a/n: First fic posted to the side account, and it's…well, it's pretty grisly stuff, considering Isayama's clarification that Eren was indeed responsible for his condition, come the Marley-centric timeskip. Should be noted that the tone and subject matter will not necessarily be an indicator of my regular output; but feedback is welcome, all the same.
In ancient Greek literature, an eidolon (plural: eidola or eidolons) is a spirit-image of a living or dead person; a shade or phantom look-alike of the human form. The concept of Helen of Troy's eidolon was explored both by Homer and Euripides.
Decided, first and foremost, that he would not perform the operation under sedation—taking no chances, with no one to help him—but instead find some privacy in this worn-down house; it was summer morning, before the sun had risen to its zenith about the horizon, one of the many ghost towns within reclaimed Titan territory, a phrase that would have thrilled him with dread two years ago but now, approaching eighteen, he felt nothing but the quivering in his limbs as he unbuttoned his trousers—no point in ruining them—and stood, bare-legged—his heart pounded and he felt his palms, slick with sweat, pulse racing and fingers slow to obey him—tried to breathe, steady, and took in dust, trying not to wheeze—but in the back of his mind, knew this was going to be a thousand times worse than the jaws of a mindless Titan on a burning roof, where shock and adrenaline had deafened the blow, numbing him to all else but the sudden shock of falling—no, this would be an ordeal, slow and tenuous—he was no coward, no stranger to discomfort or stitches or pain but—his hands were shaking anyway, and he grit his teeth and did not think of Armin or Mikasa or Captain Levi (who could and would honestly do a much better job and chastise him concurrently, a thought which made him laugh—retaining a sense of humour, however grim, would make this easier)—or even Commander Hanji—standing still, covered in shadows and the buttery sunlight creeping in through the torn roof—warmth kissed his skin—until he was able to move on trembling legs, over to the long-abandoned bed in this nameless home that had perhaps once held a living being, a family, now reclaimed by nature—the bedsprings squeaked in protest to bear his weight, and—inhale, exhale (the inhuman noise made him shudder again)—until he was a little surer, wishing, childishly that he had someone here to guide his hands, but he couldn't always be so lucky—calm enough now to think, clearly, about how he was going to go about this—
He had brought some supplies, of course; a fresh sheet to wrap his leg in, disinfectant—both filched from the infirmary (apologies and penance could come later), string with which to tie the splint, if he was conscious enough (don't fucking think like that)—he laid all of this out without dwelling upon it and put his leg up straight, concentrated on breathing, goddam it—inhale, exhale, in—and his eyes caught the saw blade, which winked at him in the sunlight—if he could cut a sandbag in training with a simpler, flimsier blade, if he'd felled several dozen Titans already, then this would be child's play—he told himself this stubbornly but there was a quaver in his hands as he took the hilt of the saw in his hands, heart pounding faster—took him a few minutes, breathing, breathing, slow and shaky, until his pulse could settle enough to entertain the notion of holding the blade aloft—
Who could he ask—but the answer was simple, in front of him—imagined peering into his own skull like a hollowed out bowl, devoid of gore or brain tissue, dry—the saw blade in his hands jittered and he clenched his fingers hard enough to ache, ache—held it to his leg and it was cold, sharp enough to wound if he pressed just a little more—flinched, wordless, stilling until he could summon enough courage to start—sawing, back-and-forth—father help me please—sinking into the depths of memories he did not call home—circular amputation, the phrase rebounding back like an imprint behind his eyelids and he looked down at his leg, trickling crimson—he'd barely even pierced the flesh and cursed, cursed, rapid-fire frustration willing himself to move, the simple sawing motion was all he needed, his breath barely hitching as he watched the metal began to slowly sink into himself—
—it wasn't so bad, he thought, for a split-second; not so arduous, the uneven scrape back-and-forth of metal on flesh and sinew unnerving but of course it wasn't so—blooming red, then the feeling came back into his limb or perhaps caught up with him, rushing to dig its teeth in and he was breathing hard, raggedly, heard the wet sound of flesh chafing and more, more blood but he wasn't even halfway there—grit his teeth and tried to ignore the low keening in the back of his mind, interrupting the serration of tissue—an animal in distress, maybe—knew the answer but he couldn't admit this to himself as he watched it sink in agonising centimetres—the nerves some time ago and the blood kept pouring and he wondered if he was in shock, unable to heal—choked out something resembling a scream but it died coming out of his throat—sawing with violence, frenzied but determined—imagine your leg in the mouth of a Titan—expected he was going to black out but he was still lucid—no sense of dizziness only clarity in agony—cutting, cutting; then, a sharp jolt against bone—he really did scream, then—
—a man's voice at his ear, in his head, and hands, steadying him—he recognised it vaguely, trapped in the point between comprehension and acceptance—this voice had a name—what was it what was it—always there to pull him back after a Shift—and, here now, guiding him back to the reality of what was happening, always protecting him, not Armin or Mikasa or his father—and set in his certainty he began to dig the metal teeth into bone and his scream mutated into an incomprehensible snarling—the flesh began to steam, smelt like burning—he was going to vomit but the nausea had not risen beyond his fitful stomach—sawing, rhythmic—he could hear himself moaning, making noise just to hear himself over the sickening scrape of metal teeth—getting there, the pain resurged and his vision went dark for half-a-second, no—he felt the blood coming out of him warm and abundant—the man's voice was saying something he didn't understand and hands, not his own, steadied his wrists—was he dying?—felt like he was faraway but no, still clinging to consciousness and he pressed in sharp, taking in oxygen—breathing, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, sweat soaking his skin—felt like a fever breaking when the blade slid—going to black out this time, stupid fucking stupid you—something in his leg gave and Eren stiffened, this violent, droning noise that overrode the ringing in his ears and—realised, of course, who it was—gurgling, almost, as he watched the blood eclipsed by steam so thick he took it into his raw throat, wondered if he'd tear it from all the noise, accidentally laugh-shrieked and that, somehow, was what gave him the to take his ruined limb in his hands and wrap it several times over; not enough to stop the bleeding but he would heal, he'd healed before hadn't he—the string, his fingers fumbled with red-slick sheets and skin until he relocated it at last—must've shoved it away with all his thrashing—bound his leg so tightly he could feel the blood trying to escape his constraints and—and his eyes rolled in their sockets, breathe, just—fucking breathe you idi—he couldn't think anymore, only the same repeating sensation—steam trapped beneath the fabric drenched so thick he could see the torn flesh imprinted beneath and—he heaved, nose full of gore and steam and wood rot—threw himself sideways trying to vomit but nothing came out but whatever he'd had for breakfast that morning and he was still heaving once finished—began to sob quietly, without recess—father please it hurts someone help me dont want to die again please help me god—was he speaking aloud, hushed and thick with grief? he couldn't tell anymore—still conscious, somehow—trost, in the belly of the beast surrounded by corpses he was going to throw up all over himself—whimpering turned to retching but after the third attempt, nothing came out—and he laid there, curled up, holding his ruined stump of a leg—drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness and better off dead—the image of himself fifteen redoubling and folded into itself, and someone else's voice screamed for him—like photography, the word made a home inside his head,a still image, armin? no, that's not it—and his hands spattered with blood were his own, he was sure of this, but not the image, overlaid—shifting gradually into a new scene, confronted with another man that did not exist—he turned about, looking for this spectre whom he had never known but yearned to—this man whose voice had watched over him longer than anyone else living—for what else was he to do but lie here crumpled, waiting for his leg to finish steaming?—on his side, the eyes in the face before him were grey, not his father's; the face itself was sharp, angular, crow's feet, short black hair streaked with lines of silver—might've been handsome at another time; Eren knew this because the man who'd saved his father knew this, and it was that certainty, that simplicity in knowing which grounded him to the present, his self-inflicted agony turning into relief, a sweat broken over his skin as he began to hyperventilate—but he was not afraid, not of his agony but the idea of failure—he would not fail—but the man was there and he was not, laying on his side and standing in another time and space—eye-to-eye—his namesake, this phantom; reached out with hands smeared with hemic substance and found Kruger's hand, slender and older and clutched it—did not think of his father anymore but this stranger, this saviour who was here when nobody else was—
Eren realised he was shuddering—no protest, he was not in his right mind—it had been months, months on his own alone and he just—a dull whimper escaped him, frustrated—hemic, breath out easy, easy—calm down, the man was saying, quietly, or you'll bleed to death—
—Eren clutched him tighter, snotty and shivering; probably stained the man's jacket but it didn't matter—only once Kruger pushed back awkwardly did he realise, dimly, that he was making a spectacle of himself and moaned, apologetic and hapless—Kruger shushed him—you're delirious, that's all—
—agony reduced to a throbbing of his pulse, aware of the blood spattering his skin—he breathed, in—out—in—out, with the man there, holding him—they weren't so old—up close he smelt like hemic tissue and cigarettes—the vision and sensory stimuli melting into each other—this, he figured, was another path—
—I said you're delirious, Eren—
—eren was almost a man himself, now—might've blenched at the thought of someone living in his head—but the guidance, in Trost, with the boulder, had never been his father's or Frieda's or anyone else but—
—what are you doing?—Kruger didn't sound angry, just perturbed—and Eren held him tighter, wrapped his arms around him—stay with me, he murmured, please—
—he was nearly healed, he thought—there, said Kruger, look, it's over—eyes tearing down his body to spot the obvious—a sudden violent urge to bury his nails into the flesh, tear apart the cruor—
—what do you expect to accomplish? Kruger muttered—and Eren could see for the first time his skin was scarred—like mine, and a new sensation erupted in his chest, took hold—he began to laugh, cradling the man in his arms—half-hysterical with thanks—this twisted protector—his only link to the past—buried his head to his breast and the man stiffened—
—this isn't real, said Eren thickly—youre not real I want to be real—
—hands slender not his own caught him by the shoulder—he looked into a reflection of another's eyes and yet it was himself in the void—fleeting pain, no stranger—he was too hot in these clothes, he thought vaguely—wanted to sleep but still full of energy—sir, he murmured, and Kruger did not exist in this point in this place but his eyes on him were a strange invasive comfort, shook him to his bones and his chest ached for something he had not wanted in a long, long while—sir, will you—he was slurring, not dead—victory in itself—he knew his own hands on his body, of course—his own fingers, slick with hemic fluid—shuddering not from pain so much—Kruger at his side, watching without contact—he could not touch him, really—as Eren began to relax—with no sense of time in this place, the guardian in his mind—
—you were asleep, Kruger told him calmly on his side, standing and laying prone in a strange spatial paradox that he didn't remember falling away from—eren's arms still around him, his eyes heavy and gummed to prove his point—realised he was shivering, cold-sweat—the urge to thank him overrode all else—nevermind the stump, just the body and—trembling as he felt the man shift against his body and stop, pausing; Eren shied away immediately, stammering—fuck I-I'm sorry, sir—because it wasn't his knee chafing the air—the body—and—and he—he didn't know what was wrong, with him what was wrong with him—they were nearly the same height now, thanks to a brutal series of growth spurts in the spring—summer, now—and he couldn't stop, laughing, groggy and the man was staring not real you're not real I wish you were—in the hands of a phantom—felt he should be ashamed for the state of himself, but—it wasn't desire in a sense he could resonate with in his life's experiences, not love or human longing for another person—merely the sheer, selfish need for tactile sensation, the verification of his own mortality—and the need to be touched itself, not borne of attraction but sheer animal sense—his hands were shaky, dried blood as he took it out, glancing at his leg, matted with dry gore and wanted to vomit again but didn't—
—somehow still here, choked out a groan, taking solace in the idea of his hands on his body his own hands no one else—dizzy with loss of blood, but the man was there watching and he was still—still here, still warm and alive, too tired to think much about what anything meant and he was biting the sheets, tasted copper and groaned louder—his throat ached—and chased after it—his body wracked with it and a hand not his own touched him firm—pressing his head into the mattress and shook and shook, defeated, moaning—sheer discombobulation, you've survived worse—release came too fast, winding down until his breath came back to him—the room seemed a little colder, and semen marked his hand and the gory sheet and he shut his eyes again—the shudder rolled up his spine, through his shoulders—and Eren or maybe Kruger said: head back to base, we'll fix your eye later—and in the present, he grinned.