Chapter Text
I am 20.
Mikasa is 20.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is June.
It has been a year. I almost can’t believe it. You’re really gone. You’ve done it. The whole world hates you, you turned into a monster, formed by the fury of those that hated you without ever knowing you; and you killed them without ever knowing them, like a trade-off of cruelty. But disproportionate always. Extreme, as you always were.
I miss you so badly. We all do; the entire 104th, those of us who are left. I still cling onto those words you told me before you died, those mental images of the earth that you plastered into my mind; landscapes we promised to explore together, inspired by the artwork in my grandfather’s atlas. The final sensation of your hand holding mine, so real that it greatly surpassed the physical touch. You’re an idiot. Why did you do something so senseless? Why did you make Mikasa cry so much? I hate you for it. I hate you for how necessary you made it for me to hate you. I don’t want to, because you’re my best friend, and I’m equally as dumb and crazy as you are, and I love you. But I miss you, and it both saddens and enrages me to know that you’re gone and everything was all part of your grand plan. Who do you think you are to do that to us—to make decisions on our behalf, for our wellbeing?
Are we children?
When you chose to die and take the whole world with you against everybody’s will, were you really considering our freedom back then? I hate that your mind led you that way. I hate that my voice drove you further into madness instead of away from it. I miss you. I love you. I’ll see you, one of these days, hopefully.
✙
I am 20.
Mikasa is 20.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is December.
I found myself bawling from the moment I arose, to the very moment when I should be sleeping. It’s late, yet I’m awake, mourning you, thinking of you, dreaming of you.
It’s a horrible feeling; one I wish I could pass off to you just so you’d know how soul-crushing it really is—mourning someone so close in age, someone who didn’t have to go, yet, in a way, deserved every bit of their turmoil.
Do you know how badly you’ve fucked up all of your friends, Eren? Do you know how severely our last moment together re-contextualized our decade of friendship?
I don’t actually know who I was friends with.
I don’t know if who you became was who you’d always been, or if it was who you were fated to be… and even when you told me… I still couldn’t take your word as truth.
You lie. You withhold information. You cheat your comrades—your friends.
I recently had a conversation with the warriors. Mainly Annie. She said she found it painfully ironic that we were chosen to be diplomats, representing Paradis and Marley, but to a greater extent, the Eldian race. We were the worst of the bunch. The dirtiest. The ones with the most bodies piled under our mud-stained shoes. We should be the last people arguing for peace!
How audacious of us to think we can tell others how good it is to be good and calm and peaceful!
When we wear our suits, badges, and business-casual attire to go to these press-polluted UN meetings, we can’t help but feel like utter imposters—because that’s what we are. Imposters. Pretenders. Actors. With the intimidation of our titan abilities now gone into thin air, everyone can see us for the little fish we truly are.
But yet, it should be me screaming for peace?
Me, as the face of it all, and not my victims?
I have no command over anyone anymore. I’m only twenty. What does a scrawny soldier like me know about peace? I’ve only ever dreamed of it; I couldn’t begin to describe it.
I know one thing for damn sure—I wasn’t stomping through Marley and burning civilian bodies for peace.
It makes me laugh. Not with humor, but shame.
I go on the world stage daily, and beg for something I do not understand; something I’ve never had, yet claim to deserve as much as any other person.
The nerve of me.
✙
I am 23.
Mikasa is 23.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is March.
I really, really want to know…
Why’d you do it? Why was that the master plan you came up with? Why was that, of all things, the end-all be-all?
It boggles my mind every day. Anytime I think about it for too long or think too hard about its technicalities, I’m left perplexed.
How do you see the worst possible option and dive into it headfirst?
Ymir bent to your will willingly—and this is what you used her powers to do? It had the potential to work so well—things could’ve been divine; yet in your hands, the power was every curse they said it was, and more! You were the earth devil those archaic texts spoke of the entire time. It’s the next best logical leap. You were a monster made by the world, destined to destroy it. And you served your purpose marvelously, with scary efficiency. Within four years, you singlehandedly became the most lethal weapon known to humankind. Eren… did you anticipate this kind of reaction from me? Was fucking my brain apart of the plan too? Or just a nice little addendum?
✙
I am 23.
Mikasa is 23.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is April.
I just wish you had told me sooner. If you had given me time, the outcome would’ve been different. We could’ve put our heads together to come up with something greater.
Why’d you have to be greedy?
Why wasn’t a mini Rumbling enough for you?
You said you cared about securing your friends’ future—a miniature Rumbling would’ve given us just that—at least another half century! And within that time, we would’ve surely come up with other methods that would keep us safe! You didn’t even give us the chance! You cornered us, pushing all of us against the wall until every other option was out of reach and all we could see before us was this big, bony mass of you.
I wish you shared your burdens with me. Did you feel like I wasn’t trustworthy? Would I have been a liability to your plan? Is it because I’m too argumentative? Did you worry I’d be able to talk you out of it? I wasn’t selfish and patriotic enough like Floch—only caring about me and my own—because that’s how Jaegerists operate… It would’ve been too painful for you to involve your real friends, wouldn’t it?
That’s cowardly.
Though, I suppose I should cut you a small bit of slack. After all, it’s highly probable that you were literally going insane with every action you took, grinding yourself further and further into a fine powder rather than a sensible man.
You died holding three titans within you.
Attack. Founder. Warhammer.
That was the most any single human had held since Ymir. The onslaught of foreign memories probably turned your brain into porridge. And the foresight doesn’t make it any better. Distinguishing reality from possibilities, and certainties from probabilities must’ve been impossible for you. It’s pitiful, really. But it’s all the more reason why you should’ve shouldered your burdens along with me.
What’s even more pitiful is my flimsy defenses for you. My hand jumps across the page to write out all the ways my mind makes excuses for why you did what you did—it tries to find ways to remove your accountability, even if only slightly, because then I can hold onto the Eren I knew. The son of Karla Jaeger, the boy who was a freedom fighter but not a genocider.
Not a global terrorist. Not a weapon of mass destruction.
But no matter what I write, or how my mind tries to romanticize and idealize what you did, wrong is wrong is wrong is wrong.
You saw that future and pursued it. You worked in silence, like a villain, relying on me potentially figuring you out and hoping we’d possibly defeat you, despite being a threat far greater than anything this world had ever faced. It’s unfair.
You saw that future, Eren. Did you not want to change it? Did you feel like you couldn’t? Did you actually change it from something way worse? Like ninety percent? Like ninety-nine? Was what you saw worse than what we got? You impulsive, temperamental jerk! I wish you had told me. I don’t have all the answers; but I know I would’ve had a better answer than that! You’re so stupid. Just like you said, a fucking imbecile.
✙
I am 23.
Mikasa is 23.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is August.
I had sex with Mikasa. Yes. It’s written. I said it.
It was a moment of weakness, brokenness on both sides, and we thought fucking would at least temporarily heal our wounds.
We had sex without you, and yet, it was all about you. The one thing tying us together, more constant than the daily exchange between the sun and the moon, shining in the sky like polished coins, is our dire attachment to you. I despise that it’s like that. We look at each other and see remnants of you, the bits of you that rubbed off onto us like stains—and now we barely look like ourselves anymore.
Somehow, I hate how good it felt in that moment. It was nice to be fully bare and wrapped up in someone else’s warm embrace. Especially someone who cared; she’s someone strong enough to shield me from the colossal mistakes that threatened to topple and flatten me. She was soft. Softer than she’s ever had the freedom to be… and she shared that with me.
I’m grateful. But I’m equally guilt-ridden. It’s an odd blend of feelings, and totally nonsensical, because Mikasa is her own person… but knowing her feelings for you—how you two felt towards each other—it felt like I was taking from you. Since ten, she’d been mentally preparing to be your wife, and yet, here I am, entangled in the sheets with her, using her heartbeat as a lullaby and her lips as candy.
It feels inappropriate to love her like this—and more than that—inappropriate to love, period. But I suppose it’s fitting, considering what we are. My kill count is second only to yours, and by some metrics, Mikasa is a seasoned serial killer. It makes perfect sense that two devils would act out some bastardized version of love towards each other. In fact, it’s poetry… It’s not like we’ve earned it anywhere else.
I slept with Mikasa. And I’m sorry about it. But I’ll keep doing it.
✙
I am 24.
Mikasa is 24.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is November.
I never told you, Eren, but I have some secrets too. Ones I thought I’d take to the grave but… I’m feeling generous and particularly self-loathing right now so I’ll admit it—masculinity be damned.
I was molested. For your sake. For Historia’s.
Remember the first time we became traitors; when we found out titans were humans? When the government wanted to kidnap both you and Historia to force a titan on her and put a shifter back on the throne? Do you remember how badly they wanted to bind and shackle her mind, so she could be their royal puppet?
That day, when Jean and I stood in as decoys, I was groped. Through my top, through a skirt. Not an ounce of me was spared. It was humiliating. I was powerless under those nasty, old hands, and Jean was powerless, watching.
He was the only one I had to confide in—because I wouldn’t dare open my mouth to speak of this to anyone else—but he never had anything to say to me, always at a loss for words whenever he heard me crying at night, offering silent company instead. I was violated. Something was stolen from me—something I value above just my physical body. It was my autonomy, my control, my freedom. I throw up at the mere thought of it.
We were both tied up and had to keep appearances. It pains me to even think about it, but the truth is, if it had escalated any further, and that man had ripped me from the inside and forced my soul out of me—if I had been fully raped taken advantage of—Jean would have to do nothing. For the sake of the mission, to protect you two, as priceless as you were—at least, until he realized I was a male—I would have to lie there and take it quietly, like a soldier… and continue like nothing happened.
Would you have intervened if you were there? You always had a habit of saving me when we were younger. Would seeing me in danger snap you out of that depressive rut you were in, enough to activate your protective drive?
I suppose it’s irrelevant now. The past has passed already. That was years ago and you’re dead.
It was better that way, anyway. Better me than Historia. I’m one person. She’s Eldia.
✙
I am 25.
Mikasa is 25.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is October.
A ton of foreign literature has been shipped onto the island. There will be a culture summit soon, too. Everything is moving so fast, apparently in the right direction; I can’t help but feel excited. You know me. This is exactly the type of stuff I like—the things I always dreamed of; and almost took as fiction.
After years and years of catching up technologically—being held back a hundred years, living in the past—a notion that’s completely unthinkable, considering how fast the rest of the world is constantly moving, outdoing itself—we’ve finally reached a point where we’re close enough to sit down and enjoy the new things we have, including the new ideas we have access to.
With these books, by these great scholars, poets, journalists, and even the most random, faraway dreamer who simply wanted to put their thoughts onto paper—we’ll be equipped to handle the rest of the world in conversation. We won’t be bound to only our thoughts—and no longer will we depend on race-exclusive telepathy—but now we’ll have a small window to gaze into the minds of many other nations, many other interesting people, ones who had the freedom to think without constantly worrying about being eaten by WMDs—a codename for the titans and other brutal, world-ending weapons—and even others like us, who did have to worry about their bodies being incinerated, but under a missile or a rainstorm of bullets instead.
It’s amazing to me how these people, who were our enemies by default, who we immediately set out to kill once we were properly introduced, will now be our teachers, both directly and indirectly. It’s a thought that scratches the back of my brain violently, to the point I swear I can feel blood slowly dripping down my nape, as if the thought burst out of my skull like a bullet.
Regardless, my hunger for this information remains as insatiable as ever. Now with the knowledge that it’s out there, that only makes the gigantic ego in me more excited to know how much it can swallow and contain.
You know me. I was always an explorer at my core. These books, written by people we’ve killed, people whose families we killed, and people we came extremely close to killing… these books will feed my soul, or whatever that thing is, that swims inside of me.
✙
I am 27.
Mikasa is 27.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is June.
Annie put a thought in my head and I’d like to share it with you.
She says she misses her crystal. It’s a morbid thought, considering how much life is wasted away in there, being awake but unable to move; but she said that the crystal was good for dodging responsibility. Stagnation was better than destruction. When she was locked inside that giant gem, she had a reason to be inactive—but outside of it—her safety net and her cell—she had to join us, and be a soldier all over again. A warrior.
Tasks.
Missions.
Benchmarks.
Goals.
Objectives.
Responsibilities. Things that must be done, and must be done by you, whether you like it or not.
I understood.
Annie never got to be a girl. She was never a child, not really. Her life is an easy story to tell, with chunks of violence that take up huge blocks of it. She was born, she was a warrior-in-training, then a titan-shifting warrior for a country that hated her, then a double agent spy-soldier for a country she hated.
All of the Eldian-Marleyans were like that. All the ones we befriended.
She missed having no responsibilities… and for some odd reason, her words made me wish I still had access to Bertholt.
I want to ask him about his childhood, his feelings, his dreams—in further detail. We didn’t have much time together; and all I used him for was a tool, rather than a friend, equally as messy as I am—equally in need of being put in order with a good conversation.
But we’re normal humans now; and as they say ‘dead men tell no tales.’ I must admit, I miss when our dead spoke.
✙
I am 27.
Mikasa is 27.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is July.
I slept with Mikasa for the last time last night. She told me something that shattered me—though it shouldn’t have, because my feelings had no place in that matter, and I know it. It’s selfish. It’s outrageous. And I’ve learned a new word to call it, equally as gross. It’s sexist.
Her doing the best thing for herself, made me feel like she was taking from both of us—the two men she held dearest, who should’ve been the main factors in any choice she ever made… It’s shameful to know I still operate so immaturely. Maybe the two of us sharing a bed so often put feelings in me that had no business being there. Maybe I ruined our friendship. I mean, how dare I get possessive over a person? People aren’t possessions.
I know for a fact you don’t feel the same. Because people were yours to protect and fight for. Singlehandedly.
She’ll be marrying Jean next year.
It’ll be beautiful. I’m emotional, so I already know I’ll cry like a baby when I see them both, wearing white, holding hands, smiling, kissing. I want her to be happy; I want Jean to be happy.
And I know you—selfish as all hell—wanted her to cry over you for a decade, but that was a hunk of bullshit and you knew it! If it’s any consolation, though, she’s only two years off. You can’t say she didn’t try for you… As much as it pains me to know our arrangement is ending, I’m glad to know that her marriage will punish you.
Maybe one day, we can all laugh about it in Hell together.
✙
I am 27.
Mikasa is 27.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is August.
I visited Captain Levi’s teashop today. It’s been up and running for years, but I never got around to it until just now. Perhaps I’m dodging Levi himself? Maybe because of his status—the only thing he reminds me of is war.
It’s a cruel notion to ascribe to him; but it goes deeper than the scars on his skin. It’s every memory I have of him, every moment I’ve lived through with him… If we weren’t in the heat of battle, we were strategizing for battle, planning an ambush, setting up a fort somewhere.
No matter what life does to us, I’ll always see him as my captain… even now, when I’m the ranking superior.
He brews good tea and the shop has a comforting air to it. Most of the employees are young adults. Younger than us. Even Gabi’s here, surprisingly. I think it’s because something in Levi attracts the youth. The way he whipped us into shape with discipline and solid truths when we were petty soldiers, is the same way he’s molding them into good citizens.
The tea is sweet, grown from foreign leaves. It smells really good. Levi personally served it to me. He gave me a small smile.
I smiled back, but it didn’t meet my eyes.
I stared at him. It was impolite. But how could I not? There he was… my former squadron leader, my guide, even while I was Commander, turned into… that.
He was the one who kept my head screwed on straight. He was the one that ushered me into the tough, necessary decisions for our survival. He was the one who boosted morale and called the shots when I was incapacitated or just plain clueless.
And now he’s here… in a wheelchair, missing an eye, running a teashop that smells like sweet jungle flowers, cohabiting with a girl who disconnected your head from your shoulders and made it spin like a weathervane for us all to see.
He and Gabi grew together like father and daughter. I asked her why she chose to stay on the island and she told me she wanted to learn about the other perspective in its fullness—she said she couldn’t rely on the incorrect information her parents were born and raised in, and passed down to her. She was deconstructing her former mindset—the one that was pushed onto her—in order to pursue her real self, on her own terms.
Sadly, that meant distancing from her relatives. At least, for a while.
When I asked, Levi admitted that he just wanted company. That’s how he ended up taking her in.
I think it’s nice. Strange. But nice. They compliment each other. Even though she’s mellowed out over the years, under the exterior still lies the hotheaded little girl with godlike aim… and Levi, the honest, no-nonsense man that he was, acted as a good mentor for her… a good balancer.
They look… appeased, much more than they probably did with their own families, considering what they told me… and what we know about the Ackermans and the Brauns.
Somehow I find that quite scary.
✙
I am 28.
Mikasa is 28.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is February.
Historia, her royal highness, summoned me to her palace suddenly. For a moment, I was scared, thinking something terrible happened, so you can imagine my relief when she met me with a tight, solid hug. It felt comforting knowing her physical strength never waned, despite so many years away from active duty. It was only right her physical strength matched her mental fortitude.
Paradis Island has been militarized to hell and back, and the government has turned the Queen into little more than a notable celebrity instead of the person with the final say on legislation. She has so many people within her own palace fighting against her daily, yet, she still holds her chin up high, and greets a disgraced soldier like me humbly, with an embrace.
When I asked her why I was called, I had to swallow my disbelief as if I were eating my own tongue.
It was quite a forward request.
She wanted me to be her daughter’s godfather! Me, who hadn’t seen the girl outside of national events!
I tried to let her down gently; I attempted to appeal to her rationale. Mirah was nine, going on ten. This wasn’t the age for her to meet a father figure. We wouldn’t be able to bond well if she hadn’t grown up with me already hovering around. She’d be at that awkward, icy adolescent phase, and I wasn’t keen on breaking through it. Plus, this godparent stuff is completely out of my element. I don’t have what it takes to be what she needs, even if I wanted to… and I don’t want to.
But Historia persisted, saying she always liked me for my smarts and reliability. She said those were good traits to teach her child and she sneakily reminded me that Mirah needed a positive male figure to fill in the obvious gap—that soon enough, she’ll be asking questions about her father and feel isolated for not having one around… so at the very least, I could be the next best thing.
Historia baited me; she hooked me with an unfair deal… and I crumbled in agreement.
Eren, when I looked at this kid, knowing she was born on that day almost ten years ago, I feel nothing paternal ignite within me—but I do have a question that burns through my ribs as I look down at her emerald eyes.
Is this royal stranger yours?
Her face has Historia written all over, but those eyes are unmistakeable—they’re the same ones you share with your mother—sharing both color and shape.
I really hope, for her sake, it isn’t true.
How cruel of a father does that make you?
✙
I am 28.
Mikasa is 28.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is May.
Zeke has a lot of apologists. He’s become even more popular after his death; kind of like a martyr, in the eyes of his particular group. One of his followers wrote a biography about him and it gained a ton of notoriety. It’s set to be distributed to Aysia as well, as soon as they can translate it into Hizurean and Shainese.
I must admit, it’s a good read. It’s pretty accurate to his voice; it shows his ideology clear as day, and feels like the Zeke I spoke to before he died.
I don’t know how the book’s translation will affect us—the perception of us—in the long run, but it can definitely sway very far in either direction, depending on our luck.
But I digress.
The more I read about your big brother, through interviews with his comrades, superiors, equals, and followers, the more I find myself warming up to his ideals.
Euthanasia… It’s a softcore genocide. It’s forced sterilization but… I can see why he came to that conclusion. I can see why Tom Ksaver was drawn to it.
In the broader sense, it’s known as anti-natalism. It’s the complete opposite of your ideology. In this belief, it is stated that the best gift you can give someone is for them to have never been born, because human existence contains far too much suffering—it’s a rigged game where nobody really wins.
And I just know you loathed it when he told you, because I despised it when he told me.
But the more I think about it… he may have convinced me, the same way I convinced him.
It wouldn’t stop us from living our lives. It wouldn’t stop us from love or sex. We’d still grow old and withered and non-threatening. We just wouldn’t produce a generation behind us that would suffer undeserved punishments.
You may see it as stealing freedom—withholding our ability to create families, freedom to continue being, to leave a piece of us behind, even after we’ve died—but you have no right to judge, considering that your method of freedom has always involved taking from others…
He had good intentions. I don’t blame him for wanting to offer up the few for the many…
I don’t know how to explain it.
You two really are brothers… trying to enforce your wills on everyone else, without the common courtesy to ask for permission.
✙
I am 28.
Mikasa is 28.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is June.
Mikasa and Jean’s wedding was every bit as beautiful as I could imagine.
She was radiant—she looked otherworldly, weightless—and Jean was smiling ear-to-ear, teary-eyed.
Mikasa insisted Levi be the one to usher her down the aisle as the ‘father,’ because she wanted to make use of her last surviving blood relative. Levi grumbled about it, trying to act like he wasn’t incredibly touched to be apart of something so special. I saw the smile on him. It was a nice distraction from the painful truth of the matter—the fact that those two were the last of a dying breed.
I pretended not to be bothered by the sneaky glances he stole at me and Annie.
Considering everything—who Annie was—I couldn’t blame him.
But today was the bride’s day, and her aura let everybody know it. Mikasa looked like she could step off into the air at any given moment, looking light as a feather, decorated with white flowers of all different shapes. She looked exactly like how I imagine fairies from epic fictions.
She and Jean wore their pain like accessories, and together, they painted a wondrous picture.
They read their vows for one another and that was the moment the dam in me burst.
I cried like a baby for my friends, and Annie, always two steps ahead, was at my side with a handkerchief.
I was grateful.
✙
I am 30.
Mikasa is 30.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is November.
I married Annie.
It was the natural progression of things. We’ve liked each other for a long time—but we were too caught up in denying ourselves nice things that we waited until thirty to make things official, not only between us, but in the eyes of the law as well.
Our marriage was quiet. Not a bombastic show with lots of attention; we preferred being guests at those sorts of things. Our union was simply the signing of a paper, the exchanging of rings, and a muted kiss—because we were shy in front of the officiator—preferring to let out our devious passions in the privacy of our home.
We discussed, long in advance, our stance on children. Neither of us find ourselves sane enough to be fit parents. Her mind is too fragmented and mine is too warped. She has a tendency to get frigid and apathetic, and I have a habit of overheating and melting under pressure. The damage we’d do to a child mentally is a sin we’d much rather not carry, let alone collaborate on. We’ll save our love for each other. At least, we’re old enough to handle it.
We’re already here.
I love her for it. She understands me, without words, without longwinded explanations, without speeches, and sometimes, without even a look into my eyes. By something as little as the twitch of my hand, Annie, my darling wife, knows me.
✙
I am 31.
Mikasa is 31.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is July.
I miss you so fucking badly, Eren. I want you here so much. If I cry any harder, I’ll lose my breath and die.
Annie held my hand—apparently I was trembling, thinking of you—and it made me spiral.
I’m haunted by you. I feel phantom sensations of your touch—that constant grip you had on my hand as kids, and even as cadets. Tender. Caring. Gentle. The hands you used to shield me, to protect me, to cover me, to beat the brakes off of me. I miss you. And it’s not fair. You died. You martyred yourself. In your own sick way, you’re the hero, the devil the world asked for, the one Eldia needed. But what about my needs? What about yours? You turned yourself into the world’s most devastating natural disaster for what? You staged this elaborate suicide for what? You died, cruelly, before I could tell you what a piece of shit you’ve become; that you’re every bit of devil they called you! You died as a savior to the few, monster to the many… and you did all of that, leaving me behind to live in the world you created, dipped in innocent civilian blood—and I miss you disastrously, even though my blood was part of the first batch you used for your grotesque statement.
Fuck you.
I don’t say it enough.
I miss the Eren who was my friend; the one who was my savior with no ambiguity. Why couldn’t you hold onto that piece of yourself, even for the sake of appearances? You claimed you did everything you did for the love of us…
Where was the Eren that showed his love for me? The one who fought off my bullies, held my hand, kissed my cheeks, and praised me?
Where was the Eren that called me soft and pretty, but didn’t mean it negatively? The one who told me it was alright to be those things, so long as I wasn’t weak? The one who never disparaged me?
Did he ever exist?
You used your future to influence your past; and your past influenced your future! Was any of it real? Was the child I grew up with another calculated diversion? Was it a scheme of the Attack titan?
Who were you? Who was my friend?
Who the fuck are you?
And more importantly, what gave you the gall?
Knowing that you’ll never answer, as long as I keep on breathing, pisses me off to no end. I wish I could tap into the Coordinate, the Paths. The only way I could figure out what’s real with you is if I dug up your cold, dead hands and held them in my own, hoping the sensation could speak where your mouth failed. If I believed hard enough, perhaps I could even reanimate you. It’d at least give me something.
I miss you and I loathe you dearly.
I hate how I still flinch at the mention of your name. I thought I had outgrown that.
✙
I am 33.
Mikasa is 33.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is May.
My jaw hurts from clenching it so hard.
I’m nervous.
I don’t know why they keep sending me on business in Marley, especially in a place like Liberio, where I have such a dark history.
They say it’s because I’m a decent orator. I serve as a good representative for the island; even though I’m a stammering mess, my thoughts bounce around my head without the faintest hint of slowing down, and they show up as messy squiggles when I try to write them out. But somehow I’m the man for the job.
I think it is precisely because of my history with Liberio, that the government sees it fit to torture me, forcing me to ride in stuffy automobiles through a city I crushed under my foot.
It may have been rebuilt, bigger and better than before, but I know what it was built on top of. The foundation is made of the burnt ashes of its former inhabitants. Now there are parents pushing strollers, children skipping down sidewalks, elders chatting, people breathing—and it was full of the same thing back when I stomped my gigantic foot atop all of it—turning all of this same friendly neighborhood noise into screams of terror and fright. I burnt babies, scorched mothers, liquefied fathers, wholly evaporated elders, and seared through orphans. I killed sons, daughters, friends.
The people here now, on the other side of this tinted window, some of them don’t know that the man who killed their family members is hiding amongst them, pretending to be a diplomat.
I’m a knock-off. A bastardization. A phony.
I wish they could see through the glass and hit me with the ire I deserve. They should be able to scream at me for their fallen people, they should run me out of town with pitchforks, guns, and threats to take my head off my shoulders. I’ve earned all of that.
They should know that the man who killed them is now hiding under a banner of unity, masquerading as one of their own, after willingly slaughtering them. After all, Liberio was an internment zone, full of ethnic Eldians. I—better yet, we—essentially showed up to our extended family members’ homes to set it ablaze.
What horrible cousins we are.
They were right to be wary about some of us.
I was a creature large enough and volatile enough to kill millions with just a transformation! I was nothing but steaming shoulders and sunken eyes… These people have every right to see me and trample me under their feet instead.
✙
I am 33.
Mikasa is 33.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is October.
I should’ve died that day. I should’ve killed myself the moment I was done speaking with you in the paths.
I miss the paths. I miss knowing that there was a place—even if only imaginary—where all of our minds converged—a Coordinate where every Eldian crossed; a center to our world. I wish that place was still accessible; I wish it was physical, so I could pinpoint it on a map and go there.
I still have much to say to you. It’s like… when you have an argument, and in the midst of your emotions, your brain fogs up. I was overwhelmed. I didn’t say everything—and even with telepathy on our side, you couldn’t hear what I didn’t say. In that case, it’s totally my fault. Grief made it difficult to organize my thoughts. I couldn’t compartmentalize as efficiently as I was taught. My years of deescalation practice went out the window.
I want to hug you in that sea of blood we made together. I want to feel my knees getting scratched up by the terrain of bones, teeth, and scalped skulls. I wish our dead still spoke.
Do you think we’ll be able to communicate in Hell? Is it the worst day of your life, repeated forever, to the point where there’s nothing you can do but cry? Or is Hell a constant surge of flames licking at your skin—charring your flesh to the point where your vocal cords drown in their own boiling blood? If that’s all Hell is, I must say, I’ll be disappointed. I’ve been burnt alive before; I could take it. Eventually, I’d get used to it. It’d become my natural state… If that’s really all it is, then by now, it’s become your natural state a well, right, Eren? It’s not adequate punishment for what I’ve done—so it’s definitely not appropriate punishment for what you’ve done either! But for now, I don’t care, I just want to see you. I want to hit you back. I’ve matured physically; I should be strong enough to properly fight you—especially if you’re still nineteen. You hit me, when I least expected it—I never expected it from you, which is likely why the grudge is so thick over thirteen years later. I want to hit you back… as myself, not as the Colossal titan… because you hit me as Eren.
You were my savior and you hit me.
I miss you, you… abuser. I do.
✙
I am 33.
Mikasa is 33.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is December.
I traveled to the Mid East to dodge the snow. More specifically, I went to two neighboring countries, Miraq and Slyria. The two governments dedicated a city to all those lost in the Rumbling, right on the center-line of their border. It was an especially kind gesture because the two nations had an antagonistic history prior, but completely disregarded it when they lost such huge portions of their population in an instant. They became united, linked by their losses, focusing on the new horizons that came with the future.
Still, stepping into this sandy city, full of astonishing sights and massive shows of human ingenuity, pains me… because at every turn, it reminds you that this area is a memorial. Every public office is named after a family lost in the disaster. Their hospitals have plaques at the entrance, roughly translating to a dedication poem for all the babies lost in the chaos—trampled by titan and human feet, thrown off cliffs, killed with their parents, killed in the womb.
It makes me sick, walking through the silver streets, because those boys we met—the ones you spoke to, Ramzi and Halil, were Slyrian. They would’ve been adults by now, next generation pioneers. They would’ve loved this town. Instead of the sound of airstrikes, there’s birds and commercial planes in the air. Instead of streets ensanguined with ankle-deep blood, the roads are lined with silver, sourced from both nations.
They were refugees, escaping war and poverty… this is exactly what they needed.
They would’ve grown to be far better men than me—but instead, they morbidly got crushed by a foot that could’ve easily been my own. They were crushed by mindless, gargantuan, flaming demons—and somehow, that’s worse than war, because at least in war, there’s a reason, at least you see it coming.
It’s just sad. The children were caught in the cross-steps.
Did you watch? Or did you avert your eyes as it was happening? Did you sleep? Did you feel the bones of your fishy body scrape against the world’s underbelly like a rake? Did you feel the sensation of forcibly separating the pregnant from their children—dragging bodies as the fetuses hung out by the cord?
The Slyrians were migrants, fleeing war. They didn’t want to die like soldiers… and yet, war came to them, giving them a death with far too much style—one that hurts even after it’s already killed you. These people, who knew nothing about Eldians, died like Eldian scouts.
Titan-related deaths were reserved for us. King Karl Fritz wrote it in his genes to ensure it. But you craftily worked around that…
Maybe Hell is the Rumbling.
But instead, it’s completely out of anyone’s control, going after whoever deserves it, enacting supernatural justice. Maybe we’ll be chased by a million Colossals, and we’ll hold hands and scramble away like little boys, searching for that cabin in the woods that doesn’t exist. We’ll look for Mikasa and all our other friends, and we won’t be able to find them. They won’t be able to save us. We’ll just have to hope we’re man enough—devil enough—to handle the retribution we’ve earned.
As I walk through Slyraqi Love City, under their gorgeous sky, I wonder if hell is a beating—lashings, given to us by the ghosts of all our victims. Something that looks like Ramzi could whip you. Something else that resembles the Marleyan junior warriors, Gabi and Falco’s friends, like Udo, can whip me.
The Mid East is absolutely picturesque when it isn’t darkened by war. In that regard, you were right. It took a bigger, badder beast to halt their conflict…
But still, I wonder how they’d react, knowing I once had the ability to turn into the monster of their nightmares. Would they still greet me with warm smiles and ‘peace be upon you’? Would they happily apply kohl onto my eyes and praise me for something as simple as eating their food with my hands, the way it was meant to be eaten? Would they still chuckle as they wrapped a keffiyeh over my head and proudly say I looked like a local? If I told them that the man who eliminated 94% of their countries—their culture, their history, and future—was my best friend, what would they say?
✙
I am 34.
Mikasa is 34.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is February.
They’re expecting.
Jean and Mikasa have a baby on the way.
Jean is elated and Mikasa is carrying beautifully. They both have a dazzling glow about them, like this is exactly what they needed.
Jean told me that the baby has already fueled him with more purpose, giving him the drive to live fuller and better—because his life is no longer just his own. By his excitement alone, I can tell he’ll make an excellent father. Mikasa’s belly looks nothing more than a slight pudge, but she rubs at it endlessly, murmuring about how she can’t wait to meet her child face-to-face.
Connie’s excited to be an uncle. When he found out, he hugged Mikasa as if she’d done him a favor, and kissed her cheek like she was going to vanish.
It made me think of Mirah, my so-called goddaughter, who has no father, and is stuck with me—the craven who deserted her when I was assigned to fill that void.
It makes me think of Historia and forces a bitter frown on my face.
Mikasa borrowed a ton of translated Hizurean books, and now, more than ever, she was interested in etymology, wanting to find the perfect Hizurean name for her child to honor her mother’s clan.
I’m reluctant to shoot it down because it’s such a sweet gesture, but her child is going to be even less Hizurean than her—it was going to be nothing more than symbolism.
Still, as one of her best friends, she wanted my opinion on some of the names she liked.
She aimed for unisex names, so that it’d fit no matter what they got; and the short list she formed was insightful, in the sense that it exposed exactly what she thought of herself. The names say a lot, without saying much at all.
雨音. Amane, ‘rain sound.’
ひびき. Hibiki, ‘echo.’
みさお. Misao, ‘blossom.’
ミレイ. Mirei, ‘graceful.’
烈. Retsu, ‘violent.’
You can probably guess which one is my favorite.
Still, as foreign as these names sound on the tongue, I find them very easy to write. Perhaps that’s a byproduct of our ancient history with Hizuru, borrowing their writing system and blending it with the sounds of our own language over the years. And now we’ll have another child of Hizurean descent, born on the island, native to the island.
Whatever. That’s irrelevant now.
I just hope they choose the name I like.
✙
I am 34.
Mikasa is 34.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is August.
Mikasa has given birth. It went well, she’s recovering nicely and the baby is healthy and very bubbly. Jean laughs a lot while tending to him, saying he came out chunky like he did.
They didn’t pick my favorite name but seeing the baby, it doesn’t even matter. He’s a gorgeous little boy, with huge dark eyes that reflect light like a peek into the night sky.
I’m an uncle now. Really. It’s a surreal feeling. He’s a cute little thing. He’s round. He held my finger when I first got to hold him. It was enough to break my heart a little bit. It tore and rebuilt the small piece that was still there. He has a lot of hair, jet black like Mikasa’s and freely-moving like Jean’s. According to Uropean zodiacs, early August births are represented by the Leo constellation. That means it’s quite literally written in the stars for this child to be as fierce and passionate as a lion. It’s a comforting implication. No matter what life throws at him, he’ll be ready.
He’s free. He’s free enough to be bigger and better than any of us ever were, without having to hurt anyone. He’s beyond our wildest imaginations already; represented by an animal we never knew existed! I can’t help but think the name they chose fits him just right. You’d hate how he came into existence, but I have a feeling that if you saw him, you’d love him stupidly, just like the rest of us do. Connie is already fantasizing about all the games and myths he’ll teach the boy once he’s grown a bit. It’s great.
I wish you’d speak back. In a dream, a vision, anything. I wish we could meet in the Paths. Then I could point and laugh at you—tease you like a bully, just once. While holding Mikasa and Jean’s child in my arms, my new nephew, I’d smugly smile at you and ask if you were jealous. As much as writing these diaries allow me to gather my thoughts… I can’t escape the more pernicious thought that all of these notes will be read by all the wrong people.
But Misao. He’s theirs. He’s family.
The two of them have a good thing. They’ve fought for it; they earned it. Parenthood already looks so good on them. It fits like a glove.
✙
I am 34.
Mikasa is 34.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is October.
Annie got pregnant.
I don’t know why I wrote it like that—as if I didn’t have direct involvement in it as well—but it doesn’t matter. She told me after she had already gotten the abortion. Apparently she had to drink something… it was the cause of her sudden fever a few weeks ago.
I don’t question her about it… I have no energy to feel too strongly about it either.
She was never fit for motherhood. She said it herself. The only example of motherhood she had was her father, who hardened her for war. I’m satisfied with being everyone’s uncle. It’s okay. It doesn’t feel particularly good. It hurts quite a bit; but it’s not unbearable, it won’t kill me—so I’ll swallow it and push forth silently.
Though I find myself mourning this potential, hypothetical, nonexistent, imaginary, theoretical, notional, unborn child who I know nothing about… I know I can shake this discomfort off of my skin because, for Annie, it was the right thing to do.
It’s okay.
I have tears blurring my vision—unfortunately—and I suddenly feel so attacked when I look at Mikasa and Jean and how their bond doubled—unfortunately—but it’s okay.
It’s okay.
✙
I am 35.
Mikasa is 35.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is May.
I met with Mirah today. Our princess.
She’s sixteen now. Regal, with a constant, stubborn look of determination fixed in her gaze, just like her mother—just like you; like an Attack titan. She’s taller than Historia now, too, which is kind of charming, but also alarming because she’s starting to look more like you.
Maybe I’m imagining things.
She has an assignment due for school, requiring the research of a historical figure. Despite having the Queen at her disposal, and a library stocked full of much older figures from the world over, she’d rather make her work tougher and do a solo interview with me.
I suspect, in part, that it’s just for a chance to speak with me, and I don’t blame her… since I have a habit of dodging her like the plague.
I’m the supposed ‘godfather’ she hears so much about, yet never sees.
It’s cruelty to be so absent when I’m still alive.
She’ll have to forgive me.
Anyway, the interview goes about as well as I expect. She’s too clever for her own good, seeing through me like I was made of glass, and quick with a snide comment that is more analytical than malicious.
“My mom tells me you’re pretty smart, that you were a tactician,” she said.
To this, I regretfully admitted to being fifteenth Commander, trying not to wince at the memory of Hanji’s final charge—their suicide mission—which doubled as my inauguration.
As the questions flew, her pen assaulted the pages of her notebook, roughly writing down all of my responses—digging and searching for more detail, as if she wanted to excavate every crevice of my mind. Her hunger and thirst for knowledge was like staring at a mirror of my younger self—or perhaps, what I could be, if circumstances were only a bit different—if I was born in a different class or within a different landmass. The way she yearned for knowledge was voracious and gluttonous; she was willing to hear the most grotesque details I had to offer, willingly inviting me to spill all my old secrets alongside our crimes against humanity.
She told me she wanted to be a journalist and it fit like Cinderella’s shoe. She’s a ruthless thief who lowers your guard with a friendly face, before stealing the story right out of your hands.
I wonder if she was born like that, or if she inherited the worst traits from her mom—from all of us—the worst traits of the 104th.
Once we were done, I left a note for Historia. In it, I apologized. I hope Mirah didn’t read it, but frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she did.
On my way out, I told her to keep doing well in school.
✙
I am 42.
Mikasa is 42.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is December.
Levi has died. It was soul-crushing, as it felt like his very existence was once of the things keeping the Scouts together in our civilian lives.
Mikasa, though she regretfully wasn’t that close with him, was utterly destroyed—with the last remnant of her family being taken… She truly was the last. Their era would soon come to a complete end. It was just her and her son, who didn’t even bear the name, who only met Levi when he was too young to remember, who Mikasa and Jean prayed would never have to unlock any Ackerman abilities.
It hurt all of us deeply, like a knife to the throat.
It wrecked Gabi, and by extension, Falco. He had become her mentor, something like a life coach, something adjacent to a father. Seeing her weep over him made me itch to comfort her. She wailed that it was just a week before his birthday…
Something about him seemed so invincible—impervious to everything, even old age.
But it soothes me, knowing it was peaceful and painless—our Captain deserves that much.
He’s given an honorary statue, portraying one of his finer days, before he was crippled—in shimmering iceburst—with his sword pointed daringly towards the sun, so high in the sky it’s nearly titanic, and he stares at it with determination, with a goal placed in his heart.
If nothing else, it was accurate to who he was in the field. Unyielding. Unrelenting. Driven.
I hope the Coordinate still exists for people like him. He deserves to laugh and catch up with his comrades over a cup of tea or booze or whatever he’d prefer in that moment. He deserves to have it perpetually at the right temperature. He deserves to reunite with the squad that my wife killed. He’s hurt so much… quietly. He deserves Hanji at his left and Erwin at his right, and his fallen subordinates welcoming him with smiles in their eyes. He deserves to rest in peace.
Please, please, Captain Levi—rest in peace.
✙
I am 43.
Mikasa is 43.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is March.
The Yamaicans have a phrase, ‘he who won’t hear must feel.’
I never gave much thought to our national anthem, but as I listen to it in its entirety, I realize how radical it is compared to others. Truthfully speaking, it’s fucked up! But this is the one thing I confidently can say isn’t our fault. Paradis Island never had a fair chance to develop a solid culture outside of the context of war and giant maneaters—outside of the context of being trapped in an enclosure and literally dying to get out! It makes sense that our greatest pride is how many mindless titans we can slice to bits—how much flesh we can mince and tear through for the sake of our survival. We sing proudly about the steaming blood on our blades and the weariness that comes with long, repetitive battles; while other nations boast beautiful landscapes, soulful people, fraternity, and charity. We don’t have that—we could never afford to do that.
I was at a show when I first heard the song completely with no distractions. It was in the concert hall built in the heart of the nation. If we still had walls, this would be the innermost one, meaning this song was blaring from the very center of our world. It was for a play for dozens of our esteemed guests from around the world. To my surprise, it was Mirah who performed it. Our anthem, ‘Opfert eure Herzen,’ describes a hellscape that sounds incredibly wild to me—who lived through it—so I can only imagine how absolutely unhinged and egregious it sounds to our foreign visitors!
It’s a song of doom and gloom, featuring booming instruments and eerie vocals, highlighting the stubborn few of us who dared to fight against fate—to combat the unfair cards we were dealt in this cruel world—for the sake of those we lost.
It has potential to be uplifting… but in a way, this exact song has been silently echoed in those very hearts we dedicated, encouraging us to move further and further in the wrong direction. I’m not confident standing in the aftermath of what we’ve done. But it’s already done—our hearts are no longer our own and we’re beyond the point of asking for them back—they belong to the state, to Paradis, to Eldia.
And Mirah will continue to sing that bloodstained song… loud and unashamed, like a bird, ignorant to the cruel truth of her words and how deep they cut.
✙
I am 43.
Mikasa is 43.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is April.
Annie says I’m too attached to my notebooks.
I told her they’re one of the main things keeping me alive.
She rolled her eyes, saying I was clinging to the past and it was an unhealthy amount of torture—especially considering the fact that those memories haunted all of us already, and I had no business running towards them—seeking out more agony.
I’m masochistic like that; always have been. Looking for trouble without a single intention of fighting back the misfortune that falls into my lap afterwards. Unless, of course, I believed I was fighting for others.
Because I’m not enough to fight for.
You hated that about me, yeah? You said it made me weak… unnecessarily, unbearably weak and fragile. I wish you spoke to me. I wish our dead spoke. I write these notes because I want to touch you so bad, even now, decades later, and I can’t. The world has changed so much in the last few decades, and yet, instead of basking in it, I try to force you back into my mind, into my dreams, into my little sections of the paths that no longer converge—into my little beachside sandcastle. These thin sheets of compiled paper are all I have—the only thing I can do to keep you alive even if its purely sentimental and confined to a you that only exists in my head. I hate you. Why’d you make me feel this way? Why can’t I shake it? You’ve infected me.
When Annie read me like an open book, in few words, like she always did… I could only shrug at her… because what the hell do you say to that?
She’s right.
Maybe in a final act of self-inflicted torture, I’ll have my most shameful thoughts published and tarnish my name on the way out. Maybe it’ll be a teachable moment for the rest of the world, reading the sappy, disorganized, raw thoughts of a man who’s clearly lost himself to himself—it’ll tell them what not to do… who not to be like.
I love Annie. I love her so much. I’m glad we’ve tied ourselves together in this way. It’s like she was made for me; regardless of the circumstances of our meeting, not even an ocean could separate us. I’m thankful for that. Eternally. Whenever I’m too deeply buried under the weight of my own thoughts, she pulls me out—ripping through the heavy stones in my head to reach me, like a miner digging for treasure.
She treasures me. She respects me. She loves me. For what I am. And all the bullshit underneath.
I’ll hug her extra tight tonight.
I love her.
And I love you.
✙
I am 43.
Mikasa is 43.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is June.
Annie’s dad died.
She says he was the main thing keeping her alive.
Her words nearly steal the breath out of my lungs.
She’s always been depressed, but having me around was enough to keep her buoyant in a sea of despair. Now, I fear that that alone isn’t enough. Love on its own isn’t enough.
I’ve watched her cry more in the last three weeks than I’ve seen in an entire lifetime of knowing her. I’ve hugged her to the point where she’s tired of my touch—tired of feeling my arms wrap around her. I’m isolated from her. She won’t speak. I hate it. I want to help her; I want to know what she’s thinking… but I can’t do anything if she’s shoving me away and hiding from me.
I know certain things are hard to say. I wish she’d show me. Her father’s the only one who can comfort her now. For that, I wish our dead spoke. He could talk to her, if we were pulled into that timeless place again.
She’s scaring me. She’s losing weight.
Something selfish and impulsive in me wants to tell her that losing parents isn’t the end of the world, but those are the absolute worst words to say, and I know it.
It’s beyond insensitive. It’s heartless. I’m heartless. But I don’t care about her dad; I care about her… and she’s scaring me.
Her grief is scaring me.
✙
I am 44.
Mikasa is 44.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is June.
Exactly one year from her father’s passing… Annie killed herself.
In her note, she said she loved me, that I was somehow too good for her; and I could almost laugh if I wasn’t convulsing with sadness every day and drowning under the weight of my own tears. The heavy thoughts in my head only got heavier in her absence.
I don’t know why she gave me such high praise, such compliments—she was seeing me through rose-tinted lenses. Maybe, in her last moments of lucidity, she saw me, and could only fathom the good in me, even when it was so greatly overshadowed by everything else.
She probably felt euphoric, finally saying goodbye to a world she was long detached from. In a way, that brings me comfort; but the selfishness in me still wants my wife back. Here. At my side. Silently supporting me when she didn’t have the words. Brushing my bangs out of my eyes and giving me a cheeky smile that was exclusively for me. Rubbing my shoulders as I write in my stupid diary. Kissing my neck. Dragging her teeth against my skin. Anything.
She loved me. I loved her.
I love her!
I just hope it didn’t hurt. If she had told me her plans, we could’ve gone together. It would’ve been better than this—than her leaving me alone. But I know what that mentality feels like… she probably would’ve felt guilty and selfish if she brought it up—but I think it’s even more devilish to put me in this position.
I really hope it didn’t hurt.
My sweet girl. My Annie…
Everyone rallies around me in support and it feels refreshing, in a sense, knowing that the bonds hadn’t fizzled out despite our demanding lives. Reiner visited. He cried for her like they were best friends. In my grief-stricken haze, I found it endearing. He stays with me for a while, helping me get everything in order while we’re both actively falling apart. I like it because it adds some extra footsteps in the house, even though they’re heavier, slower, and louder. They’re solid and real and Reiner’s a friend so it softens the blow. It reduces the pain of reality, even if it’s only by a tiny bit.
I begged him, once, to not do what she did. He begged me not to do the same and promised me that he’d get rid of all his guns, to free himself of the temptation whenever he found his thoughts darkening.
We spent our days crying together, turning ourselves into husks, like empty titans with no pilot in the nape, steaming and fading into the atmosphere.
He hugged me tightly each and every time. I stained his shirts every single time. And neither of us complained.
✙
I am 44.
Mikasa is 44.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is July.
Reiner goes back home to Marley, and it kind of hurts, detaching from him—the only person who’d known Annie longer than I had—but he has a family to go home to, so of course he can’t spend time consoling me on our tiny little island in my even tinier house.
When he leaves, Mikasa and Jean take me in as a temporary fix. It’s really because they don’t trust me by myself.
My house is too empty—too hollow, too spacious. I need the noise of other voices or else my mind may create its own. They’re worried about my sanity.
I don’t blame them. I worry about it too.
The three of them make good company, especially the boy.
It is by living with them that I learn Misao has had an Eldian name all this time.
Soren. Though no one really says it a lot. Usually its only uttered when he’s in trouble. Their familial banter is entertaining; watching Jean snap at him out of concern whenever he attempts something dangerous or plain stupid, only to offer him a safer way to do that same thing. There’s a lot of laughter. And Misao, not coming from a world of death and hurt, can still read my abnormal moods, and finds a way to make me chuckle with childish jokes that don’t really make sense, while smiling and showing off his chipped tooth.
He talks to me a lot—about anything he finds interesting… and I listen to his ramblings because his innocent voice brightens up the dark hole within me. In observing him, I notice how stark the difference is, between him at ten and us at ten. I wonder if that’s how ten-years-old is really supposed to look. He’s not only allowed to be a child but encouraged to be a child! We were just cattle, as you used to say. We could never afford the luxury of childhood. None of us, no matter where we were on the map, so long as we had Ymir’s blood in our veins, were allowed to be kids. We were either cattle, cowering behind walls, or juvenile titans in the making. And yet, we fought against our destiny, for our right to live and live well, so now we get to watch it in our descendants.
Misao said something silly about a game he and some of his schoolmates made up. I think he was trying to teach me how to play but I didn’t quite understand the rules. To be honest, they were quite contrived—it involved hopping on one leg and spinning. Regardless, whatever I said amused him enough to make him laughed so hard he cried.
And me, ever weak to his charms, cried as well.
I think he learned the difference between his tears and mine in that moment… because he hugged me tightly… and I felt like, if there were devils, there were angels too.
I cried like a baby in the arms of a baby.
✙
I am 50.
Mikasa is 50.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is May.
I’ve been formally diagnosed with “post-traumatic stress disorder.” Otherwise, known as PTSD or ‘shell shock’, in some other corners of the world.
I can’t say I’m surprised.
We all felt it, we just never had a name for it.
In fact, I’d say it was pretty obvious that all of us were shell shocked after the Rumbling, especially those of us in the thick of it, we were just too stubborn to go get diagnosed.
I’d rather wear my punishments on my sleeve than get medicated. The pills, teas, and herbal remedies should be used on the people whose families got crushed right in front of them. That’d be a better use of those meds. Those people still have a lot to give to the world—a lot of greatness locked in their minds behind thick walls of trauma, that need to be broken and unlocked. I have already given my all. I’ve served.
It’s odd though, having a name placed on this mental illness that’s worn on my bones for decades. It’s like now that it has a name, it’s become more powerful, with its hold on me tightening steadily each passing hour.
Really, really strange.
On top of the anxiety and depression, I’m clinically insane.
It’s comical.
I guess this is freedom. Freedom in your world. Right, Eren?
The freedom to drive yourself mad and feel all of your wildest, darkest thoughts attacking you within the confines of your own psyche—
I mean, really… take a good look at what your friend has become. I’m an old man, writing letters to the ghost of a dead teenager.
I should’ve let you go a long time ago.
But I can’t.
I refuse to. Stubbornly.
I can only sit here and write—suffering in a world that still silently, and rightfully, hates me, suspects me, is waiting for the moment I go Colossal again, and pull back on every word of goodwill I promised. They still tiptoe around me for fear that I’ll explode—they look at me and under the thin gaze of human respect and etiquette, they despise me, not for something my ancestors did two millennia ago, but for what I did, only a few short decades ago.
It was not that long ago—as much as my mind and body try to trick me into thinking otherwise, because life is so short and fleeting—I can’t shake the hard truth that the aftershocks of what we did still rock the world today—because it was a mere blink ago—and it’ll rock the world for years to come; just like the first Fritz did, just like Ymir did!
The new world we built is baked in blood and horror…
The doctor says I shouldn’t stress myself because it’s not good for my heart…
But I wonder, what heart are they speaking of?
You took that to the grave with you. You took half. The first portion. And Annie took the second portion with her.
How selfish of you both.
How devilish of you.
✙
I am 51.
Mikasa is 51.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is April.
Birds follow Misao around.
It had always been a thing people noticed, but it’s become more pronounced with age. The more he grows, the more little woodland creatures seemed to shadow his every movement. It has a storybook quality to it. It’s equally as charming as it was inconvenient.
He told me he hated it because it was creepy when they followed him in such large quantities, marching one after the another just to be near him.
At first, it was a funny idea, but seeing how much it bothered him made my mood sink as well. And then a realization hit.
Paths.
The Coordinate.
Just because we no longer have access doesn’t mean it no longer exists.
Eren… if that’s you—your consciousness manipulating the real world, through these animals, speaking to and through Mikasa’s son—
Stop.
It better not be.
It better not be what I’m thinking.
But this world is so cruel and twisted that that could very well be a possibility—
Stop.
Leave him alone.
Misao may look like Mikasa, he may look like Jean, but he’s not them. He doesn’t know you; he’s not your friend. He doesn’t owe you anything.
He’s only seventeen. He’s a baby. Allow him to be a kid. He doesn’t need to grow up the way we did. He has a crush on a young lady from his school. Noemi, I think, was her name. He wants to take her out to a dance. He stupidly asked me for advice. Talking about her makes him laugh and blush the same way Mikasa used to when she was too cold. I like seeing it. I want him to stay a child as long as possible. He complained about his grade in his science class. These should be his only problems; his only concerns. I don’t want to talk about the Coordinate to him. I don’t want to give him the long tangent about how all Eldians are connected and meet at a spiritual point where life and death intersect. I don’t want to have to explain you.
Leave him out of it.
You’ve hurt Mikasa enough.
Please.
Worry about Historia and Mirah. At least that makes more sense.
✙
I am 55.
Mikasa is 55.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is September.
I wish I could’ve spoken to the Founder.
I want to interrogate her.
Two thousand years of planning and that was the best she could come up with?
Was her mind really so fragmented that she thought her freedom could only be obtained through terror and violence?
Was it because militarism and slavery was all she knew? Was her mind so severely mutilated that she thought living vicariously through Mikasa—who is leaps and bounds stronger than her, and better in every way—
Did she truly think perverting her affection for you and forcing her hand was the only way?
I wish I could interrogate her! She had 2000 years, and she chose to be a fool.
A pitiful fool who dragged you down with her.
Did you see her memories? Of both the past and future? Did you live them? Feel them? Did it frighten you?
You both used all of that pain to make a deal with each other; you were each other’s earth devils.
It was a deal based on a hatred older than the both of you, spanning over two millennia; one that became an intrinsic part of the majority of humankind.
Your union, your impact was a freak of nature, science, and the soul. You made a spectacle of your combined powers, of your immutable wills.
If there is a god, I’d like to ask them why they dared create people like us.
Why did they set the stakes against us so cruelly?
Onyankopon swore up and down that god is love; all-consuming, passionate love for your friends, your family, your nation, and even strangers, simply for being your fellow man, born into this world.
But while staring at my wrinkly hands, lined with healthy veins pumping healthy blood, living a full life built on the ashes of those I stomped into a fleshy, red purée and boiled alive, I can only see hatred woven into every fiber of my being.
Almost as if, that was the goal of this ‘ultimate creator.’
To use me, as small as I am compared to them, as a plaything.
To make me, and all of us, aware of our suffering, only so it can hit us that much harder.
As if the game wasn’t difficult enough.
I’d rather be mindless.
I miss my Annie.
She loved me despite it all; because of it all. She was pure love. She was my woman. She was the essence of everything I needed to keep pushing. I want to hug her so badly. I miss her soft hair and warm embrace and the way her hand always ended up on my face when we slept. I miss the immediate understanding between us; carrying around the invisible scars that only a titan shifter would understand. The ghost of gashes and deep cuts, healed instantly in a flurry of steam that kept our skin eerily clear and spotless and baby-soft…
I want my Annie.
I want my girl!
Maybe I should’ve stayed at Mikasa and Jean’s house a bit longer; but it’d be really awkward to go back now.
✙
I am 55.
Mikasa is 55.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is June.
Mirah is getting married.
Historia is elated and won’t stop crying. It’s sweet.
The wedding is a national event, with a huge live audience, and a broadcast on every radio in the country. Historia made a speech about the wonderful woman Mirah has grown to be. She praises the kind nature of the man. She also sprinkled in some coded language about struggle that only meant something to those of us who personally knew the royals.
The man is nice. Apparently they met in an office because Mirah liked working, though she had no pressing need to. It was a bit scandalous at first, since he was a common man and a widower, but Mirah fell hard and fast and knew immediately that this man, Flint Hendricks, was destined to be with her.
Her words. Destiny.
He was wise and supportive, just what she needed to uplift her unchained ambition and wishfulness.
And Historia excitedly whispered to me that she could have a grandchild as early as next summer.
The news made me gulp harshly, as if I was choking on air.
I didn’t realize just how fast these kids grew.
Our next generation was already preparing for their next generation.
✙
I am 60.
Mikasa is 60. She’s dead!
You, Eren, are 19.
It is September.
Our best friend, our anchor, our knight—
Mikasa’s dead.
I threw up when I got the news.
I immediately had to pack up and go back to stay with Misao and Jean, to make sure they weren’t too burned by the absence of their third piece.
We planned her funeral and I took over most of the logistics. Jean was too broken. He couldn’t fake it. He cried for hours at a time. I’ve never seen him cry like that, nor have I known him to be much of a crier.
But I understand.
This is a major loss.
One that tears through the chest. One that makes you want to break apart your own ribs, because your chest tightens so much at the mere thought—like your own body is attacking you.
I try to keep up appearances for Jean’s sake; and for Misao’s sake especially, but I’m crumbling too. Mikasa weighs just as heavily on my heart as Annie does, as you do.
It hurts being alone here. It’s like parts of my body are getting snatched off.
It hurts having to look at her face, so much of it, through Misao, while he wails in that unforgettable manner—the guttural, lip-slicing shriek of grief that tears through your organs and leaves your throat feeling like you’ve swallowed shards of glass from how strained it is—the cry that dries your eyes and dampens all of your clothes with water that you can’t keep down—cries of sorrow because there was so much life left—cries because it’s so unexpected and unfathomable!
He doesn’t deserve this.
He doesn’t deserve this.
Jean gets to a point where he stops crying and just stares blankly at the empty seats Mikasa should occupy.
I tell him to sleep in the guest room with me. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do, but I’d much rather have him in my sight than in that room alone, soaking in the fact that the other person who slept on that bed isn’t coming back.
Jean being so quiet bothers me; I know his mind is running a mile a minute, but he won’t tell, so I’m forced to wonder. And I can’t help what I don’t know.
But I know these feelings. And they don’t cooperate with anyone. They are felt as intensely as they come and they ruin everything. Grief is one of the worst of all.
He doesn’t deserve this.
Mikasa, why?
Why couldn’t you give us another ten years?
When they prepared her body, I made sure they laid her to rest in her scarf. She’d want that.
It adds a youthful element to her that kind of consoles me. That thing was her security; it was her anchor to sanity and sensibility. Just like she was mine.
Esteemed guests from Hizuru come to pay their respects. I think it was because of her shogunate relation. I don’t know. Some noble family. I suppose details are irrelevant. Mikasa was important to many people for many reasons. They honor her over there.
Misao soon told us he wanted to leave the island because he found it too restrictive.
Brutally familar words. He sounds like you.
He says he wants to explore the world with Noemi. He sounds like me.
Jean reluctantly gave his blessing, knowing just how badly the young man needed it.
But there was one condition, and that was for Misao to wait until next year to travel. Jean couldn’t be without his son too, not so soon.
Misao is a good kid, understanding, so he agrees.
We cry together some more, in a painful cycle of mourning, with every following day feeling the same as the last.
At night, I held Jean as he cried himself to sleep. I saved my tears for after he was already asleep.
Ironically enough, I think the only thing that would’ve been able to relax me in that state was the sturdy, soothing presence of Mikasa.
It was just so terribly unfortunate.
As Jean slept, I stayed up, reminiscing, revisiting. It was like that for most nights.
✙
I am 61.
Mikasa is 60.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is November.
Jean and Connie died back to back, within a ten-day period, and the news immediately caused me to break down.
I hadn’t felt that far out of my own body in a long time; but dealing with two hefty servings of loss at once made me lose balance. I had no control over myself. I was trapped in my own body, screaming and fighting to get out; to get to them.
My friends are gone.
My family is gone.
Jean died, brokenhearted, which is sad and poetic… and sickens me to the core.
Connie died in a freak automobile accident. It was bad luck. Screwed up fate. A matter of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s the worst way to go. Dying healthily is the worst way to go; the worst possible news to deliver to your loved ones. That death should’ve gone to someone else; it should’ve come to me.
The accident was so bad that the casket had to be kept shut. For our sake, no one was allowed to see his body.
I try to swallow the constant upstream of acidic bile in my throat but I’m an old man now, with a much weaker body.
My sorrow ruthlessly rips through me like bullets—and I can only say that because I know how bullets feel; it’s a feeing you never forget, no matter how long ago, and this sensation pierces me all the same.
Why am I still here?
Surely, I’ve done enough.
I’ve committed my sins and a fair share of good deeds. I’ve tried to redeem us.
I’ve had some fun and made some friends.
I’ve built enough bridges, or at least, laid the foundations for others to finish.
Shouldn’t I be on my way out of here too?
It’s times like this where I wish the thirteen-year curse was still active. At least then I’d die young and beautiful, with less baggage under my belt.
Eren.
You gave us more time, Eren. More life. More opportunities to do better and to fuck up. And to feel the aftershocks reverberating off of every decision, for better or worse.
The freedom you sought tirelessly left me as the last one standing.
Our friends are gone.
The 104th is completed dissolved. Evaporated, like steam, never to be retrieved again.
Eren, I wish our dead spoke.
✙
I am 63.
Mikasa is 60.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is January.
They want to take our iceburst stone.
Well, I suppose it’s more accurate to say they’ve always wanted our iceburst stone, but now they’re willing to corner and bully us to get it! They no longer want to work under the pretense of politeness and cultural sensitivity; but at the same time, no one is eager to go to war again, especially so soon, considering what that would mean for the entire globe.
They’ve sanctioned us. We’re not allowed to trade in certain ports. Some countries have pursued an embargo on our island unless we’re willing to cut them a percentage of our iceburst stone production. It’s an attack on our finances and our miners.
They’re saying it’ll serve as reparations for the environmental and cultural damages of the Rumbling.
I suspect there may be ulterior motives behind everything they’re doing, but at the same time, I can’t fault them for their reasonings. If it was solely up to me, for the sake of peace, I’d probably take their words at face value. I’m too tired to be bothered by longwinded arguments. It was forty-four years ago, less than half a century. The people who survived it are still alive and dealing with the consequences—burns, lost limbs, cancers from smoke inhalation, irreparable mental damage, loss of families, cultures, properties. There’s a lot. In a matter of four days, entire legacies were wiped out of existence and nations were stomped down below sea level! Those were the works of us, our generation, not our ancestors. Of course people would want some sort of compensation; and though we can’t bring back what was lost, we can surely give money.
But…
We just caught up with the rest of the world. Socially. Politically. Technologically.
We can’t risk lagging behind again.
Then we’d only get taken advantage of again.
We have just enough money to take care of ourselves. We don’t have nearly enough to start giving out; especially if we owe the whole world a piece!
I’m elderly so it won’t affect me but what about the generations behind me, who have to deal with the mess?
Mirah and Soren’s generation?
It’s what you and I hate the most, punishing the child for the sins of the father.
Though, I suppose you only hated it when it was done to us.
I don’t know.
I just don’t want to give up that stone. Not yet. It’s our only trump card.
But the UA, the United Accord, is a strong band of superpowers—Tamerica, Nexico, Ritain, Marley, Degypt, Ostrailia, and Franse.
The list of member nations gets longer by the day. They’re rallying more and more support from the rest of the world; we’re becoming divided again, and worse, we’re becoming outnumbered! I can’t help but feel like another conflict is brewing, despite what everybody says… how everyone tiptoes around words that could be seen as a declaration.
I really hope it’s just the PTSD talking. I’m overreacting.
I’m being dramatic.
Yes. Dramatic.
✙
I am 63.
Mikasa is 60.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is February.
Eren, did you and Ymir have the goal of stopping war altogether? Or did you realize how unattainable that was and shift gears?
Did you manipulate the Founder or did she manipulate you?
I honestly don’t know which I’d prefer to hear, or which is stupider.
I hope you weren’t taking orders from a traumatized child.
It’s no wonder you two concocted a plan so insane.
It doesn’t take foresight to know that conflict is a part of human nature. As long as people with different ideals exist, there will be war… So you two’s grand resolution was to kill war by killing the humans who made it possible?
If we hadn’t killed you, would you have simply killed everyone and leave yourself as the last one standing? Is that victory? Is that freedom? Would your conscience be at peace? Did you consider that the right thing?
In the Paths dimension, you showed me a hollow world, void of all human life, teeming with plants and animals and glorious landscapes for us to explore, just the two of us, without the distractions of other people’s worldviews or human faces that didn’t look quite like ours to break our illusion. I put that thought in you, by showing you those nature books. I’ll take that. But you took it to the extreme.
Would you kill all the Aysians and Afrikans and Mid-Easterners? Many of whom were just like us, living in their own isolated bubbles, dealing with internal issues, not bothering anyone else? Would you punish them for being born outside of our three walls, and thus, not worthy of even a hair’s breadth of your mercy?
Was it really us—just us, the small handful of people behind the walls, worthy of your love and protection? So… it’s just… ‘fuck the rest of humanity’? Is that what was going through your mind? Your combined minds?
If you see these diaries, who’s reading them? Eren or Ymir? Is it the both of you? Should I consider you one person?
Eren, I wish you could’ve grown with me a little more. I wonder if you would’ve evolved while witnessing the rapid speed of our world changing.
They’re still advancing towards us, locking us in an enclosure.
They’re chattering about the iceburst stone.
✙
I am 65.
Mikasa is 60.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is December.
I’m sick.
I’m in a constant state of near-death every day and it feels fucking horrible.
But, perhaps, deserved.
For every life I took, I take a weak breath that shatters my insides. It’s glorious. Like a requiem playing for them in my chest.
I breathe a million times a day and suffer through each and every one. It’s horrendous. Fucking terrible.
But it’s great. I’ll wear my hacking cough like a badge of honor. It’s like I’m dedicating my heart to them.
When I spit blood into my handkerchief, I smile.
Death is approaching. If I’m lucky and there’s no punishment after this life, then I’ll at least be able to rest. If there is, well… at least it’ll be a change of scenery.
Whatever it is, I’m tired of being here, all by my lonesome.
If our dead only speak to each other, then I’m glad because I’ll be talking to you soon.
I can’t wait, friend.
I love you all.
✙
I am 66.
Mikasa is 60.
You, Eren, are 19.
It is March.
I’ll cut the dramatics and keep it curt.
I’m dying.
I want to reunite with those whom I love, the only people in history who have ever understood me; my wife, my comrades, my best friends, and past lovers.
I’m stuck in a hospital, plugged up to a machine that is forcing my body to keep working. It’s an excellent feat of science. Human stubbornness amazes me with all the good it can do. I just wish these people weren’t so attached to me; they’re so hellbent on keeping me alive. I’m a living symbol to them, one they don’t want to let go of. I’m a remnant of the old regime, the last hero standing, but I don’t need to stand here anymore. My money is to be donated and my journals are to be published. Everything has been planned out long in advance.
I’ve lived my life. I’ve trekked through the most beautiful mountain ranges. I’ve inhaled the crispest, purest air. I’ve picked the rarest, most gorgeous flowers. I’ve heard the most musical languages. I’ve seen the most heartfelt performances of foreign tribes. I’ve heard the friendly ululations of people who’d never encountered a man with white skin, ‘yellow hair’, and colored eyes. I’ve eaten the strangest, most delectable cuisine, packed with flavors and seasonings we never knew. I’ve seen the most beautiful architecture and learned of the brightest minds of the world. I’ve been to the best seminars and summits. I’ve learned to eat raw fish with sticks. I have received the passionate screams of the haka and the gentle flowing movements and smiles of the hula. I’ve worn dark kohl on my eyes and swam through lands of borderless golden sand.
I’ve slaughtered my cities. I’ve traveled on charity missions to rebuild towns affected by the Rumbling. I’ve personally delivered apology speeches. I’ve promised change and led effort to create change. I’ve been a diplomat, a political pundit, a war hero, a terrorist, a player in the game of the world. I’ve transferred soil to the farmlands that have been charred by the inferno of titanic footsteps. I’ve hugged families. I’ve been shunned and beaten by families. I’ve been cursed in those same beautiful languages.
I’ve had my fun.
This illness is destroying me from the inside. I don’t have the strength to keep writing anymore.
I can’t wait to see you all.
I miss you.
Who would’ve thought the Colossal titan would be beaten by something so mundane? It’s funny.
Yes, I think the writing is over for me… so I’ll go ahead and sign my work.
I love you all.
With all my strange feelings complexities, Armin Arlert.