Heads up: this was written before the earth-shattering reveal of Levi's full name.
Prepare for unevenly long and short chapters. Foreign languages courtesy of Google Translate.
Thanks very much for reading!
"…so ancient is the desire of one another which is implanted in us, reuniting our original nature, making one of two, and healing the state of man." – Plato, Symposium
He is 15 years old, a boy haunted by life. Few things surprise him anymore, and sometimes he thinks that's a bit frightening—but it shouldn't matter. It is the year 1940, Germany almost has glory within its grasp, and all is on its way to wellness.
Even if he has been ousted from the Fatherland to the misty streets of some unpronounceable French village, trudging along in his ill-fitting uniform and looking every bit the picture of jaded desolation.
Out here, he rarely even hears a faint "Yeager!", something he'd used to dread back at the camp. And the inhabitants regard him as if he is… subhuman, with their wary eyes and indecipherable whispers. He reciprocates by standing up straighter, slanting his eyebrows down slightly—everything is for appearances anyway, including the too-big rifle that leans on his shoulder. He had been sent to France only a few days ago, along with others who were also told to "maintain order." But everything here pretty much keeps itself. The people go about their daily business; some even seem cowed. It's bit unnatural bordering on cruel, but he doesn't let himself linger on the thought. What Hitler does—what Germany does—is infallible.
Up ahead is a little old woman who is hobbling on the uneven cobblestones. He briefly debates surging past her, then decides not to because he doesn't need more murmured antagonism from behind. Plus she reminds him of his grandmother, or what little he remembers of her, back when his father would carry him on his shoulders and his mother's laughs were genuine. So he lags behind, listening to the comforting click of her cane on the stones.
However, they soon come in gradual increments—the conspiratorial mutters that he tries so hard to ignore. One from the man in the coat to his left, some from the pair of women that has just passed by. Eventually he realizes that they are looking at the old lady as well. What? Do they think he's going to do something to her? Spy on her? Trail her so that he can shove her into the nearest dark place and blow her brains out? His jaw clenches. Perhaps he really should speed up. But as he moves outward, preparing to bypass her, he wonders if that means that he has acceded to their taunts. He has dignity, after all. Perhaps that had been their plan all along—bait the German soldier, the outcast, and laugh at him from behind closed doors. Make him the mockery of the town, the fool of the Wehrmacht—
"Pardon." The voice is direct and clean, and it says one of the few words of French he knows. He moves back in to allow whoever is behind him to pass through. Although he feels a little embarrassed, he chances a sideways peek.
The man is small; startlingly so, since the top of his head is visible. He's rolling a barrel along, and whatever is inside it makes dull thunks against the wood. His is a brisk gait, and the boy sees his profile for only a few moments before it is blocked by passersby cutting across the path.
That man is strange. As soon as the boy had seen the straight nose, pale cheek, and storm-gray eye, a feeling that could only be described as déjà vu had washed through him. The sensation is faint, so he supposes he shouldn't pay it too much mind, except for one thing—he's never seen anyone even remotely like that before. Furthermore, déjà vu usually didn't linger this long, conjuring up thoughts that perhaps they had met in the past. Ludicrous! This was his first time in France and he'd only gotten to the village last night, when the streets were empty. He didn't suppose that the man went to Germany frequently either. Maybe his fatigued mind is playing tricks on him.
Somehow, he had walked far beyond the old woman in those last muddled moments. Was he unconsciously following after the strange new arrival? Well, he is gone now. But perhaps they will meet again, since it is such a small village.
Internally, he shudders.
The next morning, he wakes up and hits his head on the bottom of the top bunk. After gingerly fingering the sore spot and cursing himself out of bed, he heads for the lavatories. Most of his fellow "peacekeepers" are already in the cafeteria by the time he cleans himself up. He is greeted by a few sniggers and a heavy pat on the back by a comrade who is slightly more than an acquaintance.
"Did you sleep well, Yeager?"
"Course he did; he was still curled up so cozily this morning."
He grumbles a little. The guys here are all pretty much around his age, save for a few supervisory officers who sport gray in their hair. Most of the young soldiers are crowded along one table while the officers and a few obsequious or unlucky youths sit at the other. He supposes that he's fortunate to have been reserved a seat at the former.
The plate of rolls is passed to him. He takes one and immediately bites into it. Soft and warm. So even he can appreciate little things like this once in a while, stationed in a foreign country with a group of near strangers.
After breakfast, they assemble and receive their orders. He is to patrol the same area he was in yesterday. This time, however, he is assigned a partner: a tall, reticent boy who is probably a little older than him. Unexpectedly, the boy offers a small smile when they set out.
"Eren, right?" he asks, his voice soft.
"Yeah. Ah…" Eren squints a little in concentration. "Bertholdt, right?"
The boy nods. They both laugh a little.
"Sorry, I'm not good with names," Eren explains. Though it's not entirely his fault; Bertholdt is usually in the shadows, perpetually behind a burly blond who is likely named Reiner.
"That's fine."
They don't talk until they get to the area, and even then it is just to sort out who will patrol where. He claims the street he was on the day before, the one where he met the old woman and the mysterious man. In the back of his mind, there is a tiny spark of anticipation. Will he show up?
As it turns out, he doesn't. There are no short, barrel-rolling males on the road today. Nevertheless, Eren's feelings have improved slightly; the whispers don't bother him as much. Maybe it is because he has a companion now, even if he is patrolling a few streets away. Bertholdt seems like a good guy. Perhaps he should get to know him better; Reiner too.
When the evening begins to manifest in pink-tinted skies, he supposes that he should start heading towards the meet-up point that he and Bertholdt had decided on. The air is fresh, smelling of the sea; he breathes in deeply. There are less people on the streets to scrutinize him, so he relaxes his rigid stance. The shops along the way are small with neatly arranged storefronts. Many appear to be closing up for the day. However, there is one further up that still seems to be open. Curious, Eren walks a little faster to reach it. Smatters of French drift out of the propped-open door; the voices of a man and a woman. The stranger pops into mind—why is that…?
His eyes widen as he looks through the window. The same black hair, pale skin, dark-brown vest—the man from yesterday is serving a customer, conversing steadily and professionally with her. Sweets line the glass counters that surround the store. A strange juxtaposition…
Suddenly, their gazes coincide. The man is still talking and gesticulating, but he is definitely looking in Eren's direction. Hurriedly, the boy ducks his head. Although their eyes had met for only a split second, it was enough for another wave of déjà vu, one even stronger than that of yesterday's, to sweep through him. This time, an accompanying image appears: a hazy vision of wings that is gone as soon as it comes. Not only that, but he feels dwarfed by the man in the shop; awed by his presence, and for some reason, by melancholy. It is inexplicable… but Eren somehow senses it in his very core. No, beyond his core—in a primal place of his being that he has never before tapped into, one that transcends instinct and possibly human existence. The feeling is terrifying yet fascinating.
Although he quickly moves away from the shop towards more familiar settings like the barracks, he vows to enter it in the near future.