Summary: After he is wounded in battle and left to die alone, Eren appeals to the enemy for help. Haakon has no pity for the abandoned boy, but takes him as his slave.
Chapter 1
People had always told Eren he needed to have faith. Faith in heaven, faith in redemption, and most importantly, faith in the goodness of other human beings. Faith in man’s capacity to love. He had been promised it would protect him and deliver him from any evil he encountered along his journey. In fact that was one of the last things his mother said to him before he left. But now he didn’t know if he still believed.
Where once there had been faith in a higher power, now there was an emptiness, a gaping chasm in his soul. Because he knew there would be no salvation for him. He knew he wasn’t going to a better place. He knew he would die soon.
His side burned with a white hot fury that refused to be soothed. A blade had pierced his left breastbone, just above his first rib. The blow had cut to the bone; the blade had only stopped cutting through his vulnerable flesh when it hit bone, chipping his rib. The man who had pierced him hadn’t killed him right then. He must have known his work was finished; that there was no need to do anything further.
His left side was bloody, swollen, and horribly bruised. The wicked, throbbing ache tortured him. Now it poisoned his blood as the infection spread through the rest of his body, like a raging fire that consumed him, body and soul. He was shaking and feverish, yet chills continually shot down his spine. He recognized the symptoms of blood poisoning, but he couldn’t close the infected gash above his rib because he couldn’t reach it.
Initially he thought he would survive. This was his land. He knew the terrain, the forests, the wild animals, the plants that could be used to provide relief from pain and cleanse wounds. His mother had taught him all she knew about medicinal roots and herbs, and now he, too, was a healer. But he needed someone to help him with his wound, to stitch it up with his bone needle and thread. He needed to rest. He needed someone to stay with him and care for him, as he had done for many others during this terrible war.
The group of soldiers he was traveling with had left him to die alone, out here in the rugged wilderness. He was to die of his injuries or be slain by the enemy, whichever claimed him first. Without a weapon of his own, he wasn’t supposed to be engaged, but that had done little to stop the enemy. He knew they were ruthless. And yet they were his only hope for salvation. He had been abandoned by his own people. He had cleaned and treated their injuries, but they wouldn’t do the same for him.
Eren was losing faith as hope evaded him, continually slipping from his weakened grasp, flitting away like a bird sprung from a cage, finally free. He was perhaps fatally wounded, exhausted, starving. He was severely dehydrated, yet he had thrown up every last bit of fluid his body had saved, retching with a dry cough as his raw throat burned and closed up. There was no moisture in his mouth to wet his throat or lips; his lips were cracked and bleeding.
His last hope was these men—these invaders from the south. Though he didn’t want to, he had to depend on their mercy and kindness. His own people had betrayed him. In his desperation, he only wished to find some semblance of humanity in their hearts, if there was indeed any to be found.
He had cautiously followed them for the last half day, becoming increasingly blatant in his attempts to get food as despair set in. But they never left their food supply unguarded. He wasn’t a thief, but he was starving to death, and he needed nourishment for his immensely weakened, dying body.
It was either die out here alone, or perhaps find someone who would have mercy on him. He might find someone who would have the compassion to run a sword through his belly or slit his throat. Undoubtedly it would be quicker and less painful than this slow, horrible death. He didn’t have a weapon, but even if he had one, he didn’t think he could end his own life. That would be a sin. But in his most hopeless moments, he almost welcomed dying at another’s hand.
He had to make his move now. Another hour without sustenance or rest, and he would surely be beyond saving. Soon they would know he was feverish and his bones ached and were cold down to the very marrow; he wouldn’t be able to control his trembling or violent shaking any longer. But if these men rejected his plea for assistance, he would have no strength left to resist them or defend himself. It was in God’s hands now. He had always believed, and now he hoped his prayers would be answered.
He chose the man with the limp to approach. Of the three of them, he might be the one to empathize with his injury. He only hoped he would find some kindness in this man’s eyes and mercy in his heart.
ж
Haakon had been a soldier long enough to recognize that they were being followed. He had caught glimpses of the boy in the corner of his eyes. He hadn’t seen his face, but judging by his figure, he assumed he was young. He was surprised that he hadn’t taken more care to hide his presence. In order to risk approaching them, he must be desperate—close to starvation or felled by his injuries. Or perhaps very foolish.
But he had little interest in engaging him. He would wait for the boy to make the first move. He could continue to follow them. It wasn’t doing him any good. He would ignore him, unless he tried to pillage their food or supplies. In that case he would cut him down without hesitation. There were few things he hated more than a thief. They only had enough for themselves. There was none to share. None of them could afford an extra burden.
ж
The sun was just touching the horizon when the boy showed himself. He was young and fair, but his skin was tanned a deeper color from working long hours in the fields. His hair was bleached a golden honey tone from the autumn sun. Upon closer observation, Haakon confirmed that he belonged to the enemy. His coloring was too light to be one of their own.
The boy was bedraggled and dirty and appeared extremely weak. Haakon immediately wondered the cause of the weariness in his eyes—hunger, thirst, injury, loss? He quickly determined that the boy posed no threat to them, so he allowed him to stand before him. He saw both hope and desperation in his light blue eyes. He didn’t know what the boy expected to find here. If he thought that they would take mercy on him simply because he was young, he was mistaken. Haakon had seen too much brutality today; too many horrors to feel any tenderness for or show any gentleness to the enemy, even if he was but a boy. He was weary of the bloodshed, and he felt drained of emotion. He had no sympathy left for this young boy; not when dozens of his own men had been slaughtered today.
Aside from an initial glance, Haakon didn’t look up from his work as the boy stood before him, nearly swaying on his feet, fighting hard to keep himself upright. He didn’t acknowledge him; he continued sitting on a boulder, packing his supplies. He acted disinterested until the boy finally begged him to notice him.
“Please,” he said in a soft, strained voice. “I need your help. I followed you because I thought you might help me. I need—”
“I’m not dense. I know you’ve been following us. That much is clear. You haven’t done much to disguise your presence.”
The boy waited but then continued when he didn’t say anything further. “I need water and food. I haven’t eaten in two days; I’ve hardly had anything to drink either.”
Haakon eyed him, unmoved by his plea. “And what would you have me do about it?” he asked him.
“Just give me a little food and water, I beg of you. I—” He glanced down at his chest. “I need to rest,” he finished.
Haakon remained silent and continued with his work.
“Please, sir.” Wincing, the boy knelt down in the dirt before him and touched his knee lightly. He glanced up at him quickly before lowering his eyes in submission when Haakon stared back at him. “I’m only fourteen,” he said quietly.
“I don’t care how old you are. I don’t care if you’re seven years old. It matters little to me. Do you think I’ll have mercy on you just because you’re a boy? You are no different than the men I’ve killed today, save a few years. I have seen too much cruelty today. I have seen my compatriots slaughtered ruthlessly by your people. Why should I have mercy on someone who helped kill them?”
He spoke calmly and quietly to him, but he knew that every word he spoke commanded the boy’s full attention.
The boy removed his hand from Haakon’s knee and shook his head violently. “No, I didn’t! I’m not a soldier. I carry their supplies for them. I’m a healer. I don’t fight. I wasn’t even given a weapon.”
“Still, you are not one of us. I can tell that much just by looking at you. You’re either a spy, a beggar, or a thief. I do not care which one; I despise each with equal passion. Either way, you only want my help. Why should I give it to you?”
“I’m not a spy, nor am I a thief! I only ask for your assistance.”
“If we had left this food unattended, would you have taken it?”
The boy looked down and didn’t answer.
“You have nothing to offer me in return; nothing to bargain with. I cannot take on an additional responsibility. I do not have food or water for you. Leave us before you anger me.” He turned away from him, unaffected by his desperation.
“Please! I can be of some use to you. I can see you’re wounded.”
The boy cowered a little when Haakon gave him a harsh look. When he did not receive a blow, he continued: “I have knowledge of the land and the plants. I can treat your thigh. I can carry your supplies. I just need a little to eat and drink and to rest for a few minutes.”
“You look like you can hardly carry yourself, let alone my bag. And I can do a fine job of treating myself.” Haakon turned away from him in annoyance.
“I c—I came to you for help,” the boy said desperately. “I came willingly.” He looked both hurt and surprised at the rejection.
Haakon had to suppress a laugh of disbelief. How could this boy think that he owed him anything? “Your coming to me doesn’t mean anything, only that you’re truly desperate,” he said to him.
“I will give you anything. Please.”
“Do not offer me that. Do not offer any man that.” Noting his confused expression, it was clear that the boy didn’t fully grasp what he was offering him.
“No, please! Don’t—” He choked on his words and coughed. “—leave me here,” he finished. “Help me, please,” he pleaded. “You can’t leave me here.” Haakon tried to ignore the tears in the boy’s eyes.
“I can do whatever I please.”
The boy looked side to side in desperation, eyes moving wildly, trying to think of something to say for his last attempt at persuasion, and then cried out, “My mother is sure to reward you for my safe return!”
Haakon looked at him with raised eyebrows. “You’re a slave.”
“I’m not a slave.”
He slapped the boy across the face with the back of his hand. The boy appeared shocked, eyes stinging from the impact. He blinked back tears.
“Don’t lie to me, boy. No free boy looks like you do—like they’ve worked their whole life.”
“I’m an indentured servant. I have a master, but I’m not a slave.”
Haakon thought for a moment. “Yes, you are a slave. And you have a new master.”
The boy glanced at him quickly but didn’t refute his claim of ownership over him. He lowered his eyes, waiting for Haakon to say something.
“Get up,” he said, and the boy struggled to his feet and stood before him. He stepped forward and touched the boy’s shoulders, holding him in place. The boy’s head only came up to his own shoulders. And then he spoke his ultimatum to his new slave:
“I trust you know this is war. I will not be easy on you. You’re living on borrowed time. You will be my slave until I no longer have any use for you. Then you will be at my mercy. You will do anything I bid you to do. You will carry my supplies. You will keep up, regardless of any injuries you may have. You won’t speak unless spoken to. If you prove to be of some use to me, you might survive longer than I expect. But listen closely: If you try to steal anything, I’ll kill you. If you try to run away, I’ll kill you. If you do anything I don’t like, I’ll kill you. Do you understand me?”
The boy nodded weakly.
“I’m giving you a chance right now to walk away. Are you willing to accept what I have just told you? Choose carefully.” He paused. “And so I ask you again: Do you want to go and make your own way, or do you want to stay with me?”
“I want—I want to stay,” the boy stammered.
“So be it.”
ж
In some ways Haakon wished the boy had just walked away from him. Perhaps he agreed to it because he was desperate, or perhaps he was out of his mind. Or perhaps he wanted to extend his life just a few more days and thought that he could change Haakon’s mind. With the wound on his thigh, he did need someone to carry his bag, and a slave would perform the duty to his liking. But he also didn’t want to have to kill the boy. He had done enough killing in the past few days, awakened enough haunted memories, to last a lifetime.
But it didn’t matter what he thought or how he felt. The boy’s fate was already decided. Once they claimed this seemingly barren land as their own and returned home to glory, he would have to kill him. They never took enemies as permanent slaves. It didn’t matter if he agreed or not. He didn’t question it; he accepted it. Perhaps it was callous, but it was a way of life. In this world, in this society, no one lived long and no one was spared Death’s cold embrace. They were all desperate to extend their bleak lives just one day longer. There was no respite or salvation for any of them.
Perhaps it was better that the boy died sooner rather than later. It would be easier.
He had absolute confidence—some might call it faith—in one thing and one thing only: man’s capacity for cruelty and his desire to see others suffer to ease the pain that raged in his heart.
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