Wounds of a Warrior

I mourned two things that night; the death of a mother, and the death of myself.

The man, gray and slim, jerked in violent strides. Close behind, two soldiers, their firearms pressed firmly against their ribs, charged through towering blades of grass that lurched like waves in their wake.

The distant thuds of pursuit faded, and in the foreground a deceptive calm faded over the field.

"Marley will sing songs of you," came Maeve Becker's words. Y/N's tears fed the damp soil, head resting atop Maeve's thigh as the blades embraced them in a verdant cocoon. Celestial bodies loomed menacingly above the grass that stretched for miles; cool zephyrs pricked goosebumps on their skin.

"I want to make you proud," Y/N uttered, gazing up at Becker. Her vitreous skin rivaled the night sky. She was so beautiful, the stars could have been her tears.

"You make me proud every day... You are Marley's strongest Warrior, destined to liberate every Eldian." Maeve whispered as she combed her nails through Y/N's hair.

The child cried, "I love you so much..."

Maeve smiled softly, wiping the salt from Y/N's cheeks. With the coming of summer, dusk was warm. Each hour after lights out, she took Y/N to the wilderness outside Liberio so they could doze beneath spiraling pearls.

Their tradition wasn't one of celebration nor religion, but rather the only way Y/N could muster sleep. For she was a child whose heart grasped for the ignorance of others.

To the east, pasture crunched with frantic footfalls and the ragged gasps of a dead man. Maeve watched as he fled through the tall grass, unaware he was leading two Marleyan soldiers directly toward them.

She reclined behind the foliage, folding lines of weed over their bodies to camouflage—index finger held to her lips. Moonshine splintered across their faces, the grass hissing beneath combat boots.

"Fast gierig ain't he?" One soldier taunted between breaths, gun poised in anticipation. "Seems we've declared open season."

Y/N's heart seized as a boot caught on her exposed shoe—instinctively, she snatched it in, and the body collapsed into an adjacent grave of green. The lad reeled, nose shattering against an unforgiving stone.

The glimmer of the night on Y/N's skin was soon swallowed by the men's silhouettes. Their frosted breaths fogged the void above, one cursing the meadow with a cancer stick between his lips.

She never saw the meaning behind bigotry. What other use was it than to aimlessly discriminate against fellow man? If ignorance wasn't their crime, then who was there to blame?

Heart in her throat, Y'N's nails dug violently into her palms as she fought to hush her lungs. Her body shook uncontrollably, a bitter anger writhing beneath anxiety.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

"Was hoping for more of a challenge than that." Came the soldier's words.

"Please!" A bullet split the sound, and the Eldian man flung backward.

The soldiers' laughter faded—leaving death to quilt the lea, red elixir splattering over silver roses.

"I love you too," Maeve finally returned, clutching the child close. Y/N sobbed, rubbing her face in Becker's cardigan until she could no longer breathe.

Their bodies knotted in impossible geometry that night, Maeve's heart drumming a dead lullaby. Y/N longed to crystallize this instant, preserving the two as amber seals a delicate flower. But time was greed and nothing gold could stay.

The serene smile on Maeve's face before Y/N's injection haunted her upon being reborn. She swayed, the tang of human blood in her mouth as the Marley General proffered a red armband. Wordlessly she accepted, trading in her old yellow strap as his hand fell upon her back.

General Magath bore the dignified grace of age—his beard was slender, his hair a charcoal cloche. Involved in training the Warrior candidates, he saw the young Eldians as more than tools, more than depravities. Y/N could sense this, and in some cruel way, it gave her a lingering hope.

"Now you've earned yourself some damn purpose, kid," Y/N scrunched her nose as the stale coffee requiem in his voice fanned her.

Together, stepped into the sunlight, joining the other determined castoffs.

Y/N, along with the other children, watched as Annie Leonhart was led by the arm of one of the Eldian Warriors into the obsidian chops of the building. Despite facing such a terrifying ordeal, Annie maintained a stoic mask, her emotions concealed behind an impenetrable poker face.

As Annie and the captor disappeared into the darkness, Y/N felt a presence sidle near. Her eyes darted to the right, meeting his.

The young blonde hesitated before speaking, pupils nearly swallowed by expanding rings of hazel.

"Was it scary?" Reiner Braun finally asked. Reiner was a boy of many misfortunes. Some could say he was the underdog of the Warrior candidates, always setting an example of what not to do—and despite it all, he got back up again.

Y/N's gaze traveled distant horizons, where the factory stacks birthed out coiling serpentines of smog. She pondered a good response, balancing honesty and security.

"I don't remember," she replied, her voice a distant murmur, as if her words were pulled from the depths of a forgotten well. "Everything was a blur."

Annie's transformation into her Titan had been a thunderclap, resonating through the building's bones. Reiner's gaze remained locked on the doorway, his expression taut as he awaited Leonhart's return.

His breath caught as she emerged, the commander with her, his bragging words about her purpose carried on the zephyrs of summer.

Y/N couldn't bother to glance their way.

Her eyes were in the heavens, where winged clouds powdered a steel canvas. She imaged Maeve looking down, seeing how small she was compared to the vast cosmos. She had bestowed a gift upon the child, the greatest curse known to man.

Empathy.

"I promise you'll be okay," Y/N's words were a balm, even as Reiner flinched beneath the weight of a hand upon his shoulder—a hand that bore the mantle of the Armored Titan's power, a legacy soon his own.

He flashed a sheepish grin before stepping away. The radiance of the day on his back soon vanished beneath the shadow of the building, his soles rocking the cement.

A scoff resounded from the distance.

There he boastfully stood—slouched against the candlestick phone booth painted with the patina of time.

Porco, damn, Galliard.