Chapter 11
When Jean wakes, it's cold and dark. He blinks groggily, wondering why his head hurts so bad and why his shoulder and ankle feel like they're being gnawed on by titan teeth. His vision clears enough to decipher the stones, pebbles, and dirt, all turned different shades of gray in the dusk's light. His eyes drift down, and the reason for his aches and pains comes flooding back.
Marian rests half in Jean's lap, half on the ground. Her mangled arm is thrown across his legs. The ragged bits of cloak and scarf are stained with dirt and blood. The stick Jean used for the tourniquet is still in place.
The sight sends a shot of energy through Jean. He has limited first aid knowledge, but the sound of Commander Shadis shoutingrings through him like a bell.
Tourniquets are a band-aid, not a solution. If you leave them on too long, they'll lose the limb anyway.
A band-aid, not a solution.
And the only solution Jean can think of, he really, really doesn't want to do.
He shifts and groans, trying to grab Marian's arm without hurting her. She mumbles, but doesn't move, even when he unwinds the tourniquet just enough to pull the layers of scarf and cloak away. It's sticky and red and radiates heat like the Colossal's steam.
That means infection, and the wound is so wet, Jean's sure it would start bleeding again if he took off the bandages.
Marian needs medicine and stitches. Two things he can't supply her with. Without them, she'll die here, in this cave, in the middle of nowhere. No one will know what happened, because Jean knows he won't be able to make it home without her. Not with his lame foot.
Jean Kirstien and Marian Klien will die at Rossen trapped beneath rubble. There'll be nothing to bury, and nobody will know that the Scout and the farm girl had clawed their way back to life and dragged themselves home.
The sun is rising. Rays of yellow light penetrate the gray dawn. The color reminds Jean of one of the flowers she'd pointed out to him. Just a couple hours before, Marian was prancing and blabbing and going on and on and on about stupid, withered pla—
Oh.
There is something he can do.
Jean redoes Marian's arm, then gently lays her on the ground, his hand clasping her shoulder a moment longer than necessary. He rises on wobbly knees, his hand clenched around the bite wound. The cloak and sweater beneath are crunchy with dried blood. Heat pulses beneath his hand.
A dirty wolf's mouth had been there. Jean hadn't lost nearly as much blood as Marian, but infection-wise, he probably wasn't much better off. Deciding to deal with one problem at a time, he stumbles out of the cave entrance into the frosty dawn.
His breath turns into mist. A layer of snow coats the ground, and it's so thick, Jean worries he won't be able to find the goldenseal. He heads past the icy wolf corpses, aiming for a familiar bundle of boulders. Footsteps crunch and morning birds call to one another.
Jean's stomach grumbles. If only he could catch one of those birds.
For a moment, he ponders butchering one of the fallen wolves. It's so cold, surely the meat isn't spoiled. But there is no way for Jean to be sure hours had passed, not days. Besides, he doesn't know if it's safe to eat raw wolf meat. The last thing they need is for either one of them to get sicker.
On the next step, Jean's foot slips on a patch of hidden ice. He falls with a yelp, bouncing between two boulders, and landing with a clatter as his ODM gear smashes against rocks. Something in his foot shifts, and it sends a shrill scream of agony racing from toe to hip. Spots dance across Jean's vision. There's a rattled, wheezing sound echoing in Jean's ears. It takes him a moment to place it as his own breathing.
By all that is good and great, he hurts.
It would be easy, so easy, to just stay on his back and let the cold lull him into a numb sleep. It really would.
But that wouldn't be trying –again and again, even when there was no reason to believe— now would it?
With a gut-deep groan, Jean forces himself into a sitting position. He slumps against the boulder, closing his eyes, breathing heavily, and hoping the pain will go away. If he had the energy, curses would fill the quiet morning air.
After a couple minutes of resting, Jean grabs onto the boulders and rises, trying to keep his broken ankle off the ground. He straightens his shoulders, then forces himself to take one step, then another. There's a symphony of clangs as his broken ODM gear shifts. Deciding to make sure pieces aren't falling out, he undoes the harness and pulls the engine forward.
The side was dented during the original titan attack, but the latest dance between boulders had knocked the panel off, revealing a cluster of pistons, valves, and spark plugs. Jean notes the unprotected spark plugs, remembering an ODM repair class that had resulted in Sasha spilling fuel and Connie firing off the spark plugs, creating a mini explosion that had scorched what little hair Connie had. The resulting reprimand had deafened the entire 104th.
Fire.
Connie had accidentally made fire with ODM gear.
Surely, Jean could do it on purpose.
The thought sends energy pumping through his veins. Warmth. A way to cook food. A way to sanitize their things. He hadn't been willing to give Marian stitches with jerry-rigged supplies coated in blood, dirt, sweat, and heaven knows what else. There were too many ways that could make things worse, but if the supplies were at least clean...
The risk might be worth it.
Jean carefully retraces their path from yesterday, stooping to swipe at the snow to unbury any plants. It takes longer than it should—and a part of Jean can't help but think that maybe, if he hadn't stepped on it, the goldenseal would be taller and easier to find.
Finally, the familiar withered leaves peak out of the snow. He crouches, doing everything he can not to jostle his broken foot, then digs through the freezing dirt and snow until he clutches a ball of tangled yellow roots in his hands.
It's good for infections!
Time to put that to the test.
He hobbles back to the cave, carefully picking his way through the slippery pathways and silently chanting I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry anytime his lame foot bares weight.
Now'd be the time to cry, he thinks. Hungry, thirsty, lost, cold, wounded, friend slowly bleeding out—there were plenty of reasons to cry. But crying wouldn't fix anything. It wouldn't make the pain, hunger, or fear go away.
Now a fire, that might fix something. Imaging how amazing a fire will feel, Jean limps closer to the tree line and gathers sticks. He makes his way back to the cave, goldenseal and firewood clutched close.
When he returns, the first thing Jean notices is that Marian hasn't moved. Not even a centimeter.
The sticks fall with a clatter. Placing the goldenseal to the side, Jean takes his ODM gear off completely. He stacks the sticks in a pyramid, then tears off a chunk of his tattered cloak to use as tinder. Thinking back to that fateful day in the Cadet Corp, he frees the fuel cannister and soaks the piece of cloak, even drizzling a bit over the firewood for good measure.
He fiddles with the sword hilts. The grapple hooks won't fire. He knows that from his previous attempts at fixing it. There is something wrong with the grapple hooks themselves, but maybe he could pull the trigger and still get the engine to engage. The trigger clicks as it's pulled. Jean watches the engine sputter, then shake, before the metal pieces start moving together like the well-oiled machine they're supposed to be.
Now to figure out what exactly Connie had messed with to create enough heat and friction to light the fuel. They'd been learning how to replace spark plugs during that class, so maybe...
After fiddling with the plug, Jean grabs the fuel-soaked cloak and holds it against it. He pulls the trigger again, this time putting it in the highest gear for max power. The smell of fuel and metal burns his nose as the rest of the motor buzzes with movement.
For a moment, Jean thinks he's failed.
Then the misplaced plug pops and sparks light the bit of cloak. He gasps, shocked that this plan had actually worked, then fumbles to place the burning tinder beneath the pyramid of sticks. Shielding the tiny flame with his hands, Jean watches as it licks against the sticks, but doesn't catch.
"Come on, come on, come on."
The tiny flame is dying, leaving smoldering sparks in its place. Jean leans forward, and carefully, almost tenderly, blows against the sparks. They glow, and after a few more breaths, rise into flames again.
This time, the flames spread from the tinder to the sticks, transforming itself into an honest to goodness fire.
"Thank you, Connie," Jean rasps, rubbing his singed hands. The sock gloves Marian had made protected him from any real burns. Remembering how she'd carefully measured each fingerhole, how her skin had been as tough as his but even warmer, how pretty her eyes had been blazing in the sun—it makes his heartbeat thud, his hands move surer, faster, as he rinses the goldenseal, stuffs more snow inside the flask, then shoves as much of the goldenseals roots as he can inside the flask.
Jean puts the flask as close to the fire as he can, then turns to Marian. It will take time for the snow to melt and for the goldenseal roots to leak their nutrients into the water. He might as well prepare for the dreadful task ahead of them.
Stitches. If he wants Marian to live, Jean is going to have to give her stitches.
His empty stomach turns. He's never given a real person stitches before. The gore isn't a problem. You can't make it as a Scout with a queasy stomach. But the thought of sticking a needle through Marian's skin, of dragging thread through her flesh, of causing her pain makes his gut twist with something other than hunger.
But a pained Marian is far better than a dead one.
Jean pulls and yanks at his black sweater until he's unthreaded a decent length of it. Tearing it with his teeth, he puts the thread aside to boil and sanitize later on.
Now he just needs a needle. Or something that will work as a needle. The ODM gear is his best bet. He searches through the gear, looking for something small and sharp enough to pierce skin. There's a thin sliver of metal lining the exhausts. Using the tip of his sword, Jean manages to pop the piece off. He twists and bends the metal until a pinky-sized chunk snaps off. By the time the goldenseal tea is roiling inside the flask, he's sharpened the metal piece with his sword until it's needle thin and razor sharp.
Jean grabs the flask from the fire, using what remains of his cloak as a potholder. There's so little left of the Scout's cloak, he considers taking it off, but the weight against his shoulders is familiar and the emerald color sings home. It's a comfort during a time where there are very few. The goldenseal slips out of the flash with a spray of hot water. Putting the plant to the side, Jean unwinds the stained cloak bandages from Marian's arm, pulling the material out from beneath the tourniquet.
There are a dozen puncture wounds, all redder than Floch's hair and hotter than Eren's temper. There's blood too. Lots of it. Some of it is fresh and dripping down her wrist, but most of it is thick, sticky, and a darker crimson.
That's good, Jean tells himself. It means the wounds had at least tried to stop bleeding on their own. He grabs the flask and dribbles its contents over Marian's arm. He isn't sure if the goldenseal is supposed to be ingested or used topically, but he figures doing both can't hurt. The wound has to be cleaned anyway, and hopefully, Jean can find more of the medicinal plant if necessary.
Marian twitches as the warm water runs over her shredded arm. The blood falls off her skin in pale pink rivers, revealing that what Jean had assumed was simple puncture wounds, is really a terrible combination of punctures and deep gouges. The struggle between the wolf and Marian had torn the beast's teeth across her flesh, not just through it. The gouges were why there was so much blood, why Jean had to resort to a tourniquet.
Once the majority of the blood is washed away, he crawls to the cave entrance and shoves more snow into the flask, then the thread and make-shift needle. He sets the flask back in the fire to boil and cleanse the stitching materials. While he waits, Jean grabs the leftover goldenseal and chops it up into tiny pieces that eventually turn into a paste. He carefully pats the paste over Marian's injuries, unsure if it will do anything, but desperate enough to try anything.
Then the water is boiling, and he has no choice but to get the job done. After letting them cool, Jean takes a steadying breath and grabs the thread and needle.
It's just like training. This is just a dummy. No one is going to get hurt.
The mantra steadies him enough to push the needle through Marian's flesh and pull it through. Jean does it again and again and again, repeating the same words quicker and quicker as she starts to toss and turn.
It's just like training. This is just a dummy. No one is going to get hurt.
The mantra becomes a bit broken as Marian yanks her arm away. He struggles to hold her still with both hands holding flesh, needle, and thread. She pulls, and the slippery limb falls out of his grasp. The two grapple—Jean desperate to help her and Marian only semi-conscious— until Jean crawls over her to grab it. The struggle ends with him straddled over her, using his legs to keep her arms still.
It's just like training. This is just a dummy. No one is going to get hurt.
Only the training dummy hadn't moved or whimpered or god, those were tears. It's like that night, when Jean's dreams were gnashing teeth, black-veined flesh, and empty eyes. When he'd woken up with his hands wrapped in a deadly grip around a civilian girl's, a friend's skin. When she'd apologized to him even though tears flooded her eyes and bruises blossomed across her body, not his.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Jean murmurs as he tugs the last stitch closed. He uses his teeth to cut the thread and waits with bated breath for Marian to settle. Black thread (and it is thread, not veins) crisscrosses her irritated flesh. She slowly calms until the heaving chest beneath Jean is the only sign of her distress.
He unwinds the tourniquet and watches as fresh blood oozes from the wounds. But there's only a bit of blood. Hopefully, the stitches will completely stop the bleeding and the goldenseal will stop the infection.
If not...
Well, Jean will just have to try something else.
Marian shifts beneath him, and without the panic and urgency to distract him, Jean becomes painfully aware of how she feels against his calves and thighs. He scrambles off her, then distracts himself by making more water. He doesn't realize the bloody scarf is still clenched between his fist until he's at outside the cave.
The explosion of patterns is subdued beneath the flood of red. It's an improvement, honestly. Much less of an eye sore. But Marian loved the stupid thing as it was. Jean fills the flask, then scoops as much snow inside the scarf as possible.
He'll clean it as best as he can. She'll like that. It'll be a nice gesture, if she wakes up.
When. When she wakes up.
Jean settles beside their fire, working the scarf against stone and snow until some of the stain bleeds away. The day has truly begun. Sunlight wafts into their cave, bright and clear. The morning bird calls and wind whooshes have given way to silence. There's only the sound of their breathing and flame pops. Jean can't help but think those are two of the best sounds he's ever heard.
