Mikasa saw death in his eyes. He was a creature delivered from a womb of evil. His gaze mirrored the phantom burning landscape of the Underworld.
But Mikasa didn't kill him.
She allowed him to live.
The fur on Eren's backbone erected in gristly spines. Inside his snarling mouth coiled a savage pink tongue. His eyes rolled wildly, the eyelids pinned back. He was slowly circling.
The moon bled a thick red color, hemorrhaging between the trees like open arteries. The wind hung under the moon. Beneath this, a hard silence throbbed like a squeeze of blood. The pack watched. They stood completely still.
Eren's hefty paws shuffled the dead leaves. His paws were of oversize, not the feet of any known creature. Not a bear. Though similar in width and weight. The pads and claws, however, were composed like that of a wolf.
A massive wolf, indeed.
Eren circled, rattling the forest floor under his oversize paws, prolonged black nails tunneling the soil under which he stepped slowly, predatory.
He was measuring up another creature, the same species as himself, circling just the same, across an eight-foot interval in the forest's clearing. The pack of wolf-creatures had surrounded the two, watching motionless in the red silence. The other wolf across from Eren was blond, a rare and striking patina, and short-haired. His eyes were gold. His neck was thick with muscle, bellying out his blond fur. A shimmering air of dominance gilded himd. Bulging veins snaked up his front legs as he circled, his ears pressed flat. He was, unquestionably, Alpha. And Eren—a packless, rogue wolf with unhallowed eyes—challenged his position by existing in his territory. This was Reiner's territory now, and Eren would either surrender or be killed.
The scent of a human was soaked copiously through Eren's fur, though it'd gone stale and cold. Reiner snarled.
: You've been rolling around with that human, said Reiner, voicelessly, as he circled.
Eren growled. He watched.
: I've seen you with her. You keep your head low, and you avoid her eyes, and you — smell. What've you done, lap dog?— pet?
Reiner stopped circling. So did Eren. They growled.
: How could you submit to a human? A wolf killer. Were you hoping they'd slaughter me?
Eren rocked his head and snarled and beat his paws on the earth.
: Leave this place or redeem yourself.
Reiner channeled his full Alpha influence with each thought. Eren shook and shot a breath from his nostrils. He had no choice but to obey the Alpha.
Fragment: 01
During the night, werewolf hunters had descended on the village. They appeared without pomp — suddenly. Cinched with belts and covered with pockets, enveloped in hidden blades and menace, the hunters entered the market in open daylight. Alarmed, the villagers made quick, restless glances at the hunters, the three of them, moving like specters down the street, soundless, paying mind to nothing and no one.
Their names were Levi, Hanji, and Mikasa, and they glided with a single mind, speaking to no one, until they arrived at the village's small local armory. The weapon craftsman, straight-backed with attention, stood behind a booth. Thick gloves that looked wet and ill-omened wrapped his hands.
"They're pure," he said about the silver bullets set out on the table.
It was a slow day, scarce of people. The shadows of the hunters swept the ground while they searched the armory's collection. They asked no questions, knowing what they already needed to know. The craftsman waited. He appeared neither patient nor impatient. Nor did he echo the anxiety of the villagers. His dark hair was long and pulled back. Sweat glittered in the small hairs spilling loosely over his forehead. He absorbed each hunter, pulled them into consideration, one at a time.
A hunting knife seized Mikasa's attention. The blade cut the sun and bent it at her eye. She lifted her right hand, gloved in leather. The glove wasn't for protection. The left remained bare. Pinching a fingertip, she emptied the glove with a steady slide of her hand. Shining tongues of scalded flesh writhed up her elbow, like she was made partly of lead and partly of crystal.
The craftsman's face was impersonal and professional as he observed the scars. "Hellfire," he said.
Mikasa didn't reply. Using the scalded hand, she traced cryptic etchings and engravings on the knife's handle. Her bare fingers grew warm, contacting the knife's grip. She evaluated the item by touch.
"I don't think I've ever seen so many hunters in one place," the craftsman said. "The townspeople are getting nervous." He waited for Mikasa to reply. When she ignored him, he asked: "Has something brought you here?"
"We've been tracking an Alpha," Mikasa said.
"An Alpha?"
"A wake of corpses has led us here. The Alpha's next target will be this village." Mikasa placed the hunting knife back in its proper display. She looked at the craftsman directly. "Your craft is unlike anything I've seen. It's exquisite."
"Thank you." The craftsman's gratitude was cool and impersonal. He never eased his posture, straight-backed and attentive.
One of the other werewolf hunters came forward. He moved like a shadow. The dirt barely yielded under the tread of his boots. "Artistry does nothing for function," Levi said. "What can it do?" This second hunter functioned on efficiency and fact unlike Mikasa, and the craftsman absorbed their character traits as well, one at a time.
"The blade is mercury-imbued," said the craftsman. "A quick slash to an artery should do it."
This satisfied Levi and he said nothing more. The items drew the three hunters up and down different tables and display cases. Knives, spears, short swords, long swords, bows and arrows. The collection was a sundry marvel. The weapons sang complexities and contradictions, passions and poetries from blade, handle, and point.
"This is your calling," Mikasa said, impressed.
"It's not," the craftsman said. "But in my opinion, it'd be better to die by an extraordinary weapon than one that's merely capable."
For some time, Mikasa said nothing to this. If she heard him or if she cared to hear him, the craftsman couldn't know. If the craftsman was unsettled by her silence, Mikasa couldn't know likewise. Both the hunter and the craftsman were unable to fathom the other.
The canvas roof rippled. The wind streamed in autumn tones, evocative and clean as a heatless sunlight slipped nearer. It'd be Winter before they knew it.
The craftsman flicked the damp hair from his forehead.
"If you had to die by one of your own creations," Mikasa said, thoughtfully, "which one would you choose?"
"That's easy."
The craftsman's laced boots pressed on the grass and soil, making sure indents of a surprising weight and influence. He moved to the back of the armory. There resided a trunk. Resting on the trunk was an object that suggested itself under a fine silk sheet. It showed itself, only in shape and outline. But the object's aura seemed to resonate somehow, beyond its own shape. The craftsman lifted his arm and the sheet snapped away. A light poured out, nearly blinding Mikasa. She raised a hand over her face and squinted. Then the light melted and softly waned over her view with a warm glow.
"I can see why," she said.
Everything paused as if the world itself took a moment to wonder. The craftsman humbly lowered his head in something like a bow.
"That's more than we need," Levi said as he glanced at the saber. Two points of heavenly light swam in the wet parts of his eyes. He took his gaze away. Undistracted, he continued moving among the displays.
The craftsman replaced the sheet. The heavenly glow vanished. The weapon intimated in shape and outline once more. Mikasa's breathing re-paced itself.
Silver and steel, bronze and iron marvels tempted the hunters. Each item had its own individuality, its own tune. A spirit one could feel. The hunters were insatiable, devouring the items, each type, every style.
A needle sank suddenly into the center of Mikasa's forehead and pierced her mind. It tugged, silver and thin. It pulled at an internal, tenuous place. Like a compulsion, it took her, one leg after the other, moving without volition, directed by the needle.
The needle halted her at an armor rack. A crimson cloth hung on a hook. It was neither new nor unused. It wasn't for safety. It wasn't for function. But in spite of its uselessness, with its red-heart color, it called out to her.
A wind blew once more, and the scarf's tail danced in her eyes.
"What's this?" she asked.
The craftsman, for the first time, changed expression. He was visibly confused. "I'm sorry. That's not for sale."
Mikasa floated her fingertips into the material. A kind of magic sang into her cells, stirring them, changing their tempo. Her hands whirred at the feeling, becoming more alive, so alive that she began to feel translucent. "It's strange . . ."
"What is?"
Mikasa shook her head to clear it. She released the scarf and her hands dimmed. "It's nothing."
The craftsman shifted slightly on his feet. He stepped beside her and shared her view of the scarf. From the corner of her eyes, Mikasa glanced at the man. The artery in his throat struck under his skin with an odd, velvet living, hardly human at all. "Why are you so interested in this item?" he asked. "It's not anything special."
"I'm not sure. But it feels like—" Mikasa disappeared a hand into the scarf again, feeling it transmute into light itself, more certain than ever— "It feels like I was meant to find it."
The craftsman took up the scarf in his gloved hands. He faced Mikasa. His expression was both incredulous and pensive. "If that's how it feels, then you should take it. It's at no cost." Very carefully, he set the scarf into Mikasa's palms, as though surrendering a saber to her possession, his head lowered at a small angle.
Mikasa brought the scarf to her face and inhaled a pleasurable bright smell, warm and deep too, ageless, as though she'd known it for a hundred thousand years and would know it for a hundred thousand more.
Fragment: 02
A howl hurtled through the rainstorm.
The hunters dashed from their tower and charged outside, into the forest. They ran to the west where their trap was laid, navigating by instinct, blind. It was night. Clouds choked the moon. Rain drove against their faces. Their cloaks glistened like oiled pelts. The trap grew near. They sensed it. Their boots made soft flicks of sound, running. Wet leaves slid under their strides. They ran steadily, never faltering.
Three shadows condensed on the darkness, between the trees. Rain crashed into the shadows. Then — a flash of lighting revealed them.
Men who weren't men. Wolves in men's bodies. A rabid snarl came from a bodily heap on the ground, caught in the trap they'd set. A wordless animal noise, but fluent with meaning. A death sentence if anyone dare approach. The three silhouettes jerked their heads and their teeth flashed. They collapsed and their forms changed. Wolves, larger than wolves, emerged out of the men and, baring their fangs, they leapt at the hunters.
Swiftly, the three hunters dispatched the three werewolves. The rain washed the hunters' blades and spouted off their deadly tips. They kicked the bodies of the dead wolves. They were disappointed to find the wolves had been scouts, insignificant to the pack. The Alpha was still nowhere to be found. They had no clues, no tracks.
A severed wolf's head landed beside the fourth crumpled form on the ground. Its glazed eyes stared out, meaninglessly, at the last man who wasn't a man, still helplessly caught in the trap.
Levi rummaged in his pocket. A luminous stone jetted light through the cracks of his fingers. He passed the light over the last werewolf, beaming the face into view. Their trap's rope bound him from head to toe and his long hair was loose and strung over the ground, wet. The face shone out, and they were surprised to recognize it.
The craftsman from the armory had tripped their werewolf trap. His pupils were pinpricks, and blood ran from his mouth like drool. Something was wrong.
"He's sick," Levi said.
Together, the hunters dragged the man back to the tower. He made no sound, but for shallow gasps of breath as they carried him down a flight of stairs, into an underground cellar. The cool, dark, still air of the underground swallowed them and the darkness pushed into their flesh.
They placed the craftsman on an old cot, still tied in rope, head to toe. They watched him breathe like the oxygen was thin, shallow inside his lungs, not like air at all. Mikasa snapped out her hunting knife. Silently she began sawing the rope.
"Careful," Levi said. "We don't know what he's capable of."
The ropes fell apart. The craftsman's wrists dangled, slender and helpless. His slack-muscled hip sank upon itself. Mikasa removed the cut rope and laid it aside. Even though he was free, the craftsman made no effort to move. His mouth was open, and even though he was uninjured, his expression was paved with a mysterious torment.
"His pack will come for him," Hanji said. "It's only a matter of time."
"He's burning up," Mikasa said quietly. She felt the man's forehead. His skin blazed at the touch. "He has an intense fever."
Levi and Hanji were unconcerned, their faces pragmatic and without sympathy. Levi seized the craftsman by the hair and bent his neck back, forcing the man to meet his eye. "Hey, where's your pack?"
"I don't . . . ." the craftsman mumbled, deliriously. His eyes sank backward, and the artery in his throat, Mikasa saw, struck his skin at an even quicker pace than it had earlier. Blood boiled through him, violently. Mikasa took his hand and perceived the radial pulse, exactly the same, beating faster than any normal man or any normal werewolf.
Hanji approached the cot, thoughtfully, their fist knuckled to their chin. Their eyes were hidden behind the dark gleam of their glasses. Without warning or thought, they began to touch the craftsman's body, palpating his bare stomach, here and there, in the hollow of his ribcage, above his flinching pelvis. The craftsman yelped and jolted, and then he snarled an animal's snarl, his eyes blazing, and snapped his jaws at the hands touching him, still a man, no different from an animal. Levi gripped the man's shoulders and held him, thrashing, down against the cot. Hanji pressed the man's stomach, hitting various points of terrific sensitivity, making the man shake and howl in rage and alarm. The cries were earsplitting.
"Hanji!" Mikasa took Hanji by the wrist. The cries quieted. The following silence was hard and loud. "Isn't that enough?"
Finally, Hanji nodded to themselves, agreeing with their own thoughts. "It isn't illness afflicting him," they said. "I can explain his condition."
"What is it?" said Levi.
"I'll explain upstairs."
Silence overtook the underground cell. The cellar's niches echoed only with ambiguous drips of sourceless moisture. The craftsman lied curled on his side, powerless as a sack of water. He panted hotly, never catching his own breath. Mikasa went to a knee and stared at his tortured face. She tilted her head, curious about him. Then, to her surprise, his eyes fluttered open and the rings of his nostrils expanded. The scarf draped around Mikasa's shoulders seemed to rouse him, suddenly, by its natural fragrance, only an inch from his face.
"Why?" the man said, half-awake. Then his eyes shut and he collapsed into sleep.
Fragment: 03
Hanji explained: There were wolves who were direct descendants of the ancient Ones. Alphas and Omegas. Rare, now. Most had been exterminated. Hanji, Levi, and Mikasa were tracking one of the only last Alphas left in the world. And downstairs in the cellar slept one of the only last Omegas left in the world.
Mikasa asked if they were going to kill the craftsman.
They weren't going to kill the Omega, Hanji said. There was something else they'd do with him.
Sitting in an armchair, Hanji sipped their tea and smiled a wide, acidic smile of scientific madness. A fire roared in the fireplace and cast the three hunters in a tremulous twilight glow.
"This is our trump card. The rain is masking the Omega's scent. I suspect that's why he was out running around. He needed to wash away all traces of his hormones. I'm sure we spooked him earlier today. When he'd heard an Alpha could be close by, he panicked and stumbled into the trap we laid."
The rain had passed. Now it was only wind. It screamed against the windows and, wave after wave, beat upon the glass.
Now it was late in the night, almost morning. And while the hunters slept in their tower, Mikasa couldn't shake the image of the craftsman and his torment. It formed in the black space under her eyelids. Lying in bed, restless, she saw him. Exquisite pain overlaying his expression. His breathing, sweet and warm, striking her face. She felt his breathing, everywhere, rushing down her chest and over her legs. He panted with big lungs, bigger than vents, bellows of sweet, warm air. She imagined placing her hands on his sides, pressing her ear to his ribs, listening to the deep steady pattern of it.
Mikasa could no longer ignore the dreams. She peeled back her eyelids. The image of him dimmed. Then it grew clearer, crystalizing in her vision. Mikasa sat up. She left the bed. Then she passed through the door and left the room.
While the other hunters slept, Mikasa padded, barefooted, down the hall to the stone steps that led deep into the increasing dark. She held a vial in her fist and put out a foot and set it on a cold stone step. She did the same with the other. She repeated the movement, one after the other, descending into the cold dark. The cold and dark deepened, more and more. Her hair quilled. She went slow, allowing her eyes to absorb the infinitesimal light, invisible, somewhere in the swollen black vacuum.
Soon she could see without any light and when she completed her descent, she stood for a moment on the damp ground and distilled the space around her. The round, hot shape of the craftsman in the cell, she felt, curled in his cot, a little farther in the underground. She waded to him in the black subterranean tides, sensing where he was in front of her. She followed his breathing and his anxious whines of solitude—half-animal, half-man. The cellar door hauled open with iron distaste.
Inside, the craftsman's eyes shone, giving out a passive, reflected light like two moons in miniature. He watched Mikasa as she moved to his cot. She knelt and said nothing, looking into his reflective eyes. His body heat diffused his proximity and she felt the heat, hotter by twenty degrees. For some time they said nothing, his clear permeable eyes staring, her knelt in front of him, feeling his strange muscle temperature radiating.
"I heard what they're planning," the craftsman said, quietly. "You hunters want to use me to get to Him."
"That's what they said," Mikasa said. "But to be honest I don't understand any of this. Why did those scouts attack you?"
"They can't help it."
"What do you mean?"
"It's a primitive, ancient instinct." The craftsman dragged his arm over the cold, damp ground, lying on his stomach. Muscles slathered his back and his spinal column sloped down him like the track of a finger pulled through mud. Loose hair spilled over the cot, wild and thick. "If that Alpha you're tracking is going around killing for no reason, it means he's lost his humanity. He's rampaging."
"Does that scare you?"
"It's the unknown that makes me uneasy. Until today, I've never come face-to-face with another werewolf before."
"I don't know everything about were-kind. But I do know wolves don't survive on their own. How have you made it this long by yourself?"
"I'm not alone. I have a friend," the craftsman said. "He's human, like you."
Somewhere in the recesses of the underground cellar, the sourceless water fell in drops, hitting the stone floor distantly. Mikasa took the vial she held in her fist. She opened her fingers and the man's eyes glimmered each time they moved, like fish suspended in the depths of a lake. He gazed at the vial, and tilted his head.
"I read in the library this oil might help relieve your symptoms." Mikasa held out her other hand, beckoning. The craftsman obeyed and put his hand into hers and she inverted his hand, palm up, the pale underside of his arm, faint but almost phosphorescent in the dark. With the pad of her thumbs, Mikasa rubbed the oil on the man's inner wrists. His pulse flickered, racing, living a year in a single moment, killing him by the minute.
After a while, the oil soaked through his skin and after a while more, his violent heartrate began to slow. It ticked along with longer pauses. He was not dying anymore. He sighed with relief. His pulse beat him with blood, sleepily, and his lungs folded and unfolded with ease.
"How does that feel?"
The craftsman's eyes had already closed. The torment that had permeated Mikasa's mind melted off his face, and the man became soft and comfortable.
"Everything's all right now," Mikasa said, and he seemed to believe her. His body let go and relaxed on itself. The muscles covering his back were as placid as a pond, still and serene.
"Will you tell me your name?" Mikasa asked, in a low voice.
The oil had slowed the man's heart, so the liquid in his body lagged gently through his veins and drowsed him with dreamy thoughts. "It's Eren," he said, tiredly. The reply expended all his energy. His head fell to one side and his hair whispered softly over his languid face. The illness disappeared.
And then Eren slept.