a/n: Wahey, an update!

I'd been batting around the idea of what Eren's time was like in Marley for a while, and how his introduction to the "real world" would affect his view about the world beyond Paradis. I was also curious to see if I could provide him a genuine friendship/romance with an original character, for a change. So I reverse-engineered the bulk of that concept into an original short story (because if EL James can do it so can I) and then reversed that reverse-engineering, and now, boom, fanfiction.

It's easily one of the more challenging things I've written in terms of structure and balancing characters, as well as an attempt at true narrative competence. Plus, it was a lot of fun to conceptualize.

EDIT 05/11/20: Made a few alterations to Eren's syntax, as well as elaborated on a couple other details to fit in with chapter two.

"In a war there are many moments for compassion and tender action. There are many moments for ruthless action — what is often called ruthless — what may in many circumstances be only clarity, seeing clearly what there is to be done and doing it, directly, quickly, awake, looking at it."

— Captain Benjamin L. Willard, Apocalypse Now

He was not alone in the trench; this he knew from the voices of the other soldiers beyond the mouth of the dugout and the intermittent rounds of artillery fire. The din resonated with some deeper part of him, that same lack of peace that had accompanied him throughout many nights as a boy, a private demon, unable to be soothed, closer than a childhood friend. Now there was the horizon beyond the dugout, and beyond that the inexorable promise of death, becoming just another aspect of ordinary chaos that had grown up alongside him.

His given name was Eren Krueger. He was going to be nineteen next March, if he lived that long. He carried nothing with him but his uniform, his field-kit and ambitions. It had been about a year now since he first enlisted, and the less he thought of home the easier it became to sink into the new life he'd fashioned for himself. One side of hell traded for another; vast open spaces and a lack of security on horseback were exchanged for sprawling dirt tunnels and a terrific new appreciation for claustrophobia.

His left leg itched fiercely below the calf, slick, encased within leather. He hadn't time to check much else beyond his issued pocket-watch, and he'd withstood worse punishments than soggy boots in the year since he'd enlisted, and worse still before then. As his division was pulled back from the front lines the men seemed to recall themselves back to some semblance of humanity, falling back into ordinary routine. Once recalled their eyes grew dim. Soon enough all of them were sleepless, running ragged on nerves, muscle memory. Much like residual hunger, the discomfort remained a constant nagging sensation in the back of his mind that he could pinpoint without need for reflection, in the same way the indeterminable amount of time spent wading through mud and learning to anticipate each round of shellfire numbed him to any other existence.

. . .

Horses were scarce. Rats were not. There were rats back in Paradis too, usually confined to the cities in the outer Walls, but they spread quickly after the fall of Wall Maria. It had been a shock at twelve years old waking up to something small crawling around next to his head that was not Armin or Mikasa, seeking warmth. He'd not made a sound for fright, then just as soon his fear turned to reckless courage and he'd tried to catch it in his hands, thinking in that moment perhaps he could kill it and put it in a stew. He'd barely shifted his weight when the rat bolted with a thump and the skittering of claws on wood. He caught only a flash of the silhouette and wondered afterward why it hadn't tried to bite him.

He'd confided in Mikasa once about it. She'd blinked and said without much inflection that eating a rat would make him ill, and they already had food at the almshouse anyway.

Armin had agreed with Mikasa, though he wouldn't look at Eren as he did so, hunched over his own meal. He didn't eat much until Mikasa stressed the matter. She'd shot Eren a look like he ought to have known better than to press it, which was always worse than a lecture. A few days later Eren had tried to apologise. Armin just told him to forget about it.

Six years later it was as though he'd been transported back in time; opening his eyes, half-surprised to see the outline of the dugout ceiling — the almshouse in Karanese, shadows playing on the light cast from electric torches — gas lamps.

Funny, the things you hang onto, he'd thought, checking his watch to make sure he was on-course, laying awake in the bunk.

. . .

Some soldiers enquired about his vernacular. Sticking to his natural dialect was a decision that seemed innocuous until he used the word Stämme instead of Volk once in regard to the Allied nations opposite Eldia, and suddenly some of the men were looking at him like he was their grandfather. It was amusing, once he understood. It did not make him dislike the Marlians or Eldians any less.

The days bled into each other. Grey skies and cold rain, the sound of gunfire. Stories surfaced from the coast: Titans dropping from the sky like bombs, disrupting most Eldian defences in the blink of an eye. The phrase reignited a memory of his old captain and a crueler irony. A greater threat was splayed across the papers and speculation trickled out from the mouths of his fellow soldiers, a constant and unmistakable threat: "The Marley will overrun us soon. We may have tanks, aeroplanes, but they can only do so much. We're running out of time and resources. Without some miracle, all we can do now is stave off our eventual defeat."

Old ghosts that had haunted him for years and driven him to enlist as a mere boy now returned with frightening familiarity. Age and reflection had quelled his temper somewhat, and if anyone were to ask him his opinion about the ongoing conflict, Krueger would shrug off his doubts and speak coolly: "There is a way to beat them. There are many of us and few of their kind. All it takes is one direct hit to the nape; that will kill the Warrior" — Shifter, he thought but did not say — "inside."

And with those words came the same awe glittering in the eyes of those more impressionable and a keener sense of remorse on Krueger's part. He was always going to be the same man with bright eyes and an involuntary charisma, too outspoken for his own good.

. . .

Two weeks ago, on the night before they were to return to the front lines, a soldier had come up to him and asked: "If it's so simple, why don't you go out there and kill them yourself?"

His name was Frederick. He had freckles and light hair, still growing into his limbs but older than Eren had been at graduation from the 104th Trainee Corps, already touched by a sense of cynicism that came with loss. Krueger had levelled with him as he would any other man: "That's why I enlisted in the first place."

They had talked a little thereafter, sharing solidarity in loss. Frederick was better at holding conversation than Krueger, who only saw a reflection of his own mistakes.

Fredrick had a family back home, and was careful to discourage any greater details about himself beyond the simplistic: a mother back home, father left to go to war and came back different, an older brother that died in action.

When asked in turn, Krueger said he had no family back home that mattered; the war had taken his mother and father when he was young and he'd spent the better portion of his life training to become a soldier. It was hardly a lie, more of an obscuration of the truth.

The morning they were due back, Frederick had taken Krueger aside. He was pale and wouldn't look Krueger in the eyes. "O.K., I wasn't going to tell you this, but. My mum hates that I'm here," he said at last, his voice small, betraying his age. "I write to her when I can, but she hasn't responded in a while." He hesitated. "D'you think she hates me 'cos I'm a soldier?"

Krueger had not expected the conversation to continue beyond introductions. He'd had few friends as a cadet, apart from those that chose to stick by him — there came a washed-out recollection of the wiry blonde-haired boy at the top of the class, the quiet girl with raven hair and sharp eyes, others, he could not name — a long and lonely dream centred around an angry boy that clawed his way to fifth best in his squadron, not from any inborn brilliance but sheer tenacity.

"Well," Krueger said at length, "maybe she just doesn't know what to say to you."

Fredrick shrugged. "I have written her before. It doesn't make much difference now."

"You should try again, maybe. She might…" he bit his tongue, searching for the right words, "she might want to know you still care about her as well."

Frederick's face darkened. "Last time we talked, she blamed my dad for going to his death — as if she knows what it's like —" he stopped as though realising his own implication, wide-eyed, shameful.

"You ought to write her anyway."

"What? Why should I give her the satisfaction?"

"She might just be worried about you."

"See, you don't get it either." He fidgeted with his canteen for a minute, not looking at Krueger. "I write to my sister, though. She's the only one I can talk to besides the other soldiers here."

Krueger shifted uncomfortably. "That's… good, isn't it?"

"She's all right. She doesn't blame me for stuff, anyway." He glanced timorously at Krueger. "I'm sorry your brother died."

Krueger had no idea what to say.

A week afterwards, Frederick had stepped on a mine and they only ever found pieces of him.

. . .

It was not yet noon. Several men had been shot dead that very morning, and two more experienced a couple near-misses yester-day. The unlucky ones lay wounded, dying in the mouths of earth scored by shellfire, the mud sucking them down to a slow and pitiful expiration. Some lived for hours, rarely longer than a night, never more than a day.

Before long the survivors would be sent to scale the trench and advance towards the enemy line whilst avoiding the mines and wire. In his head, Krueger tried to map out the layout of the battlefield and the soldiers scrambling across its pocks and creases like so many ants. If he were to tell the other soldiers they'd peg him for having a keen imagination, or suggest he take up a position in cartography.

It was not his first skirmish. It would likely not be his last, either.

At the sound of the whistle and the officer's roar, he began to scale the wall, anticipating the open plain before him, scored with shellfire and the scattered corpses of those unluckier than he. The whistling in his head grew louder; Krueger did not allow himself to hesitate, one arm over the other, pulling, clearing the top and catching a glimpse of what awaited him, too quick to comprehend.

A shout he heard but did not register; the whistling sharpened in volume and intensity. He felt the impact before he heard it, dust and shrapnel engulfing the air, the force tearing up into him — thrown back, he cried out, the vocalization sharp in his throat but unable to hear anything before he fell back against the mud and did not rise.

Blinding pain in his right eye stranded him to consciousness. He still couldn't hear past the ringing in his ears. Blunt weight pressed down on him — another soldier? — he could not identify a source beyond the presence of dead weight. Tried to right himself but couldn't move very well. His efforts turned strained, desperate; he managed to free an arm, shoving off the body and latching onto the dirt wall, finding no solid purchase. Quivering, he covered his head with his hands and tried to breathe; the effort brought a new, sharp pain. Broken ribs? His face felt wet. Reaching up to touch, his fingers came away ruddy.

"Krueger!"

Someone pushed his bloody hair out of his face and into his vision came the face of the man who had rescued him. His lips moved but Krueger couldn't hear him very well. Another soldier made his way toward him, ducked under his arm to keep him upright. Krueger let himself be half-dragged, half-carried. Tried to walk as well as he could but his legs wouldn't obey him and he slumped against the shoulder of the other man, determined to stay on his feet.

They made slow progress down the length of the dugout. Eventually he was passed off to the medical. When he realised what would become of him he permitted himself to be led back into the tunnel, limp as a doll, unable to pass out but catching sight of the world in flashes — light giving way to dark, the sound of the battle muffled only incrementally by dirt walls.

The smell caught up to him first; human musk, blood and rot recently purged. He made an attempt to hold his breath but could not manage it for the pair; no point in prolonging the inevitable. His leg was causing him a great deal of distress by now but he could not bring himself to let on.

"He's conscious — hold him still. Can you hear me, soldier?" Krueger tried to answer but only moaned aloud. It was difficult to focus on the sound of his own voice, yet he felt the reverberation in his chest with every aching draw of air into his lungs, his head spinning, immobile.

"We have to keep him awake," said another voice. "Talk to him."

As his good eye readjusted the shapes became slightly distinguishable, moulding into shadows that could reach out and touch him — his sense of perception lagged several paces behind sight, the sleeve of the doctor and cloth tied tightly above his knee vividly tangible against his skin.

He felt a different hand brush away the hair from his brow. "There, it's going to be all right. You just have a few scratches."

Krueger knew the lie, and yet still he clung to it; imagined peering into his own skull like a hollowed out bowl, devoid of gore or brain tissue, dry. The image of the room overlapped with his perception, interweaving; disconnected between the phantom scene and the space he knew he physically occupied but could not process in real time — neither made sense.

"Hold him still."

He felt the saw kiss his skin, sharp enough to pierce with just a little more exertion — flinched, wordless, before the doctor began working, back-and-forth — circular amputation, the phrase rebounding back like an imprint behind his eyelids and he knew if he looked down at his leg it would only get worse but he had to know, a flash of crimson in the light — the saw had barely even pierced the flesh, his breath sticking in his lungs as he felt the metal begin to slowly sink into him —

— 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 — then the feeling came back into his limb, rushing to dig its teeth into him and he was breathing much more raggedly, heard the wet grind of flesh chafing and grit his teeth and tried to ignore the low noise in the back of his mind, the serration of tissue — an animal in distress, maybe — knew the answer but he couldn't admit this to himself as he felt it sink in agonising centimetres — the blood kept pouring and he wondered if he was in shock — choked out something resembling a snarl, easy to imagine his leg in the mouth of a great dog rather than the grinning beasts that plagued his nightmares — surely going to black out soon but he was still lucid, taking clarity in sheer intolerable agony — the sawing continued; a sharp jolt against bone, and he almost blacked out, then —

— tried to draw himself up in order to vomit but the nausea had not passed beyond his fitful stomach and he was held down firmly — making noise just to hear himself over the sickening scrape of metal on bone, expecting steam, smoke, any sign of his inhumanity — his vision went dark and someone was shouting at him, calling him back perhaps — he did not know anymore —

. . .

"There, he's regenerating." In his mind's eye steam was already issuing through the tourniquet. "You've done the best you can for now. We'll just have to try again."

Commander Hanji's voice came as though from underwater. Her tone was unmistakably clipped and she only left once she was sure he would be tended to.

Another failure, another day spent healing only to be thrown back on the cutting board that same evening. He had no strength left to express his emotions so he remained limp, resigned to his fate, an unorthodox marriage of headstrong bravery and nihilism.

He felt something light brush his forehead and flinched at the contact, like he'd been singed.

"Shhh," a familiar voice at his ear, a hand brushing back sweat-matted hair, "you're safe. Just rest."

"'kasa," he murmured. She didn't move away. He almost wished she would.

"Yes, Eren?"

Her tone was brittle. She'd been resorting to stoicism more often around him. He wondered if it had ever been for his sake.

His voice caught, cracked. "I don't know, I don't know how to stop it. I'm sorry. I don't know how to stop it."

"It's O.K.," she told him firmly. "Rest."

. . .

When he opened his eyes he could only see through the right. Sense of time came back to him indeterminably. It might have been minutes, or an hour, or a day.

Circular lamp above him incited the sensation of a knife twisting behind his working eye-socket and he shut it out, awaiting some small recess. His throat was raw, his limbs leaden. A wheezing exhale all he could muster.

Became cognisant of some solid mass beneath him, too thin to be a mattress, and sluggishly tried to recollect a better descriptor but came up vacant — he knew only it was not hard enough to be solid ground nor substantial as eiderdown. Breathing in, he could taste the rot lingering in the stale air, and supposed it might have come from other men, or perhaps his own body.

His leg was too warm, the dampness coming off the bare skin accentuated by layered wrappings. Such thoughts invited disorientation, eclipsing his resilience.

A hand touched his naked shoulder. He didn't remember undressing. He could scarcely flinch; enervation rendered him helpless. Anticipation of the unknown thrilled him to the point of nausea. There were many small hands scratching at his leg, like needles. He tried to call out to someone but all he could muster was a vacant, raspy groan. Someone was patting his shoulder, telling him it was going to be all right.

"Please," he croaked. "What's — happened?"

The visage of an older man came into view, his face obscured somewhat by the lack of light and a dressing mask, which muffled his words. "You took a nasty hit back there, but we've cleaned you up. I imagine they'll be taking you off the front lines soon."

Krueger screwed his eye shut, frustrated at his ineloquence: "What has happened to me?"

"You had some shrapnel in you, but we cut it out."

"My leg —" he grit his teeth, attempting to sit up woozily and was promptly pushed back down.

"Don't exert yourself, soldier. You've been through enough to-day."

"My leg," Krueger insisted, "is it gone?"

Silence. The tunnel itself seemed to tremble with the aftershock of distant shellfire, then: "Yes. You would surely be dead, if you risked further infection."

Krueger slumped back. He was quiet for a moment. "And — my eye?"

"We salvaged what we could. The men over at the hospice will have to decide what ought to be done." Then he smiled. "You'll be all right — you seem like a courageous lad."

Krueger was hardly listening. The steam. Why wasn't there any steam? Am I going to be unable to regenerate?

. . .

"Ackermann has been asking about you. I can call her down, since you're awake."

He didn't acknowledge this, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what he should say. And still couldn't bear to face him. Even Armin had tried to listen, or maybe just thought he'd understand. Of course she must be grieving his choice; it did not mean he wanted to see her like this.

Captain Levi paused. "I'm sure she would be happy to see you make a full recovery."

He wouldn't ask anyone else to attempt that endeavour; it was one thing to cheat death in the mouth of a monster, go on to repeat that process several times more, and another to stop and grasp that this cycle was unending, and no amount of land reclaimed or Titans slain would change the certainty of an oncoming war against a world that wished him, and everyone he had ever known, dead. How was he supposed to look her in the eye and tell her what she did not wish to hear, when he was the one that had caused her anguish?

. . .

After an indeterminable amount of time the doctors cleaned him up as best they could, then he was hoisted aloft upon the stretcher-bearer; he could still feel his leg caked in grime and hemic tissue exposed under the humble cloth protecting him.

There remained a dull agony in his left eye but he thought little of it, yearning to be brought back to the thankless oblivion of sleep — thought then of his mother and brushed aside her face with a sense of guilt — he could feel the stale air on his face as he was taken out of the tunnel.

He knew he was alive. He had still not yet begun to regenerate. Perhaps he simply lacked the strength, or the damage was too extensive to heal immediately — Reiner had mentioned it once, the ghost of a memory clouded by his own rage and immaturity. He could not allow himself that luxury now, whatever the case. He closed his eye and concentrated on the sensation itself, trying to find some answer.

After a long, agonizing crawl that somehow seemed less arduous than the amputation, they reached a checkpoint. The officer in-charge observed while the soldiers helped him into the cart. There were half-a-dozen men already there in various states of injury, though not all of them were bandaged with the same amount of expertise. A few looked up, further accentuating the vacant glint of their eyes and their sallow, grimy appearances.

The officer took down their names and rank; Krueger was lucid enough to answer, but only where it was necessary. He chose to remain limp and listened to the sound of their footsteps moving away, then studied the other men; noting the lack of identifiable insignia on a few uniforms, he supposed if they might be defectors in their own countries. Prisoners of war for Marley, or Eldia?

The cart began to move, jostling him back into order.

"Oi." The voice was hushed yet full of relief, coming from his blind spot. "You, sir." Krueger was nudged with a well-intentioned shoulder, causing him to flinch at the contact he was unable to anticipate.

"Leave him alone," said another man's voice. "He's probably in shock."

No one would suspect a wounded veteran of subterfuge. Krueger considered his options. Better to hold his tongue and listen for as long as he could get away with it.

He tried thinking of his mother but her face and voice now were just a vague insinuation in his mind — his guilty conscious clung to what he had left behind, and in the end he stopped trying altogether.