a few years.

The ground beneath my boots was slick with rainwater and blood. Mud sank and spread under my soles, making it hard to lift my feet or set another step forth. My thighs hurt after miles ran, hesitation sticking me back into the ground, telling me that forward was not the right direction to go in. But all I saw was ahead, plowing through new history like a horse with blinds slapped on my head. Teeth clenched so hard I swore I chipped corners. I felt them shift. I was not a human being, then.

Those streets were littered with everything. Barricades and rubble, and low smoke sneaking around the fallen—bodies of soldiers and civilians alike, twisted in their final moments, however they fell, however an explosion threw them. Some sat uncannily. Alive in how naturally their wrists fell over the bend of their knees, dead in the chest that wouldn’t rise. All of their eyes were staring vacantly into the void, if still intact, if open. Some, it felt, looked at me. It even felt like they followed where I went.

I moved through the chaos with a singular purpose. My mind was a razor’s edge. The child in me screamed in a horror that broke his young voice, cutting through the sounds of a war coming to an end. Gunshots rang out in rapid succession. Every sound seemed amplified; the clatter of boots on concrete, cracks of rifles, the wounded crying, and the quiet of the dead. I was just one note in that melody, quietly moving through.

In that moment, I felt detached, almost mechanical. It was easy to lose sight of what I had to do, but it was equally as easy retaining crystal clear focus on the mission. I found that time was less sluggish if I whipped myself forth. Each step, each breath deliberate, moving like an object being moved. It was only my heart that pounded in my chest, raging and rioting against where my mind pulled me—which was forward. It was forward, only forward.

Following a man’s wail of agony, I lurched through the smaller streets, stopping to listen if I had walked the right way. Sometimes, the cries fell weaker, so I strayed, but when his desperation reared its head again, it illuminated my path in glowing red.

I came across an Eldian soldier. It was him in particular, amongst countless of them, who was still alive. Without letting him see me, I watched him laid out on sacks of sand from the inside of a building. I replenished my thirst and let my legs rest, and in the backdrop of my respite sang his agony. He said nothing in particular, all warbled, nonsensical; often, he just sobbed.

It could have been night or day when a sudden silence came. I knew I had to act, then.

His body was sprawled across the ground. Those were the first eyes I had seen here that were closed in what I could call peace.

I pulled him by the ankles into my building and said “sorry” when his head hit the doorframe.

His uniform was soaked dark. In only my undergarments, I knelt beside him, hands working quickly to strip away his clothing. Piece by piece, I put it on just as I had removed it. The fabric was still warm from his body. His uniform clung to my skin, dead sweat rubbing in with my own, pants soaked with urine and blood from a shrapnel wound that had cut up most of his abdomen.

The scent of his fear clung to the cloth. The weight of his death pressed down on my shoulders. It was grotesque. It was a second skin. A costume rented off a dead body. Somehow, I had enough respect not to rob a dead man, but if I had watched one die, like in hospice, when it was already decided by fate’s hand that he would pass, I felt that I had earned it.

As the last piece of his uniform settled on my body, something in me went awry. My heart started stepping side to side, like a drunk, and breath came in shallow gasps. My hands trembled uncontrollably. When I raised them to the light falling in through the window, I saw that my fingers were stained with his life. The enormity of what I had done, as well as what this step marked the beginning of, crashed over me in a wave of revulsion.

Slowly, I collapsed to my knees beside him. Words tumbled from my lips in a frantic, disjointed prayer, but nothing particular or real was said. It was just sound. I clasped my hands together and my body shook with violent guilt.

For a moment, I was ready to turn back.

I stood up abruptly, staggering backward as a surge of anger and self-loathing welled up inside me. I clawed at the dead man’s uniform, pulling at the clothes as if I could tear away the shame with them. The fabric stretched and seams popped under my fingers, but it clung to me stubbornly, buttons welded over my chest.

My mind spiraled. Thoughts raced and collided in chaos. I could hear those hours of his wailing. I could smell the blood, the sweat… the death and its odd, sweet ripeness, sticky and leaking like a rotten fruit.

I stumbled forward, tripping over my own feet, and fell to the ground again, curling into the body of a child. I pressed my hands to my ears and screamed. My screams were loud enough that they drowned out his.

But I couldn’t afford to stop or to falter. The mission demanded more than I possessed, and I had to gather what I lacked. The decision was made. There was no other way. Even then, I wanted there to be another way. I found myself always looking at alternatives, never once truly liking the path laid out.

I had initially wanted to find a secluded corner in one of the lesser impacted basem*nts, but I was already too inert, ready to consummate my mutilation. So there, amidst rigid, slowly bloating bodies, I laid out my—his—our tools: a bayonet, ridged along one side, a strip of cloth, and a leather belt. It was easier to think of this like it was happening to him, not me. Like if dressed in another man’s uniform, I was no longer myself, and there would no longer be the pain.

For a moment, I just looked down at the knife, but I knew there was no bracing myself. It had to be quick. It needed to be done, just done, not clean or precise. I was too poor in time for any hesitation.

With trembling hands, I wrapped the cloth around my upper thigh, just above the knee, and tied it tightly to stem the flow of blood. The makeshift tourniquet bit into my flesh, sending sharp pulses of pain through my leg as circulation fought for its laps.

I positioned the bayonet above my knee. The cold metal kissed my fingertips, and pale moonlight glinted off the blade, casting a glow into my eyes. I closed them. I was undeserving of that light.

Summoning every ounce of courage I had left, I plunged the knife into my leg.

Such pain was not new to my body, but agony exploded through me still. I bit down on the leather belt to stifle my scream, but I couldn’t cry. God, it was blinding. It seared. It was so sharp that it numbed the inside of my head and sent a throb to my eyes. And I forced the blade deeper, sinking through muscle and sinew, and each movement washed through me a new level of pain.

Blood gushed from the sinking wound. So hot it felt boiling, it stained my—his—our clothes and pooled on the ground. The knife hit bone, sending vibrations up my arm. I grit my teeth, growling, screaming, muscles straining with the effort, and moved to saw through. Every ridge of the bayonet cropped into it, eating away a path. The sound was sickening. It was a wet, grinding noise that echoed through every other bone in my body.

Finally, the knife broke through, though it was no relief. My leg fell, as if it was never a part of me. I collapsed backward, panting and sobbing, and fought to remain conscious. My body was shaking uncontrollably. The tourniquet held, but blood still seeped from the wound, leaving me sat in a circle of blood.

I knew I had to continue.

I threw the knife aside. Metal clattered against the stone floor. My lungs puffed air in and out like they were being stepped on, back and forth, inhaling and exhaling. With ragged gasps, I reached for my sidearm. My hands fumbled, but I managed to pull a bullet from my—his—our pocket. The brass casing gleamed dull.

With trembling fingers, I brought it to my left eye. The blunt, rounded tip pressed against my eyelid, and I steeled myself for what more was to come. My vision blurred with the sheer terror of what I was about to do. It also blurred with all the sweat my brows couldn’t catch anymore.

It wasn’t going to hurt more.It was going to hurt again,but not more. My leg was going to hurt less when I did this.

The skin broke with a pop. Warm blood trickled down my cheek. The pain was immediate and intense—a white-hot lance that shot through my skull. I screamed again, or I was screaming still, and it was poorly muffled by the leather belt still clamped between my teeth.

Slowly, I twisted the bullet like a screw, driving it deeper into my eye socket. The pressure was unbearable. A crushing force that split my head open. I could feel the fragile structures of my eye giving way, soft tissue tearing, crackling, collapsing under the intrusion. Blood and vitreous fluid poured from the wound.

My vision went dark on that side, and the world was reduced to a blur. The pain was all-consuming, like a real, living thing next to me, or all over. Whining in my new misery, I forced the bullet deeper, feeling the tip of it grind against bone. The eye tore free, dangling down in a mass of ruined flesh from the socket. Clinging to consciousness by a thread, I reached up and yanked at the remains.

I collapsed to the ground, my body convulsing. The world around me spun in shadows and pain. But beneath the agony, a grim, far-away satisfaction took root: I had done what needed to be done. I could’ve done less, and I could’ve done more, so I did just the right thing; I did what needed to be done.

Around me, the battle raged on. It was close enough to shake the ground, too, though I still can’t tell which shook worse then—the world or my body. Smoke billowed from the remnants of buildings, and flames licked at the debris. The roar of artillery fire and bursts of machine guns rang out. Frantic calls for reinforcements, medics, mothers, God. In that order.

This infiltration was a crucible. It was a trial by fire, which seared away any remnants of hesitation or doubt. This was a price I had to be willing to pay, again and again.

It feels like a lifetime ago. That day. All of the days before. With those vacant eyes that pleaded for mercy, even in death, when I had none to give. I didn’t need their forgiveness, or for them to understand. I needed clothes, an identity, to become a ghost. They would do the same. I tell myself that over and over again, hoping it will… But no, it doesn’t. It never does.

Even now, the sensation lingers. On this ship, the sun beats down on me. I feel cold and hollow inside, and the warmth that coats me is not from the sun, but still from that sweat-soaked shirt. A soul’s worth of body heat.

To my left, I sense someone approaching me. They eat into my aura, leaving a trail.

“Come inside,” I hear Levi say. Then, after a moment, he adds, “Your nose is burnt.”

I glance over. He holds my stare long enough to read the depth of it. The waves lap against the hull of the ship, and we watch each other in a cold stillness.

“Eren,” he sounds my name out.

“It’s punishment, isn’t it?” My voice can barely be heard above the roar of the wind and creaks of the ship. I look back at the ocean, and cast another look over my shoulder, at Levi. “Bringing me along. Like shoving a dog’s nose into their own sh*t.”

“Armin thinks you’re safer with us.”

“Has that ever been true?”

Levi doesn’t have an answer. “Come inside,” he repeats again.

“It’s just the sun.”

“Don’t argue,” he retorts.

I inwardly chafe at being treated like a child. “Why did you have to come?”

Silence.

“We could have stayed on the island. I’m here because of you. Who are you here for?”

Levi’s gaze darkens. For a moment, he looks away.

“Something is happening in Paradis while we’re gone,” he speaks. “I don’t know what it is, but I know that Armin doesn’t trust me with it.”

“Why not?”

“He relies on me. Trust is not necessarily an agent there.”

Heat drips down my throat. “So has he told you yet?”

Levi frowns, confusion evident. For a moment, I wrestle with the thought that this is not my place to say anything. But at the same time, running parallel to it, comes the thought that honesty is a very good virtue to have.

I’ve been through the wringer. So I can also be honest.

“My first trial. Did you know I was never going to be executed?”

His eyes narrow, then. I take it as I see it.

“You stood there for me. The only one who did. Believing fully that I was going to die unless you did.” I turn to him with all of me. “Would you still have done it if you knew?”

“If I knew it was a farce?” he asks, but not to specify, and rather to repeat it to himself. For a moment, Levi is silent. Our eyes lock, and the intensity of his gaze is almost unbearable.

But I watch him, and I see that he is not battling with the answer. He had the answer before I asked, because he had already thought about it before.

“Yes. I would have,” he finally says. “I would still have done it. Not because of the state of it all, or even… Yes. I would have.”

His words bring a painful clarity. Despite everything, it was still there. Fragile, battered, and strained to its limits, but it was there.

I step closer to him. The sound of the ocean fades into the background. It takes everything in me not to reach out.

Levi’s face softens by just a fraction. “Come inside.”

Now I nod, allowing him to guide me back towards the shelter of the ship. As we step inside, it’s almost jarring to lose the harsh winds to the dim, creaking warmth of the interior. The corridor is narrow, lined with wooden beams and lanterns that sway with the ship’s gentle rocking.

We move silently through the passageway. The ship’s crew becomes muffled, distant and subdued. The air inside is cooler, tinged with the faint scent of aged oak. As we reach a sturdy door, Levi pauses, glancing at me before pushing it open.

His quarters are small but functional. The single lantern in here is unlit, and only the blue washing in through the window casts a soft glow over the modest furnishings. A narrow bed is tucked against one wall, but the space is sparse, devoid of personal touches, in Levi’s practicality.

His hand already grips my forearm before we step inside. The latch clicks into place when he closes the door behind us. With a swift, decisive motion, he pulls me towards him. Levi’s other hand comes up to cup the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, and he kisses me.

I sway with the ship.

Suddenly, I feel like I am redeemed of it all.

The force of his passion consumes my body. It takes less time than for my heart to beat. I can feel the roughness of the door against my back as he pushes me against it. My hands find their way to his shoulders, clutching at the fabric of his shirt as I respond with equal need. We taste like desperation and longing in every movement.

It has been a while. We don’t get opportunities often, and we don’t have that kind of time. Cursed with fatigue, our bodies are too tired when night falls, so the fire rarely gets to be doused. When it does, the kind of peace and liberation that takes over cannot be likened to anything else.

Levi breaks the kiss only to trail his lips along my jaw, down to my neck, breathing hot against my skin. He pulls on my collar. It’s all fisted up in his hand.

“You’re not a punishment,” he murmurs into my throat. “It scares me, what I do for you.”

“I know what that feels like,” I whisper against his temple.

At the peak of my collarbone, he continues, “Logic was not my reason. There was no mercy, no right in that decision, or any of my decisions when it came to you.” Slowly, Levi pushes against me, molding his body like clay against mine. “I was just being selfish.”

Filled with need, and emptier than ever, I say, “Then be selfish again.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

His eyes darken. Slowly, he lifts my shirt, knuckles ghosting over my muscles. Up, he goes, crossing my chest like a road. In the middle, resting his palm flat on my sternum, he stops to feel my frantic heart.

“What do you want me to do?” Levi asks.

“I want you to not ask,” I breathe the words out, firmer now. “Just take. Don’t ask.”

“What do you want to feel?”

“Pain.”

I expected him to be at least surprised, but the look on his face feels more like defeat than anything else. I had already asked this once, the first time. By now, he is more used to it than not.

Wordlessly, he obeys.

He pulls at my belt, unbuckling it with deft fingers before shoving my pants down over my hips. His hand moves to grip my shoulder, pushing me hard against the door. The sudden impact sends a jolt of pain through me, but the heat in my core boils over. Before I can take it in, Levi spins me around, pressing my chest against the door. Again, the jolt of pain, casing me in, front to back. He kicks my legs apart, positioning me exactly how he wants, and I let him, because that is exactly what I want.

There’s a brief moment of stillness as he collects himself. Soft, Levi’s hand slides down my back, tracing the increasing curve of my spine, snaking around to the front, until it reaches my throat. He pulls me back against him. I can feel his breath wash through my hair as he whispers, “Is this what you want?”

Shame cloaks my voice. “I said, don’t ask.”

Like a confirmation, warm, watery spit drips down my tailbone. Levi’s fingers trace over it, gathering it, spreading it. I hear the buckle of his own belt, and it’s a sound filled with much promise.

Careful as he lines himself up behind me. Slow when he pushes in. The intrusion is almost hesitant, like Levi was afraid to hurt.

It only frustrates me.

I need more. I already asked for it. I need an escape. It’s not going to hurt more. It’s going to hurt again, but not more. My soul is going to hurt less when I do this.

“Levi.” Disgusting, my voice when I say it, like a beggar. “Do you remember? On the zeppelin.”

His movements falter for a second.

“Think of what you felt when you saw me again.”

Levi’s grip on my throat tightens, and the hand on my hip clenches—but he doesn’t stop, not fully. Like the ship rocking, he remains persistent, moving slowly, in and out.

“Do you?” I continue. “How you stood there, looking down on me. What did you feel?”

“Eren…” he whispers. His mouth moves against my back with words he’s not saying out loud. He rolls his cheek against it, too, like in protest, like fighting it.

“Use that,” I urge, voice breaking. “That anger. To hurt me. Don’t—” A particular angle leaks in a drop of pleasure, and I shudder. “Don’t forget it.”

I am not in control. And whatever control I ever had was his to begin with. I need to be reminded of what pain feels like. Real, physical, lingering pain. Inflicted pain. Given from anger, and taken in earning. To taste the clarity it brings to my head.

His response is a low whine. Any remnants of hesitation vanish as he drives into me with a brutal force. The sudden, sharp pain tears a faint cry from my lips, and each subsequent thrust is just as hard and unrelenting.

“You think I ever forgot?” Levi snarls.

Each thrust drives me harder against the door. Its rough wood paneling scrapes against my chest and palms with every movement. Already burnt from the sun, my cheek stings, that thin, dry layer of skin breaking from the force.

“You wanted this,” he keeps on, grip on my throat tightening as he pulls me back against him. I don’t know if he’s talking about the pain searing through me now, or what I did to get us here.

And either way, it just doesn’t matter, because he’s giving me what I wanted.

Air flow stifled, I swallow as much oxygen as I can get, dizzy from the adrenaline surging. It heightens every sensation. Every of his five fingers pulling the skin off my hip so hard it feels like it separates from muscle, holding me in place as he takes what he was told to.

I arch against him, embracing the pain before I become numb to it. My head tilts back on its own accord, eyes fluttering open to stare at the ceiling. The room around us blurs as I focus only on the agony. It’s a stimulus from every angle. It beats down on me like the sun. It’s everywhere.

Levi notices—and he slows. The pace that had been driving me to the edge shifts to a languid rhythm. Each movement is torturous, because the pain dulls out. He pulls back just enough to leave me grasping backwards for more.

“No. Please,” I gasp against the door. “Please, just— I need you to—”

He doesn’t. He’s withholding.

“...sorry,” Levi murmurs. From my thigh, his hand rakes a path upwards, wrapping around me. “I felt sorry. When I saw you again.”

Yes, I asked, but it doesn’t mean that he had to answer. He is soft to remind me of his control. Each time he sinks into me is an excellent reminder of it. A mechanical hint of the agony and ecstasy he can bring.

My body is trembling with need. It writhes against him, every nerve ending screaming and burnt red. I can’t tell now, what feels good and what still lingers from the tearing pain, and the confusion of it makes me want to cry. Levi’s hand moves light, strokes short, fading when pulled upwards, tighter when down. I shake from it.

“Pain isn’t the only thing that works,” Levi whispers against my back. “This works, too. If you let me.”

His words are like a balm.

“I can’t hurt you,” he continues. His thrusts have slowed to almost nothing. “All I ever did was try to shield you from the world’s pain. Why would I give it to you now?”

Coupled with his gentle touch, hearing it makes my head spin. My legs quiver, teetering on the edge of release, hands clenched into fists against the door.

“Let go,” Levi murmurs. His arm brushes against my thigh in a metronome rhythm.

I dig my forehead into the wood. The coil within winds tighter and tighter. “I ca—hah… I…”

“Let go. Come on…” Slowly, he begins moving again, driving into me with renewed force that is tempered with a tenderness. “I will… if you do.”

My body responds. The tension inside me builds to an almost unbearable level.

“I’m here.” Nose pressed into my side, he hums. His movements grow more urgent. “I have you.”

He always has.

It falls over me like a curse. Shuddering, voice climbing in pitch, I push back onto him, leaking hot over his hand. It never stops its gentle ministrations, guiding me all the way through. Quiet, he joins me in my release, buried so deep inside me that I couldn’t possibly ask for more.

We stay like that, molded to each other’s shapes and breathless, chests sinking and filling in an off-rhythm. With his clean hand, Levi pulls me back tight against himself. That arm wraps around me like a belt—and it is shaking.

“Please don’t ever ask that of me again,” too calmly, he says. “I would rather…” And the rest is muffled into my shirt, but I think he spoke of dying.

For a moment, we stay like that. Eventually, we separate. The sex was so charged that the aftermath leaves a quiet, almost sacred stillness in the room, like some evil had left through the rounded window. Levi fetches a cloth and some water, cleaning us both up. His touch is tender and eyes soft as he takes care of me.

When done, clothes straightened back into decency, we sit on the floor of Levi’s cabin, leaning against the bed. He holds my hand, which he has never done before. Both of us stare at the opposing wall. The lantern sways as the ship cuts ahead.

Levi shifts, lying down to put his head on my lap.

To hide my surprise, I ask, “How long until we’re there?”

“Not long.” He closes his eyes. “Too soon.”

I let my fingers trace the lines and scars on his face. My touch is light. Reverent. And his face is blessed with a rare softness. It brings to me a sense of trust that words can’t capture in full. My fingers move from one scar to the next, immortalizing the texture of his skin.

He opens his eyes and looks up at me. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, but gently.

“I’m memorizing,” I reply, my voice just as soft.

“Memorizing?”

“For when I am born again. So I remember who to look for.”

Levi smiles. “You know I’ll find you.”

In that moment, I know it to be true.

I let my hand cup his cheek. Fingers brush against the grain of his eyebrow, watching the hairs flick back into place. His thumb strokes over the back of that same hand, rubbing it like it was sore.

“We don’t have enough time, do we?” I say quietly.

“We never did. Miracle we’re still here,” he whispers. “That we ever had this chance to begin with. That’s all I think about.”

“You do? You think about it?”

Levi’s eyes hold mine in them. “What else do I have but you?”

I didn’t expect him to say that. I think I also hadn’t thought of it before.

A heart that beats for me. His existence, all his drive, has been reduced to this singular connection. How terrifying—to live for someone. Am I doing the same thing?

Now that I think of it, I’ve had every opportunity to end my life. Still in prison, and now that I’m out, that liberty was there. I have been given the tools and chances, more than I could count over these months that have passed, and not once have I acted on it, or let the thought cross my mind far enough that I would consider a real plan. I always toyed with the reason, as if it was spite that kept me here, or my small contribution to rebuilding the society, or my symbolism, or friends, or as if I wasn’t allowed to die—but I knew it wasn’t true.

Weaponized and used, Levi’s life has been defined purely by loss and sacrifice. He’s given everything for every cause, right or wrong, needlessly pushing on. When he revealed to me that he doesn’t deserve to die, because there was still much to atone for, I remember thinking to myself how odd that sounded. I knew I was here for him. The closest glimmer to that truth I ever came to was when Historia held me as I cried; when I told her that I would stay as long as he would have me.

A will intricately bound to mine. Is that what this is? We’re like a mirror, no object without a reflection. Are we not?

I reach out to brush a stray strand of hair from his forehead. “Would you still be here if I wasn’t?”

It’s impossible to miss the shadow in his jaw tightening. But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls my hand up, pressing the back of it against his mouth.

“Would you?” he asks quietly. “Our answer is the same.”

The silence that follows is profound.

✣

Marley is a wasteland. You can tell from miles away.

The air that whips at our faces smells of salt and decay. It’s been a year since we last walked this land, trying to escape it, and it looks worse now than ever; a barren expanse of charred earth and desolation, the ground blackened and lifeless beneath the harsh glare of the sun.

As the ship approaches the coast, the crew begins to prepare for anchoring. Ropes are thrown overboard, and the sound of chains rattling fills the air as the anchor is lowered into the water below. With a heavy thud, the ship comes to a stop, gently rocking against the waves.

We gather near the stern, preparing to disembark onto the shore. Small boats are lowered into the water, and we climb down ladders to board them. The boats bob as oars dip into murky shore water, pushing us forward.

On the shoreline, we begin unloading the first round of supplies onto the beach. Building materials, crates of food and water, and other necessities are carefully carried ashore and deposited onto the sand. I join in the effort, hefting crates of lumber and metal, carrying them to where they are needed most.

This is a grueling type of work where no mastery is needed, just good endurance. A lot of back and forth with soaked feet in boots, and a lot of weight to move. Wooden edges of those crates dig into my shoulders and splinter my hands, and the hot sun beats down on my back.

Sweat dripping down his brow, Connie lets out a heavy sigh. “f*ck. Worst time to haul sh*t.”

“What, because of the heat?” Jean asks, voice muffled behind a box of rations. “Not even noon. We got a pretty good head start; who knows how bad it will get by August.”

“The heat is one thing. I almost wish Eren was big right now,” Connie huffs. “Weren’t those the days?”

“You’re joking,” Reiner grunts.

“Too soon? I’m sweating from my asscrack, and I’m an opportunist. I’ll take my chances here.”

“I always wonder why nobody put Connie in a role of power—and then he reminds me.” Jean lets out a dry chuckle. “Sorry. Good old-fashioned manual labor for now.”

The crates dig into my hip bones. I reposition them before saying, “I’ve thought about that, too.”

All three of them glance over at me, surprised to hear I joined their conversation.

I pause, considering my next words. “The size and strength, I mean. How much faster it would all go.”

“Yeah. I guess. I know Pieck struggles with this,” Jean notes. “She was pulling a lot of weight—real useful weight. Being reduced to what is essentially the weakest form of you has to be debilitating.”

In agreement, Reiner tilts his head. “Sure, we’re weaker without it. Then again…”

“I would do it,” I cut him off.

“You’d take thirteen years, now?” he asks. “To carry sh*t back and forth?”

Tossing the crate down in sand, I huff, “If it helped anyone, I’d take a week.”

The rest of the day passes in hard labor and relentless heat. After unloading the supplies, we set to work on the camp. Teams of four lay down large tarps first, pegging them into the ground. The tents themselves are reinforced with metal poles and thick ropes, ensuring they can withstand even harsh winds and the weight of water that could settle on them overnight, if it were to rain. Inside, we roll out sleeping mats and place crates for personal belongings, trying to carve out some normalcy in this inhospitable environment.

Each tent is strategically placed in a semicircle, facing inward toward a central gathering area where we’ve built fire pits using metal rings and grates. Around the perimeter of the camp, a few taller structures, supported mostly by modest scaffolding, act as watchtowers, offering a vantage point. Though it is assumed we are the only ones out here, I do see how there is still that uncertainty. It must haunt Armin, the thought—how there would never be any reconciliation, which he knows and has to fear. He, too, has come to understand that it’s better if we are the only ones left.

As evening falls, the air cools only slightly, and the ground remains warm beneath our feet. The sky stretches in shades of blue and purple. Not a cloud in the sky. We gather around the fire pits, and everyone’s reddened faces betray the pillage of sun. Dinner is a modest affair—rations heated over an open flame, paired with water and whatever fruit we have that has bruised the most. The mood is subdued. Everyone is exhausted from the day’s work.

I watch Armin across one of the fires, staring into the flames with a faraway look in his eyes. There are lines on his face that weren’t there a year ago. And as groups of people begin to leave, I’m left sitting on a tarp alone.

No one talked to Armin while eating. And, to be fair, ever since Levi took over, I have barely spoken to him as well. So, after a moment’s hesitation, I walk over and sit down beside him. My shoulder brushes his, which he doesn’t pull away from. I take that as a good sign.

Armin glances sideways, acknowledging my presence with only that look before returning to the fire.

“You okay?” I ask, my voice low so as not to disturb the silence around us. “You’re quiet today.”

“I need quiet to think.”

“Didn’t use to.”

Armin sighs. “Well…” His shoulders slump slightly, but the welded-in posture of a leader remains just as strung. “There wasn’t this much to think about. Or… they were simpler thoughts.”

“I get that.”

“What about you?” He turns. “Reports say you’re doing well. Following your schedules, keeping up with training.”

I swallow. For every reason in the world, the question hits deeper than I wanted it to. “I’m good. Yeah. Doing what I’m supposed to, and all.”

It feels like Armin stares right through me. “But how do you feel?”

“The routine is a distraction. It doesn’t… stop or fix anything.”

He watches me closely, not interrupting, just listening.

“I go through the motions because it’s all I have,” I continue. “It doesn’t stop the nightmares. I still have them. I, uh…” Involuntarily, my head shakes. “Doesn’t matter. Is Annie… How is she?”

Armin’s lips twitch into a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Healthy. Good. You don’t have to be polite with me, you know.”

“No, I wanted to know.” I try to sound encouraging. “That’s good to hear. You must be excited.”

“I am.” He pauses, and the smile fades completely.

“Are you?” I ask, sensing the unease.

“Hard to think about home right now. With where we are,” Armin silently says. “I think this is doing something to all of us.”

The silence between us grows like a wall. I can feel the weight of what Armin isn’t saying.

“Tell me why we’re really here.” I pause. “Because I don’t think we were supposed to be here.”

Armin’s eyes narrow slightly. “An expedition was in the works since the early days.”

“Sure, I know that. But you bring me back to Marley and have the heart to ask how I feel. I’m a prisoner of the state, not in high demand. Why am I here?”

Armin’s skepticism is palpable. He leans over his knees and crosses his forearms on top. “Why don’t you go ahead and ask me what you really meant to ask?”

“I just find it hard to believe,” I say, light frustration creeping into my voice. “You don’t send your best people away when you’re trying to rebuild. The Survey Corps used to be sent out to die for scraps of information.”

Armin’s eyes flash with anger. “Nearly all the people that came to Marley are from the Survey Corps.”

“Yes. We were the best generation,” I counter, feeling the heat rise in my chest. “The rest of them were expendable. Why is it different now?”

“Are you uncomfortable seeing what you did?”

“Why aren’t you answering my questions?”

“Because you won’t ask me the real question,” Armin replies.

I remain silent, just watching him. The campfire plays orange light on his face, falling into the dips under his eyes. I could have sworn he didn’t have that kind of cold in him before—but what didn’t the war take from us?

I’m not going to ask him anything I actually want to hear. In it, in every single one of those questions, I would expose myself.

So maybe for the better, Armin takes my silence for cowardice. “You’re here because we need you out of the way. If there’s one good shot at bending you, it’s going to be Levi.”

Sure as day, I catch the stray bullet anyway.

“Out of the way?” I hiss, not to alert the soldiers walking by. “Of what? I’ve been doing exactly what I was ordered to. Not once have I stepped out of line. I told you everything there was to say, and you’ve shown it to whoever can read. If keeping me leashed and hoping that just works is the best plan you can come up with, you’ve lost sight of the goal. You can’t cull the unrest. Maybe you’re the reason it still exists.”

Armin’s jaw clenches. The anger in his eyes is barely restrained, but it starts to scare me how calm his body has been and continues to be. “I’m holding together everything you left me. You never knew what it took to keep peace—you just knew how to take something. Not everyone kills when conviction is too difficult.” He pauses. “Not one choice I’ve made has been easy.”

“Talk about hard choices,” I grunt. “No, tell me all about them.”

“Levi never volunteered to be your parole officer. I made him do it.” Shame crosses his face. “He didn’t want to be the one to watch over you again, but I asked it of him anyway. Without Levi, you have no one to hide behind—and he’s already breaking under the weight of you.”

My breathing slows.

I can’t let it show, the wave of sadness that hits. It does crawl up my throat still, cutting back on my ability to say anything at all.

“I know these are your lives,” Armin continues, much more silent now, “and your pain. I know I’m making it worse, but you put us here. He was the only one who could have stopped you then, so he is the only one who can reach you now.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the truth of his words stops me.

“I trusted you to do what was right,” I whisper. My shoulders have dropped in their defeat. “With everything. So… do what you have to.”

“You’ve left me with every possible disadvantage in the world.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be that way.”

“At the price of your life, I would’ve…” he falters. “Now, I think I would’ve…”

He would’ve preferred the other outcome.

“I didn’t want to be a father. Not yet. Maybe not at all,” Armin silently goes on, “but definitely not like this. Not when I have to be one as a political tool, like your father was—like every father has been. It kills me to see what I’ve done, and what I keep doing to everyone around me. I have to keep making choices that are hard, that are uncomfortable, that go against what I would want. I have to decide who lives and who only exists, who gets a chance and who doesn’t. Truly, the greater good almost never means that it will be painless.”

I can see the anguish in Armin’s eyes. The conflict inside them is tearing him apart.

“My time is over,” I tell him. “All I’m good for now is being a prisoner, a dog on a leash; but you have to do something with it. If I have to die for peace to be obtained, you’ll have to make that decision as well. I just ask you not to think about it too long. And to not tell me when it comes.”

“I didn’t know what else to do, so I brought you here. There is a purge happening within the MPs,” he quietly says. “If Levi was in Paradis right now, he would probably be in prison.”

I flinch at his words. “Why?”

“They’re all wary of him. The soldiers see him as someone who could disrupt their control, the Jaegerists think he’s hope. And… he would make any decision to protect you. Even if it meant going against them.”

“Against you, you mean.”

“Against me, yes,” Armin replies without hesitation. “His loyalty to you is absolute, like yours is to him. It’s hard to draw clear lines between right and wrong. I have to make decisions that hurt, because the alternative is worse.”

“So you’re using us both to… use us both. Did you send Levi away to keep him from interfering?”

Armin’s silence is all the confirmation I need.

“So we’re here just to wait it out.” I murmur quietly. “What happens when we go back?”

“Depends on what happens while we’re here. I just hope that when this is all over, there’s still something left for us to go back to.”

The silence between us grows again. He stares off into the fire, so I take the chance to do the same.

Armin’s shoulder against mine feels small. For a very short moment, it feels like we’re kids again. Odd to think that we are—and all of what forced us to abandon childhood. Though, I wonder if we ever had it. If we were ever truly children. Innocence is a luxury, and we never really got a taste. Doomed before we came to be. Evil to the world when we were too young to understand what evil was.

I glance at Armin and feel a deep grief settle in my chest. He will have to be a father soon, and the thought tears at me.

His child will be born free to a father who never had freedom. How will he understand the innocence?

And like they always do, my thoughts drift to Levi. Breaking under the weight of me. I wonder if Levi resents being my parole officer. Does he hide his pain around me, burying it deep so I don’t see how much he suffers?

Did he ever forgive me?

I try to push the thoughts away with the heel of my boot, digging a hole in the sand, but they cling to me. I’ve hurt many people. Levi has borne the brunt of it.I don’t know if I can bear the thought of causing him pain—or more than I already have. He has always been unyielding and strong, but with enough pressure… Is that what’s happening now? I wanted to believe Levi volunteered because he forgave me, but now, the uncertainty is crushing. How long could he keep going? How long before he breaks?

“He knows my trial wasn’t real,” I silently admit.

“I know,” Armin replies, just as silent.

My heart flutters. “How do you know?”

“Because you would tell him.” He pauses. “And I knew under what condition you would tell him.”

I turn to look at Armin, and he does the same. Our faces are close, warmed by the flickering firelight. It is then that I let all my desperation show.

“It’s in your eyes,” he says.

My breath catches in my throat.

“I can’t hide it, can I?” I whisper.

“No. You never could.”

I stand up, unable to look at him any longer. Without another word, I turn and walk away.

The camp is quieting down as exhaustion takes over, but I’m too restless to settle down—so I snake around tents and crates, and cover the distance towards the shoreline.

It’s a tropical night. The moon is a massive circle in the sky, and its reflection stretches out across the rippling water like a path of light. It hangs low and full.

I stand at the water’s edge, boots kicked off in the sand. Milk warm waves wash over my feet and ankles.

I knew who followed me out here.

“I’ve never seen the moon this big,” my words break the silence. “Was it always?”

“It’s watching,” Levi answers, swimming into my view.

Weird that I understand exactly what he means. There is something deeply unsettling about the way it hangs there, so close and bright. We stand still for a while, side by side, tuning out the distant murmur of the camp.

After a moment, he speaks again. “Sorry you had to come.”

I let out a small, humorless laugh. “This place is barely recognizable. I just try to forget. Hard to see the path sometimes, but…”

“I get it.”

We stand there for a while longer, letting the night air soothe us.

“Did you hear us?” I silently ask, without turning towards him.

“I did.”

Quiet, again.

With all the power I have in me, I ask, “Is it true?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, Levi gestures toward a rounded stretch of the shoreline. “Come. Let’s get away from the camp.”

As we stray further from the silent bustle, the sounds of our companions fade into the background, replaced fully by the symphony of the ocean. Here, though under the watchful eye of the moon, the world seems a little… less. It doesn’t matter that my mind burns—my body feels at a weird peace. Most of it is probably his doing.

The gap between us feels unbearable, even though we walk so close. The moon reminds me of the distance we must keep, and still, I reach out, hesitating for a second before my fingers brush against his. It’s small. Small, but feels like a lifeline.

Levi grips my hand and holds it. “We can’t do this here,” he murmurs, but there is no conviction in his voice.

“I know,” I say again, but it’s a struggle to sound steady.

Stopping in his tracks, he pulls me into a tight embrace. I bury my face down into Levi’s hair, breathing in what smells like peace. We stay like that for a long time, neither of us wanting to break away. His arms around my waist are strong and comforting. Mine, around his shoulders, feel like a prison.

“Is it true?” I ask again, voice muffled.

Levi’s hand strokes my back in slow, soothing circles. “Some days.”

Only barely, I pull away to look at his face. The moonlight makes his eyes shine like gunmetal.

“Is it true today? Am I breaking you?”

He closes them.

Like desperation cloaked my body, I slide to my knees, dragging my arms down his arms, his legs. I press my face against his hip, clinging to him, the only thing ever grounding me in this world.

“Tell me,” I whisper. “Please.”

His hand is cold as he reaches down to cup my cheek, knuckles brushing away straying hair. The wind brings it right back, so he repeats the motion.

I sought solace in the only person who seemed to understand my pain. I didn’t realize fully that what was solace to me was also hurting him.

Driven by a need for closeness, my head slides lower, cheek and nose brushing against Levi’s thigh. I linger there, seeking connection—any connection. The warmth of his body radiates through his clothes, so I breathe into the fabric, inhaling his scent.

The muscle of Levi’s thigh tenses slightly under my touch. I shift, angling my head so that my cheek glides along the length of his leg. His body responds; that slight tremor in him always betrays him. Slowly, I move towards his groin, and Levi’s breathing changes. It’s shallow now, uneven. A hand instinctively slides into my hair and tugs, like in encouragement, pushing the bridge of my nose against the ridge in his pants.

My own breath catches then, and I respond as eagerly as I want him—which is always, no matter how, whenever. I let my mouth drop open to breathe, lips brushing the outline of his arousal, picking up the taste of the fabric with my tongue, cornering to ingest.

Levi pulls me off by my hair. “We can’t do this here.” There is conviction in his voice now.

Easy to get carried away when just the smell of him would compel me to kill. “Sorry. I was—”

“The sun will come up soon.” Tilting back, he steadies himself, adjusting and smoothing the fabric of his pants. “If you want to, we can…” Levi nods towards a distant silhouette against the night sky; a cliff, rising no higher than a watchtower. “We can wait for it there.”

Powerless, I let my forehead drop against his thigh. Levi’s hand rests on my head for a moment before he steps back.

We begin our trek towards the cliff in silence, each step crunching against the gravelly ground. The climb is not steep, but as we ascend, I notice the slight hitch in Levi’s step—how he favors his other leg, and how gradually, it becomes more noticeable.

Once at the top, we perch near the edge for a good view of the coastal line. From up here, in the stillness of the night, everything almost looks normal. Untouched, I think, would be a good word for the sight. Distant lights from our camp flicker like stars on the ground. Smoke rises in small pirouettes, swayed off-course by the wind, tilting like uprooted trees. Thankfully or not, there is no man-made light elsewhere as far as the eye can see.

Lying flat on my back, I turn my head to Levi. “Can I ask you a question?”

He looks down at me, waiting for it.

“Why did you choose Armin?”

I had meant to ask this long ago, and I think Levi had expected this question a long time ago, because he doesn’t turn away to collect his thoughts, or look for a good enough answer.

Without hesitating, he says, “There were many reasons to pick either, decent reasons. Not enough time to weigh between them both.” Levi pauses. “Armin’s motivations were pure. Erwin was driven by truth, at the cost of anything. But Armin never let his desires lead him astray. He was curious, never compromised his character, got pulled into violence only to support you, and once there, he made the best decisions he could. Armin cherishes moments that make us human.”

“And you still feel that way. Do you?”

“Often. You know, Erwin already tried to kill himself. Or, he would’ve again, later on. And I think he would’ve killed you, too.” Levi takes a moment to look up. “I think of where we’d be without Armin, and I don’t see that future. I saw a future with Erwin. It was short.”

As the sky begins to blush with the first hues of dawn, we rise to head back.

“I was thinking… Once I’m cleared,” I begin, “if I ever am, that is. What should I do?”

“What do you mean?”

“With my life.”

He is quiet, for a long time. And I am quiet, genuinely anticipating his answer, like he’d give out a hint to what my possibilities are in his eyes.

We are nearly halfway back to camp when finally, Levi breaks the silence, but his voice is almost as low as the rising sun.

“What is there to do after war?” he asks, eyes fixed on the horizon.

I consider the question for a moment. “I don’t know.”

Hard to admit, and unpleasant, that our entire lives were built around it.

“Me neither,” Levi says. “Maybe we can just have each other.”

“If we get there.”

“Yes, if we get there.”

✣

We start our first expedition early in the morning. Levi and I run on no sleep, but I am completely sure that no one slept the night.

The sky is almost red, as if the dawn itself bled. The horizon stretches infinitely, blending into the sandy expanse. We move in a line, snaking around rising ground, in a silent procession of shadows against the sun. The sand dunes roll endlessly, in smooth and deceptive curves. Each step slightly sinks, which makes the walk much more arduous. No horses—it would’ve been a waste.

We’ve had to dress according to the desert’s demands: to get away from the scorching sun. Our faces are swathed in cloth, only eyes visible, peering out like wary animals. The air is cool enough now, but already carries the notes of an airless, dry day to come.

Every movement stirs the fine sand at our feet, creating small clouds that drift like powder before settling back into place. The sand is a pale gray color. Or, was, before the sun turned everything red. It made me think of the skin of a corpse before. Now, the light of the early morning gives it a tint, making the whole desert look like it’s alive, pulsing with an internal heat.

I can see the others ahead and behind me. Their forms are blurred by the shifting air and dust. The desert seems to swallow sound, making our journey eerily quiet, save for the muffled beats of sand underfoot and the occasional whisper of fabric.

The only person I kept hearing the entire day was Jean.

“Time is 0500 hours,” he said, just as we had set out, holding to his mouth a small device. It appeared to record what he was saying, or maybe someone was on the other end, listening, because he kept talking to it. “Visibility is clear. Temperature is currently cool, approximately 15 degrees Celsius, but expected to rise rapidly as the sun ascends. Spirits are… well, decently high, considering the circ*mstances. All squads are accounted for and equipped. We’ve ensured ample provisions and protective clothing to shield us against the heat. New kind of terrain. Objective remains clear: maintain formation, conserve energy, and make consistent progress. End report.”

As the sun climbed higher, the air grew hotter, and the sand became relentless. Jean’s voice came through the haze again. I clung to it, like it gave me hope. It was also the only way to tell the time. Somehow, it wouldn’t pass as quickly as I thought it to.

“Time is 0800 hours. Visibility remains clear, though the heat is beginning to intensify, currently at approximately 25 degrees Celsius. The terrain is challenging. The sand sinks. Morale steady; all protocols are being strictly followed. No significant changes in environment or wildlife observed. Continuing to monitor for any deviations. We remain on course. No signs of life. End report.”

By midday, the sun blazed mercilessly above us. The heat was unbearable. Jean’s tone shifted, carrying a hint of fatigue that I had also begun to feel.

“Time is 1200 hours. The heat is around 35 degrees. Rationing water for the day more carefully, energy even more so. The dunes seem endless. There’s… God, there’s f*cking nothing now. Morale is starting to wane. At least mine is. Though forward movement is maintained. End report.”

And then, like in passing, he would add, “No signs of life.”

Afternoon bled into the evening.

“Time is 1800 hours. Seeing nothing is mentally taxing. Feels like we’re walking in circles. We will continue to push forward until nightfall, then establish a secure camp. It feels like we’re marching through a dead land. No signs of life or change in the terrain. End report.”

As night fell, the cold crept in, and Jean’s last recording of the day was tinged with a despair that only I may have picked up on.

“Time is 2200 hours. We’re making camp for the night. It’s just… it really is endless f*cking nothing. No landmarks, no signs of progress, no end in sight. We’re all exhausted. Hoping for better results tomorrow.”

And then, again, “No signs of life.” A pause. “God, not even in us.” Another pause. “End report.”

We set up camp, moving through the motions with mechanical execution. The earlier hopeful whispers and quiet conversations of the morning had now given way to a very heavy silence. No one talks to each other. You can only hear rustle of fabric and the soft thuds of supplies being dropped on the sand. The sun has dipped below the horizon, taking its scorching heat with it, but leaving behind a biting cold that seeps into our sweaty clothes.

I enter Levi’s tent with him. He lays down first, back to the ground, and I follow, sliding up close, like a key into a lock. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me tight against his chest. His grip is firm. It feels protective. It reminds me of how a mother would close their children’s eyes to shield them from something gruesome, in a protective gesture to preserve their innocence. I think that’s what Levi does for me, holding me close, keeping my forehead flat against his body, wherever it landed, just so I wouldn’t have to look.

As if this was a small mistake. A ripped shirt, or a scuffed knee. He stripped a mass murder down into the guilt of a broken plate.

I bury my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling him, and let the exhaustion take over. The tent is filled only with the sound of our breathing. It pulls me into a fragile sleep.

If no one slept the night before, not one of us was awake that night.

Morning comes too soon. The sun’s first light casts a pale glow over the camp. I wake to the rustling of tents and shadows of tired bodies. Everyone looks like they could use more sleep. The brief respite did little to rejuvenate us.

We clear up with practiced efficiency, dismantling tents, packing supplies, and preparing for another long day of walking. And as we set out, I glance back at the spot where we camped. Our footprints from yesterday have completely bled away during the night, erased by the shifting sands. An odd panic grips me; it’s as if we were never here. The desert is indifferent to us. It would eat us, without telling anyone.

An unreachable line, the horizon beckons, and I truly wonder if we’ll encounter anything at all.

The skies are overcast today, which I initially thought to be a good thing. I find out soon enough that it’s worse than the sun beating down on us. Long clouds hang thick, and the heat is wet and venomous, clinging to skin, making every breath feel like a struggle.

“Time is 0700 hours,” I hear Jean’s voice behind me. “This humidity is unbearable. We move forward in this… this void.” His voice cracks slightly. Some of the strict, military cadence already started slipping yesterday, but it’s gone now. “I start to wonder what we’re really searching for. The weakest part of any system is the people that put it together. We were once driven by a hope that there was someone out there still. Now, certain there isn’t, we don’t know what to do with the responsibility of being the last ones remaining. There is… you know, there’s nothing now. You don’t even know what to make of it, really. You just go through, and there’s so much nothing that you start making something out of it.”

I turn my head to glance at him. His face is obscured by the swath of cloth around his head, but we lock eyes for a moment.

“No signs of life,” Jean speaks into the recorder, holding my stare. “End report.”

It’s only hours later that anything changes and we encounter the first shift of the horizon: a distant pocket of pale hills.

Jean’s voice breaks the silence. “Mark this. Time is… God, it doesn’t matter,” he hastily says, recording device pressed close to his mouth. “We have encountered a change in the landscape. We’re seeing hills. First sign of anything different.”

Everyone stops, eyes fixed on the sight.

“What is that? Clay?” Connie asks, squinting into the distance. “Why is it that color?”

When the sun is not glaring down, rising or setting, the true color reveals itself. The realization dawns slowly, like a creeping shadow: that the sand isn’t yellow. Not even beneath our feet, it isn’t. It’s gray. It’s almost like…

There’s a shared sense of realization that passes silently among us. Eyes so used to the tint of nothing, it’s almost like everyone whips around their axis, only to see that all of what we’ve been trekking looks the same as what looms ahead. Colorblind as an environmental factor—at least one of us should’ve realized.

Jean’s voice is a whisper now, and the recorder fights to catch his words. “The sand is gray.”

A sickening feeling settles in my gut.

“It’s a desert. No…”

“It’s not sand,” someone whispers. “It never…”

This is no natural landscape.

The realization paralyzes us all.

“It’s ash. Of the... These are dunes of ash,” Jean murmurs. “We’ve been walking through it this whole time. The entire... We slept on it, too.”

This is a graveyard.

What we first took for a desert is a valley of death. With that thought in mind, the view before us is so haunting that my chest shakes in a rare kind of fear.

The badlands stretch far out in a uniform gray, devoid of tint or life, rising in undulating mounds and valleys. Each step we take sends small clouds of ash billowing into the air, drifting slowly back down to settle in an eerie stillness. It dusts all our clothes, eating away at the colors we wear.

The sky above is a washed-out blue, riddled with clouds as gray as the ground. A weak offering from the sun pierces us, deepening the smell of charred earth and decay, a lifeless odor that clings to our throats and lungs. Suddenly, every breath feels heavy. It’s disgusting, how the air coats the inside of my mouth with a stench of decay; I can taste the ash on my tongue. It tastes like roasted bone. I become so aware of it then that it sickens me.

Fine and powdery, shifting and settling with each movement, the soft ground gives the impression of walking on a fragile, unstable surface. The dunes rise and fall in gentle slopes, shapes constantly altered by even the slightest breeze, creating an ever-changing landscape that feels profoundly sorrowful.

It is a desolation so complete, so absolute, that it defies comprehension.

We stand on top of a higher mound then, in stunned silence, transfixed by what lies before us. The rebuilding we talk about seems worthless in the face of such ruin.

A man from Armin's squad raises binoculars to his eyes, scanning the horizon. Only a couple minutes pass when he goes rigid.

“Oh, God,” he says. “Commander…”

With trembling hands, the man gives his binoculars to Armin. He peers through the lenses, and his face goes pale. His eyes are wide with horror and urgency as he lowers the binoculars.

“Weapons up! Defensive perimeter, now!” Armin orders sharply, pumping his own rifle. “Cover every side!”

Mute confusion ripples through the group. I reach over my back to slide over the gun. Weapons are drawn, eyes darting around, searching for a threat that hasn’t revealed itself. As if panic and horror hadn’t already settled down on us atop the coats of dust, it now takes the form of real fear.

“What is it?” Reiner murmurs. “What did you see?”

Armin’s eyes dart from Reiner to the horizon and back again. He pulls his mask down, to reveal his face. “I’m not sure,” he says, voice completely void of emotion.

Everyone stiffens.

All the blood drains from my face as Armin’s words sink in. My heart slams against my ribcage, and I see black.

What did Armin see?

I can barely swallow. My throat constricts with dread. My breath comes in short, sharp bursts. My mind races through possibilities, none of them good. The horror of facing an unknown threat in this place is suffocating. Even more so than…

No, there is no mistaking it. Sweat trickles down my back. My hands are clammy on the hilt of my rifle. I glance around at the others, seeing the same mix of terror mirrored in their eyes, but none of them in the same kind of panic. Armin stands in a shock, his normally composed demeanor shattered completely. His eyes, wide and haunted, flicker with a fear I’ve rarely seen in him. It makes my stomach churn.

“Eren,” Levi softly whispers. The entire length of his arm meets my side in an attempt to ground me. “...Eren?”

The world spins. I stagger out of line, vision tunneling. My eyes are open, but I see nothing. It grips my torso, drowning out everything else. Flashes of memories assault my mind, like every time when my sanity slips. Every face I’ve ever seen blurs together. It happens so fast that it gives me motion sickness.Hit by nausea, I fold over and retch dry.

Levi grabs me by the shoulder just before my knees buckle, and I still collapse to the ground. Splitting my weight between us, he manages to hold me upright, but it feels like there is not one bone in my body.

Someone’s fingers on my wrist. “His pulse is dropping.”

“Heat stroke?”

“Maybe. We need to get him cooled down.”

They work quickly, laying me on the ground. I barely register what is happening; only that it is. Lukewarm water is splashed over my head, and a strong-smelling spirit cuffed under my nose. It invigorates me. The world continues to spin still, but their quiet voices start to pull me back. The panic ebbs, replaced by a heavy, lethargic fatigue.

“Just breathe,” I hear. I cling to the sound of Levi’s voice.

As our medics work to cool me down, one of them stills at the top buttons on my shirt. I feel it being yanked a bit. When I open my eyes, I see that the medic leans in closer and pulls at his mask—so it sits tighter against his mouth and nose, instead of loosening.

Levi leans in as well. But he pulls his mask away to free his mouth, revealing dust-coated lips and stubble. His eyebrows are low in a frown.

I look down to follow his line of sight. It points to bright red patches on my skin.

“That’s a rash. Eren, does it hurt?”

I shake my head. “No. I didn’t feel it. I don’t feel it.”

“Commander? Look at this,” the medic says. “We have to turn around.”

With the corner of my eye, I see Armin walking over. Pale blond hair catches the faint sunlight like a halo around his face. It looms above me, shadowed yet bright, and his eyes look so cold that it chills me despite the heat. Without a word, he roughly yanks me up by the arm, gripping my shirt. The sun hits my chest, and pain flares from the marks on it.

“Armin—” I start, but he cuts me off, shoving the binoculars into my hands and pushing me forward.

“Verify,” Armin commands, voice hard. “What do you see?”

Body trembling and knees weak from how quickly I was pulled to my feet, I fumble with the binoculars, moving to comply. I bring the lenses to my eyes. The landscape blurs and sharpens as I adjust the focus. Once clear, I scan the horizon.

It takes a while to see where there is shadow amidst the soot, and where light falls on it. The bottom of the closest rocky hill climbs almost high enough to hope to touch low clouds. My vision still swims, like my consciousness does.

“I don’t…” But amidst the light is when I see: there is movement.

My heart sinks.

Figures, indistinct but undeniably human-like, moving with slow purpose.

My heart sinks further.

“What do you see?” Levi’s voice is low and insistent over my shoulder.

I lower the field glasses.

People.

Could it be?

No.

But they saw it, too. Didn’t they?

“We need to go back,” I weakly say. “We need to go, now.”

“No.” Armin grabs the binoculars from my hands. “We’re not turning around.” And then, silent, meant only for me to hear, he says, “You never told me.”

Like air was punched out of me, like I was being branded on my chest, I look at him. “I never saw that. I told you everything I ever knew.”

He nods towards our group. “So tell them what you see.”

I turn slowly. Hesitating more than I ever have in my life. And they’re all waiting, eyes full with varying degrees of hope, fear, expectation. When I look at Levi, he reads the look on my face, as if it was all written there. To him, it’s all evident. To him, it was never an issue.

“We’re not alone,” Levi says in my stead, and I’m glad that his voice is completely calm.

The reaction is immediate. The group disperses. Some in panic, some in a weird kind of joy, but most of them terrified. Voices overlap in a chaotic blend of confusion and fear.

“—back to main camp, and then—”

“People? Survivors?”

“—if they’re hostile—”

“How many?”

Armin’s expression hardens. He steps forward, hand raised to restore order. “Quiet. We set up camp here.”

The dread is palpable. Suddenly, there’s a tightness in Reiner’s face that makes him look a decade older, and Pieck stands so still that I begin to fear it. Her black hair and pale skin, coated with all this ash—it just makes her look dead now. Neither of them speak, just turn to execute the task given.

Levi moves beside me, cuffing my arm around his shoulders, and I gladly let him pull a bit of my weight. “Everyone undress,” he calls out. “Check each other for the rash. We all probably have it.”

And he is right. Angry red patches cover ditches of arms, armpits, inner thighs, backs, and torsos. The medics move among us, faces grave as they examine each person.

“It might be nothing,” one of them tells Armin, though her tone lacks confidence. “But if things get worse, it’s environmental. So… we would have to retreat before it’s too late.”

“We need to monitor this for the night.” Armin lifts his own arm up, turning it, revealing on it a blooming red. “If it spreads or gets worse, we’ll just have to make the call.”

“But it doesn’t hurt,” the woman says. “Or itch. Which should be a good sign. Hard to call a fever in this heat, so we’ll have to wait for nightfall.”

The camp is set up with a subdued urgency. Everyone moves with a sense of quiet dread. The knowledge of someone out there has cast a pall over the group. Every single glance exchanged is loaded. Still coming back to my senses, I just sit as I have for hours. I let my fingers dig into the gray beneath me, and let it slip out my palm like water.

Suddenly, the silence is shattered by the sound of raised voices. I snap to attention, turning towards the source of the commotion.

Armin bursts out of a tent, face flushed with anger, hurriedly pulling on his clothes. He grabs a rifle from the stand as he passes it, hanging the strap over his shoulder.

Behind him, Levi emerges from the tent.

I realize immediately what is going on. It makes me rise to my feet.

“Armin!” He barks out. “At least wait the night out!”

Over his shoulder, Armin yells, “We may not have that kind of time!”

“Yes, we may not have that kind of time!” Levi shouts back. Then, his voice lowers. “I know how badly you… We genuinely can’t afford to—”

“We have to.” Armin’s grip on the rifle tightens as he whips around to face Levi. Then, he looks at the rest of us. “This is an order. Everyone, gear up.”

The camp is at a standstill. All of us watch the exchange with bated breath, trying to decipher what is happening.

Levi steps forward. “You have to understand that you might be just as wrong as you are right.”

“I don’t think I am,” Armin says. His voice is surprisingly calm. Lowering his rifle, he takes a deep breath. “We set out in thirty. Load up on supplies. It should take us a few hours to get to that hill. And don’t bring too much ammo,” he adds. “You won’t need the weight.”

When even Jean turns to me in confusion, I know that no one understands what is going on. But of course, as it goes with Armin, we bend to any order—mostly because his role as a strategist has never gotten us into a situation, only out of one.

The camp stirs into motion again. Soldiers scramble to gather their gear, moving with a hurried, frantic precision. Rifles are slung over shoulders, ammunition is counted out, and supplies are packed with a desperate kind of speed. I watch it all, and I don’t know what to think. The rifles, I notice, are already held a little too high, fingers already itching near triggers. The usual quiet confidence is replaced by tension and fear. Again, the fear. The fear of outsiders. And the fear that our first instinct when encountering anyone outside of Paradis is so often to kill rather than save, because we have never been given different treatment, either.

The march to the hill is long and silent. The sky darkens, and by the time we reach the base of the hill, night has fully descended. We move slowly, sidestepping through the lower valley, rifles up and ready. Each soldier is at full attention, eyes wide, scanning for any sign; alert, like exhaustion never even managed to settle in their bodies. I feel my heartbeat in my throat. Cold sweat trickles down my back. The unease grows with every step, a gnawing certainty that something is terribly, fundamentally wrong.

As we climb the foot of the hill, every creak of gear or whisper of movement feels like a thunderclap in that dead stillness. It’s like we inch forward, instead of stepping, really, breaths held, the world around us shrinking to the narrow cone of vision just beyond the barrel of our rifles.

Soon, we spread out, forming a cautious perimeter. Through wordless signals and sweeps of fingers alone, soldiers move to take positions. Beams of flashlights cut through the gloom, scanning the area in wide arcs. The tension is almost unbearable. Each second is stretched thin by the weight of expectation and fear.

Then, we find them. It nears dawn when we finally find them.

The first sight is almost unnoticeable: a slight movement among the rocks, where a crevice has formed, leading into the hill. Someone’s flashlight zeroes in, revealing gaunt, skeletal forms.

My breath stays in my throat. At the first sight of them, I had noted them as corpses. But for fair reason; the figures before us barely resemble people anymore. These bodies have wasted away to skin and bones. Clothes hang in tattered remnants, and their skin is pallid, stretched tightly over protruding bones.

Armin steps forward, his flashlight shaking as he raises it to illuminate the faces of the survivors. Their eyes are hollow, vacant, staring at nothing. There’s no recognition. They stare into the light, caught somewhere between life and death, but their souls look long gone.

The smell hits us fast. Just like death, it’s sickly sweet and suffocating. They reek of decay, a sharp, foul smell of rotting fruit and ammonia that invades the nose. No one says a word. Hasn’t, since we got here, not a single one of us. Armin wouldn’t say anything when we first approached these people, and when we move into the cave, the silence deepens as we see piles of bones, picked clean and scattered. We try to hold on to the hope that it’s not what we think it is, but when our lights fall on a human skull that is too small to be an adult’s, Armin’s composure shatters.

He stumbles back, back of his hand over his mouth. “I ca— No. I can’t.”

Next to him, even Levi looks shaken. “Don’t look,” he says, voice low and strained.

Reiner and Pieck turn around to leave.

We count nine people total. Nine gaunt figures. Nine survivors. But we also become increasingly aware that there is no helping them. Their bodies are too far gone to endure the trip back, and their minds are fully lost to the absolute horror they’ve endured. Genders indiscernible, even from what you could see. Movements so slow that even time seems to pass faster.

Our medics kneel to offer food, water, try to tend to them. But all these people do is reach out their hands. Thin, so thin, unlike anything I’ve ever seen before, their fingers shake in a gesture so pitiful and terrifying, palms awaiting for something beyond their grasp.

Their faces are haunting. Accepting the finality of death’s approach. Cheeks hollowed, eyes sunken into dark, cavernous sockets. Their skin is stretched tight over their skulls, a thin, translucent veil revealing the sharp contours of bone beneath. Lips are cracked and dry, mouths slightly open as if in a perpetual, silent song. They do make sounds. Some sounds. Warbled, airy, forming not one word. Through clothing, I can see every rib where there is an attempt to speak, every bone, bodies emaciated to the point of…

Even I have to turn away, at some point.

If we fed them, they wouldn’t be able to chew. Their teeth, some missing, some barely holding on, are coated with the dark grime of starvation. Their throats, lined with dry, cracked skin, would never be able to swallow, and if somehow they did, their stomachs would fall apart under the stress of it. They are on the absolute brink of death.

The eyes are the worst part. They look at nothing and see nothing. I don’t think they even recognize us. They must think they finally died.

Jean’s face is pale in the dim, rising morning. The light in his eyes is completely gone.

“What do we do?” he asks, with a cracked voice.

Armin forces himself to look at the survivors again. “We... we can’t leave them like this,” he says, and his voice breaks as well. “But we can’t save them either.”

Our group stands in stunned silence.

“Do you want… to try? Or do you want us to put them down?” One of the medics asks. The latter question, somehow, sounds kinder.

Armin shakes his head, I think, because he is unable to make that call. I watch Jean wrap an arm around him and pull him close, but Armin’s eyes don’t leave the sight.

“See if they can stand. You have to decide,” Jean tells the medic. “Come on,” he whispers to Armin. “Come, walk a bit.”

I watch after them. When Armin tries to turn his head, Jean gently stops him from doing so, guiding him out towards the foot of the hill, out of this small, deathly valley.

There, I stand with a rifle in hand, feeling like a storm is going to break. I wonder how soon the horror is going to morph into despair, and from it, the anger. No one has looked at me ever since we got here, not even Levi.

Lips tight, he stands, leaning back against the cliff’s brown stone. His rash has climbed up his neck, marking just a slight portion of his jawline.

Like a ghost, I slide next to him.

“Is it true today?” I whisper. “Now, am I breaking you?”

He turns his head.

The look in his eyes makes my blood run cold. There lies a depth of pain and betrayal that I can hardly bear to see. But I look at it, because it is fair.

His face is drawn, eyes hollowed out by what we’ve just witnessed. He looks at me as if seeing me for the first time—it’s a look that tells me I’ve failed him in the worst way possible.

Maybe he had forgiven me. Or maybe he was about to, soon. Or in a couple years. Perhaps it was in the works, somewhere, somehow, and I had been doing good, almost seeing faint possibility of a redemption.

Of course, it becomes easier when you don’t have to see it. The aftermath. The bad of it. It filters out into other things, and settles down like dust. But when beat into like this, like into a carpet wrung over a fence, what comes out is what has already been forgotten and overlooked. The sum of it makes you sick, then. And how much has gathered, it makes you sick.

“No,” Levi says.

Surprised, I take a breath, but he’s quicker.

“You already broke me. And I already forgave you,” he continues, pulling at the strap of his rifle to make it sit higher. “I can’t retract my forgiveness. But today, I would.”