Chapter Text
“And what are you gonna do about that, little miss—”
Trash #1 had some trouble talking with Eren’s fist knocking sidelong across his jaw. She had to jump a bit to really reach, but whatever. He was hunching over now, which meant—
Just before her foot could connect, arms locked around her shoulders and yanked her back. With a snarl, she aimed another kick, but it just barely grazed Trash #1’s hip before the person pulling her away heaved her against the cobblestone. Trash #2, she realized, glaring through the hair flopping into her vision. She tossed the strands aside with a jerk of her chin, never breaking her gaze. She would see every second of that smug grin, for the full satisfaction of tearing it off.
The grin only widened, though, when her nails scraped just shy of it. She managed to snatch his jacket by the collar, but the ground hit hard and her grip went weak for just a moment. Blood was threading through her teeth, spreading the coppery taste all over her tongue, and it was a little harder to breathe through her nose. Eren pushed herself up, willing the swirls in her brain to calm the hell down, but a foot against her back shoved her right back into the dark.
“Hey, what are you brats doing?” Hannes, that sounded like, slurred by alcohol and sharpened with the tink-tink of soldiers’ gear. The feet around her shifted, with some clicks of the tongue and muttered vague excuses before the garbage went scuttling out of the alley.
Eren craned her head to watch them go. “Run away then,” she yelled after them, though it came out garbled and thin as fresh blood pooled in her mouth. “See if I care.”
“You really should care,” Hannes murmured. The blonde soldier knelt on one knee, then attacked her face with a handkerchief. She sat up a bit to let him reach, experimentally drawing some air through her nose. “Don’t worry, kid, it’s not broken. Just opened the floodgates, apparently. Breathe through your mouth.”
Eren tried once more through her nose, but it backed up something nasty into her throat and had her coughing, red speckling the pavement. Hannes sighed in lieu of an I told you so and just pulled a fresh handkerchief, doused it with the bottle in his other hand, and started scrubbing at the droplets that made it onto her dress.
“Eren, your mother is going to kill you,” he said mournfully. “Then she’ll kill me, and poor Doctor Jaeger would probably be next. Here, hold this.” The bloodied handkerchief was jammed up against her face, and Eren obeyed this time, pressing hard. Hannes slowly teased the red out of her clothing—enough for Carla Jaeger to not bust a vein over the laundry—then made to help her to her feet. Eren got up on her own, but let him take her hand on the way back out to the street. He looked too pitiful to slap away, and with the fog of alcohol stinking him up, she was more worried about him falling and cracking his skull.
The market was bright and loud as usual, almost painfully so. Bread and coin changed hands all around, with laughter and gossip woven tighter than the baskets in housewives’ arms. With strange hope, she scanned the crowd for a little blonde head, but odds are, the kid was still where she left him. Still, she’d like to find him again, just to tell him that the two idiots kicking at him had run away from her. Hannes’ appearance just barely saved them, really.
“Yo, Hannes!” she heard to her right. No need to even look; she already knew it was one of Hannes’ friends. “And a princess! Hello, princess.”
“I’m not a princess,” Eren snapped, turning to face four drunken smiles. This was a matter of pride. “My father’s a doctor!” The doctor. She never saw a king popping anyone’s sores or bandaging their wounds.
“You should get daddy to patch up your face then,” another soldier laughed. “Won’t get married with a busted face.”
“I’m not…” but they were laughing louder—even Hannes—and the blood was getting thick in her airways again, so she buried her nose back into the handkerchief. Stupid Hannes and his stupid friends. She glanced down another alley, hoping to catch sight of a yellow bob and blue eyes. Armin , he’d said his name was. Armin, who didn’t lose the fight because he didn’t run away. Eren didn’t run either! Well, she had, just not away from the fight. To the fight, away from Armin, before she realized she’d gotten his name but neglected to leave hers. Mom told her not to give out her name to strangers, but Armin had a name so he wasn’t a stranger anymore. Besides, wasn’t she supposed to be polite and return favors or something? Especially when she was the one who asked.
“Hey prin… uh, doctor’s daughter,” the first soldier cut in. “Are you looking for something?”
“Or some one ,” drawled another. Eren narrowed her eyes at him. Something was weird about that tone.
Hannes settled down on a crate, letting her hand go at last. “She was looking around all over the marketplace too and ignored me when I asked why she picked a fight with two boys at least a head taller. I’m starting to wonder…”
Traitor , she thought bitterly. Hannes came in handy when Mom was mad, but he never took her side when his (stupid) friends were around. Still, maybe the soldiers knew folks that she didn’t, considering they were always hanging around here. Eren mostly just ran errands and spent the rest of her time making visits with Dad, which got her acquainted with more sick people than actual people. “Do you know an Armin?” she asked. When they stared blankly, she added, “Small, blonde, kinda wimpy-looking.”
No sooner had the last word left her mouth, one soldier sputtered into his drink, laughing raucously. (“‘W-wimpy-looking?!’ Poor kid…”) Another snorted, but at least he looked thoughtful, tapping his playing cards against his chin. “Wasn’t the Vilhauer boy blonde and kinda short? Or the old mechanic's boy?”
The third not-Hannes piped up. “I was thinking the Allers boy too. Benny Vilhauer isn’t…” He coughed strangely. “‘Wimpy-looking.’”
“Wasn’t it Arlert?” said the first soldier, between coughs and thumps to the chest. “No idea what the kid’s name is though.”
Hannes just shrugged, pouring himself a fresh cup from the bottle in his hand, then fishing a bit of jerky from the soldiers’ pile of snacks. He tugged her hand back up and pushed the spiced meat into her palm. “Have a snack and go home, Eren. Your mother is probably wondering where you went.”
Eren felt brief temptation to throw the jerky at him, but it smelled nice even through the blood clogging her nostrils. Or maybe she was just imagining it, since breakfast had been so long ago and she’d ran out on lunch and dinner? Dad’s visit was going longer than expected; she’d wanted to deliver his dinner before settling down for her own, but the detour and everything on her way back… suddenly, she felt her stomach tightening in anticipation. Even though a tiny bit of jerky wouldn’t even begin to fill what Mom called the void . Eren deigned to spare Hannes today, muttering her thanks and waiting until she was out of sight to gobble it out of her palm. She wiped the blood and pepper flakes off on her skirt and began the hike back home.
“Again?!” is what Grisha Jaeger heard, long before he turned the corner and caught any sight of his home. At the side of the street, old lady Weiss perked up with a knowing flick of the eyebrow. Select lines along her wizened face deepened in the shape of a smirk.
“I suppose Eren is home,” she observed, with an affected air of wisdom. Old age allowed her a certain grandiosity, which she very clearly enjoyed. Her words had weight, and she could get away with dramatics that made her feel more legendary crone than grandma down the street .
To the kids, at least. For a practiced ear, all the gravitas in her voice couldn’t mask her delight at what Grisha was about to go home to. He could not be blamed for pausing where he stood, enjoying his last moments of quiet before the storm. The official reason, of course, is that he hoped to overhear something of what Eren had done this time. He needed to gather intelligence if he wanted any chance at a peaceful resolution.
Said intelligence was, of course, audible for a good length of the street.
“How many times have I told you to talk with your mouth, not your fists?!” Carla Jaeger yelled. He could picture his wife now, worry etching lines into her handsome face. One of many welcome side effects for bringing Eren into the world: Carla rarely used that look on him these days.
“They don’t listen when I talk with my mouth!” came Eren’s voice, thinner and lighter but no less piercing. Her lungs definitely came from her mother. (Though there was a worrying nasality to her voice, which Grisha took careful note of. She couldn’t have caught a cold between dropping off his dinner and returning home, but new allergies did sometimes pop up at her age.)
“So you actually tried this time?” The ensuing pause gave everything away. “I knew it!!”
Grisha inhaled deeply. “If you’ll excuse me, Madame Weiss.”
“Go on, doctor,” the elderly woman waved him off, far too chipper at his plight. “Protect the peace of Shiganshina.”
“I don’t think my medical training quite covers that actually…” but he trudged up the hill regardless, suddenly aware of the weight of his bag.
“I’m not telling you to never punch anyone ever,” his wife said, much more softly. If the window weren’t open and Grisha weren’t deliberately listening, he would have missed it entirely. “Just… think of your father who’d have to patch this up for you. He’s had a whole day of work, and he can’t even rest at home.”
Ah, so she was playing that card. Grisha obediently slowed his pace, muting the clip of his shoes just in case one of them recognized his gait. He was close enough now to hear the screech of a chair and his daughter’s hands slamming on the table. He’d heard both women in the act enough times to know the heavier thud was Carla and the swift slap was Eren.
“Then I’ll patch it up myself!” The nasality was still there. Painfully clear. “It’ll definitely be healed by the time I need to get married so don’t even worry about it .”
“Who said anything about mar- oh dagnabbit.” No, no... Carla should’ve held her ground. He was feeling (and probably looking) haggard enough to make the guilt trip work. Then again, he really would love to see Eren cleaning and bandaging a wound herself. Brewing medicine was progressing just fine even if the girl seriously lacked finesse, but he was keeping her away from others’ wounds until he could trust her not to wipe off pus on her skirt. If she had the will, though, he had no doubt she would find a way.
“Grisha,” he heard suddenly. He had no time to even look surprised before the door opened and his wife glared down at his spot on the street. “You truly underestimate a barmaid’s hearing.”
“Dad!” Eren came barreling past her mother’s skirts, shoving aside the apron when it snagged on her hair. The doctor gladly broke eye contact with Carla, only to see something significantly scarier.
“Eren, what happened to your face?”
“I-it’s fine,” she said, a bit too loud. The fresh track of blood dribbling from her nose made it even less convincing. She slapped her hand over it, but it didn’t keep a stray drop from landing on the doorstep. “I’m fine!” she insisted, through her hand.
Carla just gave him a desperate look. “Grisha, talk to your daughter,” and there went his chances of teamwork tonight.
“Eren,” he sighed. His arm was really feeling that bag now.
Bright eyes turned up expectantly. “Yes?”
“You said you’d patch yourself up?” And get married , Grisha didn’t add. He wasn’t feeling so fond of that part, but it was oddly reassuring. Whether or not he lived to see it, Eren was at least amenable to the idea of finding someone. He still imagined the Eren of that age shouting and whooping, somewhere wide open with no walls, nothing between her and the horizon, but if there was to be someone beside her...
“Uh, yeah. I can… dad?”
Had he taken her out of town too much? He thought it a good idea to let her see as much as he did, at least in terms of the landscape. (Not so much the festering organs… not yet.) Those trips were worth every annoyance, every minor heart attack, every concerned look from Carla, but he couldn’t help but think: did not being around make it harder for her to make friends? Did he leave her with nothing to talk about besides… well, festering organs? Carla brought it up half-heartedly every few weeks, though her observations had been knocking his head more and more lately. His daughter was fine not being a social butterfly, but if she was getting beaten up…
“Dad? Dad!”
“Grisha, honey, why are you just standing there?” Carla peered at him from the doorway. She scanned him up and down, eyes glinting sharp despite the soft lighting indoors. He could see the moment she mentally pronounced him Tired and In Need of Good Tea , from the nod to herself and her sudden beeline for the kitchenette. Eren hovered, uncharacteristically lost, looking between her parents. The doctor sighed once more, chuckling away those trains of thought.
“Wash your hands, Eren, and grab a mirror. You get to use my supplies.”
“Yes, sir!” the girl shouted, still a bit nasal and garbled, but it was a good-enough imitation of the Scouting Legion; at least, on their way out. Grisha found his seat at the table, and Carla soon stood at his side, one hand lowering a fresh cup of tea and the other landing precisely on the kink in his neck. His thank you came out more like blissful nonsense, but a girlish giggle confirmed that his intent got across. Then the quiet moment was over, with Eren parking herself across him and flinging his suitcase wide open. Carla all but flew to the other side of the table, to rescue Eren’s dress from more red stains.
Today was today, another day with his young family and nothing more. Selfish as it was, that was all he wanted.
The book felt impossibly heavy in his hands. Armin could carry stacks, entire volumes, up and down the steps, but this book—this one, very average-sized book—might as well be made of lead. (That was the heaviest metal he could think of, at least, though perhaps there was something even denser out there. Beyond.)
Just yesterday, he was reading this book just fine. It sat comfortably in his lap as grandfather tinkered away behind him and muttered occasionally about his glasses getting smudged. Armin should be worried, probably, after catching the old man wiping at perfectly clear lenses. Working as mechanic would last only as long as his vision held out, and Armin really should be in the workshop, pointing out what he can so Grandpa had to strain less to see. Maybe take over some work so they can work in proper daylight instead of a chancy little lamp.
On any other night, he’d be doing exactly that, but just a half hour ago, he’d lied and claimed tiredness.
The rarity of this particular excuse made it work terribly well. Grandpa was all too eager to tuck him into bed, even offering to blowing out his candle for him, and Armin was lucky that his nervous quaking translated well as “tiredness.” He wasn’t shaking any less now that he’d snuck up into the attic and obtained exactly what this whole fiasco was about.
A Humble Atlas , the cover read simply. How ironic, then, that Armin felt the weight of the world bearing down on his fingers. At this rate, it might just slip out of his hand, dragged down by its newfound impossible weight. The sweat building in his palms (and everywhere else) wasn’t helping in the slightest. He should wipe the sweat, before it slicked the passage of his forbidden spoils from his fingers to the floor.
Grandpa’s chair squeaked in his workshop, and Armin all but sobbed. Hurriedly, he brought his hands to muffle the noise, but a heavy thump at his feet made everything very cold, very fast. His sweat was probably staining the floorboards at this point, possibly even leaking to the level below. Armin closed his eyes and let himself curl up, absolutely pathetic in his betrayal. Why had he even tried sneaking the book out? It was not like that girl would believe him, if he actually laid out the pages in front of her. He was just setting himself up to be called a heretic again, except with actual, damning proof this time that could land both his grandfather and him somewhere unimaginably terrible—except he can imagine it. He was imagining it now, the screams and boiling metal. Grandpa was the adult here, so all the torture that proven heretics received would fall brutally upon the aging man’s shoulders…
“Armin?”
“I’m so sorry, Grandpa!” he gasped, half to the bearded face poking out of the attic’s trap door and half to the knife-shaven, horrifically scarred face contorted in a tortured scream before Armin’s eyes. “What have I done?!”
“That is exactly what I hoped to ask, actually,” the man said evenly. “Weren’t you asleep?”
“I wasn’t,” he admitted, too quickly to even regret it. The regret had plenty of time to hit afterwards. He was busted now. He was so incredibly busted… at this point, he might as well confess, and grovel for a lighter sentence. “I’m so sorry, I wanted to show the atlas to this girl I met. Uh, that I know. I’m sorry, I don’t actually know her that well, so this is stupid, but…”
“A girl,” his grandfather echoed. Then, with a measure of shock, “A girl!”
Armin blinked. Was it that bad that he was speaking to a girl now? The boys in their side of town hadn’t exactly gone well for him, and if he thought about it (though he tried not to), being caught hanging around a girl would only give the others more ammunition besides his beliefs on the world. Worse even, if anyone harbored an interest for the brunette who’d asked him his name today and considered Armin an unworthy addition to her entourage… oh no, he was thinking about it now.
However, a hearty chuckle rumbled through the attic. Armin watched dumbly as Grandpa grinned as widely as his beard would allow, then planted a broad hand over Armin’s shoulders. (He definitely jumped a bit at that, maybe screamed a little too.)
“Well, Armin,” Grandpa said, amusement draining from his tone. “Do you trust her?”
“I…” Probably shouldn’t , Armin thought glumly. He knew little about this Eren character besides her name—and the look in her eye when he held his ground, even if he did so rather pathetically. She hadn’t mocked his attempt at confidence, hadn’t scoffed at his ideas when he’d recounted the reason he was beaten. Instead, she asked for his name.
He hadn’t expected to see her again, but then there were footsteps thundering behind him as he trudged home. He’d turned just in time to see flaming determination, bright and green and too-close to his face, along with the stench of blood. My name is Eren , she’d announced, simply but purposefully, then turned on her heel and sprinted off, tracking blood all the while. Nothing about this spelled TRUSTWORTHY in any way. It was just…
“She seemed curious,” Armin admitted. It was as good a line of reasoning as he had to offer, which wasn’t much good at all. “She didn’t judge what I said about the outside, and she approached me twice by herself. And… I…”
“You’re curious too?” About her went unsaid, but Armin flushed anyways.
“Not…”
Grandpa interrupted gently. “Is that the truth?”
Armin slumped. The hand on his shoulder gained a mysterious weight, just like the book moments ago. “I-I am curious.”
“You should tell the truth, Armin,” Grandpa said. “Lying is ill-suited for family.”
“I’m sorry.” Armin gathered up the book shakily, brushing it off and turning to search for its place on the shelf.
“No, no. Show it to her, if you want.” At Armin’s look of surprise, Grandpa chuckled again, all sternness dissipating as quickly as it had appeared. “If you trust this kid and she’s willing to trust you, then I’ll trust both of your judgment. These books are useless up in here, anyways, if no one is reading or sharing their ideas. We are ‘heretics,’ are we not? What good are we if we do not stand for what we believe?”
“Y-yeah.”
Grandpa clambered down the ladder eventually, closing the trapdoor as he went. Armin sat alone again, listening as the shuffling footsteps dwindled to nothing and the sounds of more tinkering took over. The book sat quietly in Armin’s hands.
Half by instinct, he flipped open to page 15. He didn’t dare to dog-ear or otherwise pin the pages, for fear of damaging the paper any more than a century’s age already has. It was purely practice and some regular abuse on the book’s spine that gave him this ability, to turn to his favorite pages in one motion. Waves, delicately imagined in black ink, stared back at him in endless patience. Somewhere, out there, these waves were as blue as the clearest sky, surging alive with hypnotic majesty. Altogether a unified force, each ripple the visual echo of some distant pulse.
… but for now, the image sat still. Colorless, lifeless, just waiting to be discovered again by mankind. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine his own two feet, nestled in warm sand as he watched the water crest, crowned in bubbly foam, then shatter downwards with a spray of saline.
It was a silly dream, he admitted silently, letting the book fall shut, but he fell asleep that night with A Humble Atlas on the pillow beside him and a finger tracing the battered leather. His dreams in waking and in sleep had always been the same, but as the moon shone high over the walls tonight, Armin pictured more feet besides him, a hand in his, a cry of wonder to match his own.
The little Jaeger girl, with all the subtlety of a tired donkey, greeted Hannes the next day with a white bundle. His handkerchief, Hannes figured, but as it landed in his palm, the mass and weight suggested that there was more to the bundle. Eren was long gone by the time he thought to ask, and he could only snicker to himself as a flurry of skirts and scuffed boots blitzed down another alley.
He unwrapped it slowly, recognizing his own handkerchief, meticulously washed with no signs of blood. He would have thought it brand spanking new, if it weren’t the other fresh handkerchief tucked inside. Somehow the two shades of white meant all the difference.
“Goodness, Carla,” the soldier muttered, tucking both handkerchiefs carefully into his uniform pocket. He really ought to stop sending Eren home with his things covering her scrapes, lest they be returned with even more apology gifts.
Nineteen—now twenty—handkerchiefs was more than the soldier ever needed.