Emerald Idol- one short. Reminiscing of the complected relationship between Eren and Mikasa.
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There was a knock at the door. Behind it was death. Behind it was the nature of the world. Merciless. And cruel.
Her father fell and then her mother.
And that was it. That was reality, that was the world she was in. She fought the consciousness that brought her back. She didn't want to feel the cold of the wood floor against her face, to hear gruff murmurs of her murderous kidnappers, to watch the march of the ant past her vision, dragging a carcass twice its size. Give her the merciful blankness. The throbbing of her head was much too real. It proved that she was much more alive than she felt, than she ought to be.
Mother and father were dead.
Mother and father were dead.
Mother and father were dead.
Dead.
Dead.
And she wished she was too.
The knife hadn't spared her, not really. It pierced her the same way it had her father, hacked a chunk of her out, just like her mother. Laying there in dust and dull dark, she bled out the same way her father had.
Father would make her smile. He would grab her and tickle her until she was breathless from laughter. They way he looked at Mama, or tussled her hair, or the glint in his eye as he told her stories. Even the hot shame of his lecture, the sting of childish indigence she felt when she was punished. She'd worry when he was hunting. She'd miss him when he was gone. She filled with joy at his return.
He made her feel. And now he was dead.
And so she poured, the same way her father had, life-blood of emotion through her fingertips, seeping from her side, warm and hot and sticky. She bled and bled until she was dry and even the warm of the spill faded, the color darkened and it dried hard and stiff. She was hollow. Bled dry from her wound now, dead. All her feelings were dead.
Mother too. Just like her, she had been hacked at. More so even. This wasn't a chunk, mother and father had been her world, her body, her soul. They had been taken from her-severed and ripped, as painful as stretching, snapping flesh, bone and sinew torn in great fistfuls until she was no more than a shadow. She was so, so little without them.
There was hardly anything left.
She would have wished she could feel, had wishing been a thing she was capable of. But what shriveled dry corpse of a being she was left could not wish, could not feel, and was very, very small.
And that's why that boy startled her.
That's why that boy that came flying in, eyes foaming flames, primal and incredibly hot. Blood raining from his actions, actions she wished she could do, if wishing was a thing such a creature as her could do.
Eren. Eren was this mad boy, small hands red and hot as he cut her bonds. He was a nerve exposed to the world. Not a cornered animal, but a predator, viscous and wild and terrifying.
And that's why she envied him. The shriveled wedge of a person that was left of her bubbled and scraped until some final act of the will could be made, some strange cross of envy and fear and love and admiration, the powdery remains of whatever she had left, she gave to him.
Fight
Fight
And she stabbed the third through the heart.
.
The scarf was like a suture, but on a corpse. She had already bled out, limbs already torn from her. She was crippled, but what ashes remained were bound tightly by the red threads. She tied herself to this boy, this boy so full of emotions that she had left dried and sticky on a cold wood floor.
She retaught herself to speak and cry and even smile, imitations of her emerald idol, of Eren. She loved him, she loved him like a god, a festering pit of emotions, feelings dripping from red red sleeves that she lapped at hungrily. He was everything. He had made her feel again, even if it was only the want to be like him-to scream in rage and cry in weakness and smile in satisfaction.
Eren was everything she was not, could never hope to be again. He was a god that made a carcass wish to grow flesh, to wear clothes again, to walk and talk and live again, even if only to stay by his side.
To him, a nerve exposed, she could be flesh. Surrounding him, protecting him, together they could make a single person. And the nerve rejected this, scared and outraged at being hidden, but the flesh knew his value, having lost hers, and insisted.
And the nerve grew and the nerve learned and the flesh's grip loosened as the nerve grew flesh of its own.
And Mikasa wondered if she could stay useful to her god.
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