Chapter Text
The weeds rose high around her legs, brushing against her calves and thighs as she moved through them with slow, deliberate steps. The sun hung overhead, brilliant and unforgiving in its brightness, casting everything in sharp relief. There were no clouds to soften its glare, no mercy in the way it illuminated the world. Mikasa felt the heat on her face, on her bare arms, seeping through the thin fabric of her robe. The light made her squint, but she did not look away from the path ahead. She had walked this route so many times that her feet knew the way even when her mind wandered into darker territories.
With each step, her bones protested. There was a creaking sensation deep within her joints, a grinding feeling that spoke of damage accumulated over years of pushing her body beyond its limits. She was only in her twenties, but her body felt ancient. The cartilage in her knees had worn thin from countless hours of combat training, from the brutal physicality of the life she had lived. Her ankles ached with a persistent throb that never quite went away. Her spine felt compressed, as though the weight of everything she had endured had literally pressed down on her vertebrae, compacting them, making her feel smaller than she actually was.
Walking for more than ten minutes brought pain that radiated through her legs and up into her lower back. It was a deep, bone-deep ache that no amount of rest seemed to fully alleviate. She had abused her body terribly in her youth, driven by purposes that had seemed so clear at the time. Protecting him. Fighting for survival. Pushing herself to be stronger, faster, more capable. She had treated her body as a weapon, as a tool, and now she was paying the price for that treatment. Every morning when she woke, there was stiffness. Every night when she lay down, there was pain. Her body had become a prison of discomfort, a constant reminder of everything she had been through.
But today, the pain felt different somehow. It felt distant, as though it belonged to someone else. There was a strange contentment settling over her as she walked, a sense of peace that she had not felt in years. Perhaps it was because she knew what she was about to do. Perhaps it was because the endless, grinding monotony of her existence was finally coming to an end. There was relief in that knowledge, a lightness that made even the physical pain seem less significant.
Her feet were bare against the earth. She had left her shoes behind at the house, had walked out wearing only her robe and the scarf around her neck. The grass was still wet with morning dew, and she could feel the moisture seeping between her toes, cool and slightly slick. Each step left a faint impression in the soft ground, a temporary mark that would fade as soon as the sun dried the earth. The sensation of wet grass against her bare feet was oddly pleasant, grounding her in the physical world even as her mind drifted through memories and half-formed thoughts.
The weeds were thick here, untended and wild. They had grown tall over the summer months, reaching up toward the sun with the mindless persistence of living things. Some of them had gone to seed, their tops heavy with the promise of future growth. Others were still green and supple, bending easily as she pushed through them. They left faint streaks of moisture on her robe, darkening the fabric in irregular patterns. Small insects buzzed around her, disturbed by her passage, but she paid them no attention. The world felt very large and very empty around her, despite the abundance of life in the field.
It had not been easy, these past years. Nothing about her life had been easy, but the years since that day had been particularly brutal in their own quiet way. The day when the light of her world had been snuffed out. The day when she had been the one to extinguish it. Her own hands had done the deed. Her own blade had cut through flesh and bone. She had killed him because he had asked her to, because there had been no other choice, because the alternative was unthinkable. But knowing the reasons did not make it easier to bear. Knowing that it had been necessary did not ease the weight of what she had done.
She had never really gotten over it. How could she? How could anyone get over something like that? The person who had been the center of her entire existence, the person she had devoted her life to protecting, the person she had loved with an intensity that bordered on obsession, she had killed him. Her hands had ended his life. And even though he had wanted it, even though it had been his choice, his plan, his sacrifice, she was the one who had to live with the memory of it. She was the one who had to wake up every morning knowing what she had done.
Jean had tried. She had to give him credit for that. He had tried to reach out to her, tried to offer comfort, tried to build something with her in the aftermath of everything. He had been kind, patient, understanding. He had waited what he thought was an appropriate amount of time, and then he had approached her with careful words and gentle gestures. He had asked if she would like to have dinner with him. If she would like to take a walk. If she would like to talk. He had been trying to court her, in his awkward, earnest way.
She had turned him down. Not cruelly, but firmly. She had looked at him with those same dark eyes that had watched Eren die, and she had told him no. She could not give him what he wanted. She could not be what he needed. There was nothing left inside her to offer anyone. She was hollow, emptied out, a shell going through the motions of living without any real substance behind the actions. Jean had looked hurt, but he had accepted her refusal. He had nodded, had told her that he understood, had said that if she ever changed her mind, he would be there. But she never changed her mind.
After that, she had gradually withdrawn from everyone. It had not been a sudden thing, not a dramatic cutting of ties. It had been a slow fading, a gradual retreat into isolation. She stopped responding to invitations. She stopped attending gatherings. She stopped answering her door when people came to check on her. Armin had tried the longest, had persisted in his attempts to maintain their friendship, but even he had eventually given up. Even he had eventually accepted that she wanted to be left alone.
She had not spoken to any of her friends for years now. She could not even remember the last time she had heard Armin's voice, or seen Connie's face, or exchanged words with anyone from the old days. They had all moved on with their lives, had found ways to build futures in the world that Eren had created for them with his sacrifice. They had found purpose, had found meaning, had found reasons to keep going. But she had not. She could not. She felt like she had not spoken to anyone for years, and in a very real sense, that was true. She lived in silence, surrounded by silence, drowning in silence.
Mikasa would just sit in her house for days at a time. She would not leave, would not open the curtains, would not do anything but sit and stare at the walls. Sometimes she would sit for so long that her legs would go numb, that her back would stiffen, that the light outside would change from morning to afternoon to evening to night and back to morning again. She would sit and reminisce, turning over memories in her mind like precious stones, examining them from every angle, trying to extract every last bit of meaning and feeling from them.
She would remember the first time she had seen him, when he had wrapped his scarf around her neck and told her to come with him. She would remember training together, fighting together, the countless moments of danger and survival. She would remember the way he looked when he was determined, when he was angry, when he was lost in thought. She would remember his voice, the particular cadence of his speech, the way he would say her name. She would remember everything she could, clinging to those memories as though they were the only things keeping her tethered to existence.
But even that was being taken from her. Even the memories, her last remaining connection to him, were fading. She did not remember things the way she used to. The details were becoming fuzzy, indistinct, like a painting left out in the rain. She would try to recall specific moments and find that she could not quite grasp them, that they slipped away from her like water through her fingers. The harder she tried to hold onto them, the faster they seemed to disappear.
She could not remember anymore. That was the worst part. The forgetting. The slow, inexorable erosion of everything she had left. What color were his eyes again? She would sit in her dark house and try to picture his face, try to see him clearly in her mind, and she would realize with growing horror that she could not remember the exact shade of his eyes. Were they like jade gemstones, that particular green that seemed to glow with inner light? She thought maybe they were. She had a vague impression of green, of brightness, of intensity. But she could not be certain. Were they sky blue instead? Had she gotten it wrong? Had the years of grief and isolation scrambled her memories so thoroughly that she could no longer trust her own recollections?
The uncertainty tormented her. She would lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, trying desperately to remember. Green or blue? Jade or sky? She would search through her memories, looking for moments when she had looked directly into his eyes, when she had been close enough to see them clearly. But the memories were like old photographs, faded and unclear. She could remember the feeling of looking at him, the emotion that would rise in her chest, but she could not remember the specific visual details. It was as though her mind had retained the emotional content of the memories while letting the concrete details slip away.
This forgetting felt like a betrayal. It felt like she was losing him all over again, piece by piece, detail by detail. First she had lost his physical presence, his body, his voice, his touch. And now she was losing even the memory of him. Soon there would be nothing left. Soon he would be completely gone, erased not just from the world but from her mind as well. And she could not bear that. She could not tolerate the idea of a world in which she did not even remember him clearly.
All she wanted was to see him again. That was the only desire left in her, the only thing that still mattered. She wanted to see his face, to look into his eyes, to know for certain what color they were. She wanted to hear his voice, to feel his presence, to be near him again. She wanted to stop this endless, grinding existence of pain and loneliness and fading memories. She wanted to be with him, wherever he was, whatever that meant.
She could not bear to live like this anymore. The realization had come to her gradually, over months and years of sitting alone in her house, of waking up to pain and emptiness, of trying and failing to remember. She could not do this anymore. She did not want to do this anymore. There was no point to it, no purpose, no meaning. She was not living, not really. She was just existing, just going through the biological motions of breathing and eating and sleeping without any real engagement with life. She was already dead in every way that mattered. Her body just had not caught up yet.
It was painful, this existence. It hurt in ways that went far beyond the physical aches in her bones and joints. It hurt in her chest, in her heart, in some deep part of her soul that she could not name or locate. It was a constant, grinding pain, a weight that pressed down on her every moment of every day. And she was tired of it. She was so tired. She just wanted it to stop. She just wanted to rest. She just wanted to see his eyes again, to know their color, to be certain.
The oak tree came into view ahead of her. It stood alone in the field, massive and ancient-looking despite its relative youth. She remembered when it had been just a small sapling, barely taller than she was, its trunk thin enough that she could have wrapped her hand around it. That had been years ago, shortly after everything had ended, when they had been deciding where to bury him. She had chosen this spot, had planted the sapling herself, had thought that it would be fitting for something to grow here, for life to continue even in the presence of death.
The tree had grown faster than she had expected. Each year it had added height and girth, its branches spreading wider, its roots digging deeper into the earth. Now it was a substantial tree, its trunk thick and solid, its canopy providing a circle of shade beneath it. The bark was rough and deeply textured, marked with the patterns of growth and age. It was a beautiful tree, strong and healthy, thriving in this spot. She had chosen well.
Below the tree, in the circle of shade it provided, sat his grave. The grave marker was simple but well-maintained. It was made of stone, a rectangular slab set upright in the ground, with words carved into its surface. The words had faded over time, worn by weather and the passage of years, but she had repainted them every week without fail. Every seven days, she would come here with a small pot of paint and a fine brush, and she would carefully trace over each letter, making sure they remained clear and legible. It was a ritual, a duty, a way of honoring him and keeping his memory alive in the physical world.
The grave site was clean. She made sure of it. There were no weeds growing on the plot, no debris or fallen leaves cluttering the space. She would pull any weeds that dared to sprout, would sweep away any leaves or twigs that fell from the oak tree above. She kept the area around the grave immaculate, a small island of order and care in the wild field. It was the one thing she still did with any regularity, the one task she still performed with dedication and attention to detail.
Around the grave, arranged in a careful pattern, sat white lilies. They were fresh, their petals still crisp and unblemished, their centers bright with pollen. She had placed them there just a few days ago, replacing the previous batch that had begun to wilt. She always brought white lilies. They were pure, clean, beautiful in their simplicity. They seemed appropriate somehow, a fitting tribute. She would buy them from the market in town, would carry them carefully back to her house, and then would bring them here to arrange around his grave. When they began to fade, she would remove them and replace them with fresh ones. The cycle continued endlessly, week after week, month after month, year after year.
Mikasa stopped a few feet from the grave, standing in the dappled shade beneath the oak tree. The sun filtered through the leaves above, creating patterns of light and shadow on the ground. A slight breeze moved through the branches, causing them to sway gently, creating a soft rustling sound. It was peaceful here. It always had been. This spot felt separate from the rest of the world, a quiet sanctuary where she could be close to him, or at least close to his remains.
She reached up and touched the scarf that hung around her neck. It was rough against her fingers, the fabric worn and patched in multiple places. It was not the same scarf he had given her all those years ago, not exactly. That original scarf had worn out long ago, had literally fallen apart from age and use. But she had kept every scrap of it, had carefully sewn patches onto patches, had added new fabric where the old had disintegrated completely. It was more patch than original material now, a patchwork construction that bore only a passing resemblance to the red scarf he had wrapped around her neck when she was a child.
But it was all she had left of him. It was the last physical connection, the last tangible link to that moment when he had saved her, when he had given her a reason to live, when he had become the center of her world. She had worn it every day since then, had never taken it off except to wash it or repair it. It had been with her through everything, through all the battles and struggles and losses. And it was with her now, at the end.
The scarf was rough against her skin, the patches creating an uneven texture. Some of the fabric was soft and worn, while other sections were stiffer, newer. She could feel the seams where different pieces had been joined together, the slightly raised lines of stitching that held the whole thing together. It was not beautiful anymore, not in any conventional sense. It was ugly, really, a ragged thing that most people would have thrown away long ago. But to her, it was precious beyond measure. It was all she had.
She had been angry at him once. In the immediate aftermath, in the days and weeks and months following that terrible moment when her blade had cut through his neck, she had been consumed with rage. She had been angry at him for doing this to her, for putting her in that position, for making her the instrument of his death. She had been angry at him for leaving without her, for choosing to die when she would have done anything to keep him alive. She had been angry at him for forcing her to kill him, for making her carry that burden for the rest of her life.
The anger had been intense, burning, all-consuming. She had raged at his grave, had screamed at the stone marker, had demanded answers that would never come. She had cursed him, had told him that she hated him, had said things that she did not entirely mean but that she needed to say anyway. The anger had been a way of processing the grief, a way of trying to make sense of something that made no sense. It had been easier to be angry than to face the full weight of the loss, the full reality of what had happened.
But that had been a very long time ago. The rage had burned itself out eventually, as all fires do. It had consumed everything it could consume, and then it had died down, leaving only ashes behind. She was not angry anymore. She had not been angry for years. The anger had been quelled, had faded into something else, something quieter but no less painful.
All that remained now was a burn. It was not the hot, fierce burn of rage, but a different kind of burning. It was a slow, steady burn that sat deep in her soul, in some core part of her being that she could not reach or soothe. It was the burn of grief, of loss, of longing. It was the burn of a wound that would never heal, a pain that would never fade. It was always there, always present, a constant ache that colored everything she did and thought and felt.
The burn was worse than the anger had been, in some ways. The anger had been active, energizing, something she could direct and express. But the burn was passive, draining, something she could only endure. It sapped her strength, her will, her desire to continue. It made everything feel pointless and empty. It made her feel like a hollow shell, a burned-out husk with nothing left inside.
A small raven landed on the grave marker, its claws clicking against the stone. It was a young bird, its feathers glossy and black in the filtered sunlight. It cocked its head and looked at her with one bright eye, regarding her with the inscrutable intelligence that ravens possessed. Then it opened its beak and made a sound, a harsh croaking call that echoed in the quiet space beneath the oak tree. The sound was not quite a caw, not quite a croak, but something in between. It quacked at her, if a raven could be said to quack, and then it spread its wings and took flight, disappearing into the sky above.
She watched it go, following its flight until it was just a small black dot against the blue. Then she looked back at the grave, at the stone marker with its carefully repainted words, at the white lilies arranged around it, at the clean earth that covered his remains. This was it. This was the moment. She had known it was coming, had been moving toward it for years, really. Ever since that day, ever since she had killed him, she had been slowly dying herself. This was just the final step, the last act in a long, slow tragedy.
She reached inside her robe, her fingers closing around the cold metal of the pistol she had brought with her. She had obtained it months ago, had kept it hidden in her house, had taken it out occasionally to hold it and feel its weight and think about what she was going to do. She had cleaned it, had loaded it, had made sure it would work when the time came. She had been methodical about it, careful, wanting to make sure there would be no mistakes.
She pulled the pistol out and looked at it for a moment. The metal gleamed dully in the shade beneath the oak tree. It was a simple thing, a tool designed for a single purpose. She felt no fear as she looked at it, no hesitation. She felt only a sense of relief, of anticipation, of readiness. She was ready for this. She had been ready for a long time.
Mikasa raised the pistol, pressing the barrel against her temple. The metal was cold against her skin, a small circle of chill that seemed to radiate outward. She could feel her pulse throbbing beneath the gun, the steady beat of her heart continuing its work even as she prepared to end it. Her hand was steady. She was not shaking. She was calm, calmer than she had been in years.
She looked at the grave one last time, at the stone marker with his name carved into it, at the white lilies she had placed there with such care. She thought about him, about the boy who had saved her, about the man he had become, about everything they had been through together. She thought about his eyes, about the color she could no longer quite remember. She thought about seeing him again, about finally knowing, about finally being able to rest.
"I can't wait to see you, Eren," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. The words felt strange in her mouth, unfamiliar after so many years of silence.
"Did you wait for me?"
She pulled the trigger.
The sound was loud in the quiet space beneath the oak tree, a sharp crack that echoed off the trunk and scattered into the field beyond. Birds took flight from nearby trees, startled by the noise. The raven that had landed on the grave earlier circled back, drawn by the sound, and perched in the branches above to watch.
Mikasa's body crumpled to the ground, falling forward onto the clean earth in front of the grave. The pistol slipped from her fingers and landed in the grass beside her. Blood began to seep into the ground, darkening the soil, mixing with the earth that covered his remains. The white lilies stood undisturbed around the grave, their petals bright and pure in the dappled sunlight.
The scarf, rough and patched, lay across her shoulders and back, the red fabric stark against the dark earth. It was the last thing of his that remained in the world, and now it lay with her, covering her as it had covered her for so many years. The wind moved through the branches of the oak tree, creating that same soft rustling sound, and the leaves cast shifting patterns of light and shadow across the scene below.
The field was quiet again after the echo of the gunshot faded. The sun continued its arc across the sky, indifferent to the small tragedy that had just played out beneath the oak tree. The weeds continued to grow, reaching toward the light. The oak tree continued to stand, its roots deep in the earth, its branches spread wide. And beneath it, in the circle of shade it provided, two bodies lay in the ground, together at last.
Time would pass. The seasons would change. The oak tree would continue to grow, adding rings to its trunk, spreading its branches wider. The white lilies would wilt and fade, and no one would come to replace them. The words on the grave marker would slowly fade again, worn by weather, and no one would come to repaint them. The weeds would eventually encroach on the clean space around the grave, reclaiming it for the wild field. Nature would take back what had been temporarily held at bay.
But in that moment, in the immediate aftermath, there was only stillness. There was only the quiet beneath the oak tree, the dappled sunlight, the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze. There was only the end of a long, painful story, the final chapter of a life that had been defined by love and loss and grief. There was only Mikasa, finally at rest, finally free from the burn that had consumed her from within, finally able to see him again, to know the color of his eyes, to be with him in whatever came after.
The raven in the branches above watched for a while longer, its head cocked, its bright eyes taking in the scene. Then it spread its wings and flew away, carrying with it the last witness to what had happened beneath the oak tree. The field returned to its natural state, empty of human presence, full only of growing things and the slow passage of time.
In her house, miles away, the curtains remained drawn. The door remained closed. No one would come looking for her, not anymore. They had all given up years ago, had all moved on with their lives, had all accepted that she wanted to be left alone. It would be days, perhaps weeks, before anyone thought to check on her. And when they did, when they finally came to her house and found it empty, when they finally thought to look in the field beneath the oak tree, they would find her there, lying in front of his grave, the rough patched scarf still wrapped around her neck, the pistol lying in the grass beside her.
They would understand, probably. Those who had known her, who had known him, who had known what they had been to each other, they would understand why she had done it. They would be sad, perhaps, but not surprised. They would bury her there, next to him, beneath the oak tree. They would place a marker for her, would carve her name into stone to match his. And the two of them would lie there together, side by side, as they should have been all along.
The sun moved across the sky, marking the passage of hours. The shadows beneath the oak tree shifted and lengthened. The blood soaked into the earth, becoming part of the soil, mixing with the roots of the tree and the white lilies. The field continued its slow, patient growth, indifferent to human tragedy, concerned only with the eternal cycle of life and death and life again.
And beneath it all, beneath the earth and the roots and the growing things, two bodies lay in the ground. One had been there for years, reduced to bones and dust. The other was fresh, still warm, still bleeding into the soil. But they were together, finally, after so many years of separation. They were together beneath the oak tree, in the quiet field, under the bright sun and the endless sky.
Mikasa's journey was over. The long, painful road that had begun when he wrapped his scarf around her neck had finally reached its end. She had walked every step of it, had endured every hardship, had carried every burden. And now she was done. Now she could rest. Now she could see him again, could look into his eyes, could know their color with certainty.
The white lilies stood around the grave, their petals beginning to curl slightly at the edges as the day wore on. They would last a few more days, perhaps, before they wilted completely. And then they would fade, and no more would come to replace them. The ritual that Mikasa had maintained for so many years, the weekly replacement of flowers, the careful repainting of words, the meticulous cleaning of the grave site, all of that would end with her. The grave would slowly return to the wild, would be reclaimed by the field, would eventually be lost beneath the growing weeds and grass.
But the oak tree would remain. It would continue to grow, to spread its branches, to sink its roots deeper into the earth. It would stand as a living monument, a marker of the place where two people lay buried, two people who had loved each other in their own complicated, tragic way. The tree would outlive the memory of them, would stand long after everyone who had known them was gone, would continue to grow and thrive in this spot for decades, perhaps centuries to come.
And perhaps that was enough. Perhaps that was all that anyone could ask for. A tree to mark the spot. A quiet place in a field. The slow return to the earth, to the cycle of nature, to the eternal process of growth and decay and growth again. Perhaps that was the only immortality that mattered, the only legacy that endured. Not memory, which faded. Not monuments, which crumbled. But life itself, continuing, persisting, growing from the soil enriched by death.
The field grew quiet as the afternoon wore on. The sun began its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. The shadows lengthened, stretching across the field, reaching toward the oak tree. And beneath that tree, in the circle of shade it provided, two graves lay side by side, marked by stone and covered by earth, holding the remains of two people whose story had finally, irrevocably, come to an end.
But Mikasa's story had not come to an end.