Chapter Text
He was small. Mitos noticed that first, the boy was all ribs and elbows and spindly legs. Far too small to stand up to the metal men surrounding them both, swords drawn, voices ringing tinnily from behind their steel helms. She was smaller still, hardly coming up to the hip of the templar grabbing her wrist and pulling her. Were it not for the other one savagely swinging his makeshift weapon into their legs and staggering the older men, they would have already taken her away. But fierce as he was, he was still only a child, a small little thing standing up to metal monstrosities with nothing but a wooden stick. That was why he called out to the Fade, of course. Whether he meant to do it or not, in the heat of his confusion and fear, he had opened the little door in a mortal mind and called to the creatures beyond the Veil. Mitos was the first one through. It was impressive for one that was not a mage to tap into this connection, and Mitos' curiosity urged him in more than anything. There was a special kind of magic in this child, not the kind that allowed him to cast a spell or summon demons, but something stirred in him all the same.
“You can't take her! I won't let you!” He struck again at the men surrounding his sister. The templar easily deflected the blow, more irritated at the child's interference than anything.
You will fail, Mitos whispered, his voice filling up the boy's skull in an echo of the world he had inadvertently beckoned.
I can't...I can't, I have to protect her! The boy's own thoughts were haggard and weary and shrill with urgency. He did not shy from the foreign spirit, a good sign that Mitos would not struggle when the time came to take control of his body. Maybe he would even trust him.
You're not strong enough. They will take your sister away. His eyes were welling with tears at that, but he didn't feebly argue like so many mortals, insist that he was strong. He knew it was the truth. The boy was smarter than most, it would seem. He didn't stare into the face of the inevitable and foolishly hope.
Even knowing it was a bleak endeavor, he threw himself at the nearest templar, wooden weapon battering uselessly against his steel plating.
“Andraste's tits, are you really so scared of this twerp? We can't be here all day playing swords with him!” One of the templars was advancing on him now, brandishing his weapon at his side. Mitos felt the tangible fear in the boy's stomach at the sight of his sword flashing in the morning light. The girl was pleading and writhing in her captor's grasp, her high voice rising to a piercing scream as the knight's steel slid easily through the boy's ribcage and out his back. Mitos could taste the blood filling the boy's mouth. He collapsed.
His mind and heart were racing now, he desperately and clumsily gripped to the wound, pressing to keep more blood from spilling out of the deep hole gored through his chest. Fear and despair mingled in a thick haze that shrouded his dying mind. He reached out for the younger one, some dim part of him not willing to accept that he had failed as Mitos warned, and stretched out a red hand to her. She was sobbing, trying to rip herself from their grasp to no avail. Once more Mitos rose into his thoughts.
Let me in.
I don't want to die... “Help me...” he faintly whispered to the retreating figures of the metal men.
You are going to die, boy.
Eren... His head sank to the cold ground beneath him, the rhythmic pumps of blood beginning to come slower and slower. My name is Eren...
Eren. Mitos knew that the moment he tore through the Veil into the boy's mind, but he obliged the dying child's delirious pleasantry. There is nothing I can do to stop this. You will die here. The tears he had been holding back were spilling over in lazy trails down his face and through the spattering of blood on his cheeks. Your sister will be taken. They are going to take Bethany. If you let me in, I will ensure every last one of them will pay for this.
His chest clenched with a struggled breath as he steeled himself for his answer. Mitos felt a distant tug in the mind he inhabited.
Bethany stared up at him from her crib, only a few months old, and gurgled happily at her older brother as he hung over the side of the bed. She reached up to him with stubby little hands. Eren's fingers brushed hers and he marveled at how small she was, her tiny hands wrapped around his index finger. Father had told him he would need to look after her and Carver both now, set a good example for the two of them. Eren's pride swelled at the thought of being an older brother. He knew, leaning down to kiss a spring of a curl on her forehead, that he would have to be the best he could be, for her sake and for Carver's.
The scene was vivid, colored by a child's memory, and blew away the moment it appeared like sand on the wind.
Swear you'll do it. Swear on whatever honor you have that you'll help her.
I swear it. Whatever an oath from a demon was worth.
Then do it. Whatever it is, do it. Please, please, keep her safe. Life was ebbing from him, the last reserves of his strength bleeding away. Ice steadily crept into his veins and clawed at his lungs. Breathing became difficult, and his vision began to dim as he stared at the quickly vanishing forms of the templars and his little sister. In the moment between the sigh of his last breath and the shallow thrum of what would be his final heartbeat, Mitos took him.
The sudden flush of energy through broken limbs was almost euphoric, the cold, hollow shell of death broken by Mitos' being roaring into the body like a tidal wave. The lungs expanded in a deep gasp, the heart hitched, then began beating wildly, fingers flew to clutch at the dirt beneath him. And suddenly there was a world of mortal senses. The coppery smell of Eren's blood on the ground, the colorless gray of a stormy sky overhead, the feeling of a breeze brushing featherlight over his skin. He caught scent of wildflowers and rain on the wind. He could hear Bethany sobbing down the road from him and the clink of armor and then the silence.
He rose to his feet, gangly and awkward as they were, and stood as tall as a twelve-year-old could, taking in his new surroundings. His mortal eyes riveted on the men that slowly trudged away from the boy they had killed, and on Bethany as she lay slumped over their shoulder. She was motionless. They had struck her to keep her quiet. Again the memory of fingers wrapped around his surfaced in his mind, a thought that was and was not his own, and it stirred a kind of bloodlust in him reserved only for mortals and rage demons.
He was running, he was twenty feet away, ten feet, five, and then he was on them. They never heard his steps, he had been swift and silent on his approach. One of their swords was already in his hands, already buried in the slit in the templar's armor where his arm met his torso, already singing through the air to bite into the second knight. The others were clattering loudly as they tried to draw their swords but they were slow. Eren Hawke was surprisingly nimble, more so with Mitos guiding his body, and one templar was felled before the next had the time to unsheathe his blade, another slumping lifeless into the dirt by the time the others could move to stop him.
“Bloody flames, how is he-” Mitos had bound from the body of one templar onto the other, sword sinking into his throat before he could voice his astonishment. Before he hit the dirt, he sprung off his chest and landed on the last, this small, agile form of his standing with easy balance on the templar's shoulders. This one had just begun to curse when Mitos grasped either sides of his helmeted head and twisted until there was a loud snap and the crick of a vertebrae popping out of place. The last went slack and crumpled atop the body of one of his fellow knights. Dead.
Still knelt over the freshest kill, he stretched out a hand, opening and closing his fist, testing out how far his fingers could stretch and wondering at the thin cords of muscle that appeared and vanished into his flesh. Not a powerful body. Not a mage either. It was small, even for a mortal child, but this did it credit. It was fast, it was flexible, it had just enough weight behind it to sink a sword through armor and muscle. It would do.
He rose now, stepping between the corpses in metal to kneel beside the little head of black curls that lay half pinned under a fallen templar. Bethany. A name that rung fondness in some distant corner of this mind. There were many pleasant memories of her there. Strangely, though there still were bits and pieces of a fractured mind, Mitos could no longer feel the thread of Eren Hawke's consciousness between him and the Fade. Thoughts, memories, the most ingrained feelings remained, but there was no simpering voice of a scared child trapped in his own mind. The boy was gone. This body was his and his alone then.
He looked down at the tiny form, fingers flitting over the curl resting on her brow. He had done his part. A small part, really, deal with a few insolent mortals and claim a body all for your own. Contract fulfilled, wish granted, sister saved. What else was there to do?
“A demon's oath is an oath all the same, isn't it little sister?” He chuckled, amused at his use of the word and at how high his voice sounded now. “I am no oath breaker. You are safe, are you not? Dear big brother got his wish.” The templar's armor clinked noisily when he gripped him by the shoulder and rolled his body off to free the girl's legs. His hand was stroking her head. Had he even willed it to move? It seemed like an action written into the very muscles of this body, to touch, to comfort. Mitos almost pulled away, but the warmth of her flesh and the soft threads of her hair was an odd comfort, another leftover from the freshly dead Eren Hawke, and he sat there awhile to revel in the feel of her dark black locks ghosting over his skin. His knuckles traced over her forehead, back and forth.
She wasn't safe. Not yet anyway. If he left her on her own out here, she might catch sick from the rain threatening in the gray skies above them, or be taken by someone that stumbled upon the bodies.
He could scoff and jest about the merit of a demon's honor, but in truth, a demon's oath wasn't just an oath, it was as sacred a vow as his kind could speak. And he had promised the dying boy he would keep this one safe. It was a promise that was difficult to twist to his own will, like he had done with others that wished for power or status or wealth. The vow was scratching urgently at the back of his mind, urging him to ensure she was safe, far away from these corpses and any of their living brethren. As much as he detested the thought that a dead child's whim was influencing his actions, he sighed, scooped up the little form in his bloodied arms, and trudged back up over the crest of the dirt road. The Hawkes were not far. He would just leave her on their doorstep and vanish. By nightfall, he could make it beyond their reach. After this one task, he could do as he had pleased as a mortal.
All he had to do was get her home.
=X=
Mitos was taken aback. A man much taller than this form appeared at the door, messy cherry red hair raked back from his forehead, his amber eyes wide as he looked down at the children on his doorstep. A name slithered lazily to the forefront of Mitos' mind. Malcolm. Father. This man was the parental figure of this body. A mage, a powerful one at that, one of those that had fled the Chantry's many Circles in this realm. There were pleasant memories of this one as well, and admiration beyond anything Eren felt for any other man. He would have to tread carefully around this one. If he thought to peek behind the mask, he would see it was not his son that stood before him.
“We've been up half the night worrying about you two! We were about to go looking for you, do you have any idea how late it is?” He gathered up the girl and plucked her from Mitos' grasp, turning sharply to stomp to the back room all three children shared. “You know you're not supposed to be out past dark, especially when you have Bethany with you, you know how dangerous it is! I just cannot believe you would be so irresponsible, we put a lot of trust in your Eren and this, this-”
Mitos paid no mind to the scolding. Instead, he looked down at himself to admire the dark blood blotching his shirt. Dried now, so it looked more like dirt than anything, especially as Mitos lingered on the outskirts of the cottage's light, the shadows making it difficult to make out. He pressed his fingers lightly against the wound and another river of blood oozed from the thin gash just over his heart. Humans had such an interesting shade of blood. Especially when the light hit it just right, it was like they had fire in their veins. Mitos remained in the dark of the night, reaching his hand in through the doorway to watch the candlelight dance on his sticky red fingertips.
“Eren, are you even-” The next chiding died on Malcolm's tongue as he whirled momentarily to scowl at his son and saw the blood. He looked down at Bethany to see the trickle run down her temple. “..Eren...? Oh, Maker...Leandra, come in here!”
Mother. That one appeared from the kitchen, breath hitching in her chest at the sight of her little girl unconscious, a nasty bruise flaring over the left side of her face where the templar had struck her. The Father pushed Bethany against her and drew Eren's body up in his arms. Much to Mitos' surprise, he allowed this mortal to cradle him, his arms enveloping him. It suddenly seemed unbearably cold outside the limbs folded over this body.
“Adraste's mercy!” She shouted in startled astonishment when she saw the red speckling her daughter's clothes and soaking her son's chest. “What happened? Eren, Eren darling, are you hurt?”
'Hurt'. Yes, that was probably accurate. 'Mortally wounded', even more so. Bits of flesh and flakes of dried blood peeled away from the wound when Malcolm drew the shirt away, and both he and the Mother shared a sharp gasp. Malcolm's hands were on him in an instant, pressing lightly against the deep gouge in his chest, and then the flushing warmth of healing magic was knitting the skin and muscle back together at an agonizingly slow pace. Mitos watched the skin stretch thinly, trying to reclaim the flesh the templar's sword had pierced. Former bodies had died from less. The last one had succumbed to a small nick of a wound that had festered. Hopefully this one would last longer.
“Eren, breathe deeply, alright? Just...stay still...Maker, it's gone clean through him...” A sheen came over his widened eyes. Was he so close to tears? Strange. None of this little Hawke's memories were of Malcolm crying. He had never actually seen him cry.
“Who did this to you?” he demanded, even though his voice was weak under the weight of his dismay.
“Templars,” Mitos replied. He let his head sink idly to the Father's shoulder. “They came for the other one.” He paused, then amended. “Bethany.”
“Templars...” Malcolm repeated. Drawing in a shaky breath, he curled all the tighter around Eren's body, the scruff of his beard scratching thin red lines against his grossly delicate cheek. “You drove them off? ...Good boy, you...you've done so well, protecting your sister.”
Malcolm picked up the body with ease, a continuous pulse of healing aura skittering up Mitos' chest and flitting nervously over the wound as he carried him to the children's bedroom. He laid him out on the thin mattress of Eren's bed, panic etched in the deep lines of his face as he worked fervently on the wound that lazily spilled blood. He poured all of his determination and much of his magic into the boy in an effort to reverse the damage done.
“Daddy? Eren? Is Eren back?” a small voice in the doorway spoke.
“Go in the other room, Carver, go with Mommy!” Malcolm demanded in a bark much harsher than he probably intended.
Mitos tipped his head towards the voice, to the dark haired mirror of Bethany across the room that stared at him with more confusion than concern. He smiled slightly.
“Go on then, Carver. Other room,” Mitos encouraged. Tears had begun to shine in the little boy's eyes.
“Why is brother bleeding? Daddy? Daddy, is he hurt? Is he dying?”
“Just go, Carver!” Malcolm snapped and sent the boy scurrying, the beginnings of a sob obviously building in his throat that erupted once he'd reached the other room. Malcom seemed just as stricken, his hands pressing a little harder against Eren's chest, his breathing tight. A glance into his mind could tell Mitos of all the thoughts racing behind his eyes. Out of curiosity, Mitos peeked.
Don't panic. Breathe deeply. Stitch the wound, focus your mana. Maker the blood, Maker don't let him die, Andraste, please don't let him die. Mercy, show him mercy, he's just a child.
Now would be the perfect time to simply relinquish this body, let it crumple, just to see the anguish on Malcom Hawke's face. Yes, the Maker and his Bride let you down, Malcom, they've let your boy die before he was old enough to resent you. But no. No, he was far from done in this body, it just wouldn't do to let go now.
“Focus on me, ok? I know you're probably very tired, but you must stay awake, alright Eren?” Malcolm's voice grew strained. “I n-need you to do that. Can you do that?”
Mitos nodded.
=X=
The night was dreadfully long after that, with plenty of wailing and healing magic from both the Mother and Father. When the house grew dark, and Malcolm had left to find comfort in his wife's arms, Mitos dropped the facade of sleeping. He sat up in bed, his body stiff from the layers of bandages wrapped around his torso. As he swung his legs off the edge of the bed, about to plant his feet on the floor and, if all went well, escape this tiny ramshackle, he felt eyes on his back. He looked up to the top bunk, and Carver stared down at him from the edge.
“Brother?” His voice was small, on the verge of tears.
“Go back to bed, Carver.”
He didn't. He scrambled down the short ladder, forgoing the last few rungs to hop to the floor, and raced over to his sibling. Before Mitos could protest, he'd thrown his arms around his tender waist. Caught off guard by the gesture, he was forced back onto the bed, with the little creature on top of him, arms clinging, face buried in his chest.
“What are you doing?” Mitos sneered and went to push his head away, but a tiny sniffling sound made him stop.
“Don't die, Eren! I don't want you to go to the Maker!” He flinched at the words. As far as he remembered, Carver had only just begun to really grasp the concept of death. After some furry animal they owned died.
Carver was sobbing over a pitifully small grave in the garden, surrounded on either side by Prophet's Laurel sprigs and rose bushes. Eren watched as Malcolm knelt, wrapping one arm around his younger son and the other around his eldest. “It's alright, Carver. He's gone to be with the Maker. He can keep your grandparents company, won't that be nice?” The boy clutched his father's chest and sobbed, protesting the Maker's will to steal away his cat. “He's my cat! Not Gramma and Grandpa's! Not the Maker's! I want Twigs back!” Malcolm hushed him and pet his head.
“We all have to return to the Maker in our own time.”
Mitos huffed, shaking his head like he could shake loose any of these stubbornly lingering cobwebs of memories. Carver hugged him harder, causing the still fresh wounds in his brother's chest to stretch, and begin to split again.
“I am not dead. Stop this instant.”
He hiccuped, holding another sob in his throat. Mitos rested a hand on his head. If he did this right, he could snap the boy's neck with ease. A simple twist, a sharp jerk, and he could leave this house behind for good. He placed the other hand on the opposite side, shifting to allow himself enough leverage to do this quickly, but the boy's wails had gone silent. He let out a small whimper, his head pressing against his brother's palm. He was... nuzzling him? Mitos's other hand slowly drifted back down to the bed. He remembered Malcolm's reaction to his injury, the panic, the way he held him.
Something about it made Mitos feel wrong. It would be unfair to steal two of the man's children. He was just trying to look after his family. He sighed, leaning his head back against the bed. His fingers absently stroked Carver's hair. Perhaps it was one more leftover, another crumb of the real Eren's mind that made him feel guilty. It wouldn't be long until those remnants were gone. He would have to endure them for awhile.
Footsteps startled the younger one and he scrambled back up to the top bunk moments before Malcolm re-entered the room. Even in the low light spilling in from the candle burning in the other room, he looked haggard. Hours spent pouring everything he had into Eren's body, working through the night by his side, he was ready to collapse. He was gulping down the last few drops of blue liquid in a small vial when he came back in. Lyrium. Mitos heard a distant hum as the final bits of it slipped down Malcolm's throat, and he sighed a song only spirits and mages could hear. His eyes widened when they landed on his eldest son.
“Eren?” He darted quickly over and knelt by the bed, laying a hand on his chest and cradling the back of his head, urging him to lay back down. He spoke quietly, “Try not to move around. You're going- Ah, you've gone and opened it up again.”
“The small one was hugging me,” Mitos explained simply.
“Small one? Carver?”
“I'm sorry, Papa,” the child whimpered as he poked his head over the edge of his bed, “I didn't mean to hurt him more...”
“It's alright. Nothing I can't fix. Let's try to avoid hugging big brother for a little while, alright?” The light of healing magic illuminated the dark bedroom, casting soft shadows across Malcolm's weary face. Every time he looked at the wound, it took every ounce of will he had not to burst into tears. It didn't take mind reading to see that. He brushed at the corner of his eye in a quick movement he hoped wasn't too noticeable once he finished and let the spell drop once more.
“Can I hug sissy?” Carver asked in a quiet whisper, fingers clutching the bedframe.
“Yes,” Malcolm replied and had to stop his voice from cracking, “You can hug Bethany all you want once she wakes up. But right now, you have to go back to sleep.” His fingers ghosted along the hair falling into Eren's eyes. “You try to get some sleep as well. You'll heal faster with lots of rest. I'll be right here, alright? Papa will keep all the bad dreams away.”
Playing along would get him to leave sooner. Mitos let his eyes close, and listened to Carver's blankets shifting overhead for a few minutes, until the room was silent but for the young one's gentle, rhythmic breathing. He expected to hear the Father's receding footsteps soon. His job was done, was it not? The wound was closed and all the children were fast asleep. As far as he knew.
Mitos was about to crack an eye open to investigate, but a hand curling into Eren's stopped him. Malcolm raised his son's hand to his mouth, so close he could feel his stuttering breath as it glided against his knuckles, and clutched as tight as he could without hurting him.
“Maker know my heart, know that I serve you as well as I can.” His words were so soft, they hardly broke the still quiet. Mitos could feel his lips form to each desperate plea as they were spoken against his skin. “I don't always say the Chant as I should, but please... if you cared, if you ever cared about my family's plight, spare him. He has so much ahead of him. He... he is my son. I could not stand to lose him.”
Something damp dripped onto Eren's knuckles and rolled down to soak into his sleeve. With that, he pressed a kiss to the back of his hand, tucked it under the blankets, and left the room. Mitos stared a long while into the darkness once he was gone. He was truly saddened. Eren had never seen him like that. Echoes bounced around in his head, persistent flies buzzing, swarming. He remembered the day Malcolm brought Eren a knife, a dagger he had been admiring at the blacksmith's the day before, and made him promise to guard Bethany and Carver. He remembered the countless encounters with templars, and how Malcolm's hands would shake after each altercation, the very sound of their armor clinking enough to wake the panic in the older man's chest. He remembered what he was not there to remember, and every flash of a life this body lived before him made a strange sensation pull at his throat. He couldn't place it. All he knew was that something bid him not to hurt this man any further.
A few more days. Surely it wouldn't hurt to stay in the house a few more days? Until the opportunity to escape presented itself again, at least.
=X=
The opportunity arose, several times over the next few days. Yet Mitos always found an excuse not to take it. In truth, he found it fascinating to watch the family. As annoying as they treated him, like he was some fragile thing they needed to handle carefully, it was interesting to witness how mortals lived. He also learned that traveling in a child's body proved difficult. No ship would allow him passage without his parents, and everyone in the village knew Malcolm's family- which meant they knew his face. They never let him get very far past the outskirts before insisting he go home or calling Malcolm and Leandra on him. Really, he never tried very hard.
But perhaps it wasn't so bad? It had given him the chance to enjoy his new trappings, take in the sights of the village. He'd found there was a stream near the house, in the shade of trees, and it was here he spent a lot of his time. It confused the family, but most just thought it had something to do with his injury. Most of them left him to his own devices. Most of them.
“Eren?” Bethany tried pensively as she approached.
His hand drifted lazily across the surface of the river, the cool water rushing over his skin raising gooseflesh up his arms. One thing he loved about a mortal body; it responded in such fantastic ways to every breeze, every change in its surroundings. Even the tingling sort of pain in his chest where the templar blade had sunk deep into the flesh was an interesting sensation. There was nothing to feel in the Fade, it was little more than a dream, but everything in this world was so achingly real. He closed his eyes, feeling the light of the sun filtering through the canopy of leaves overhead kiss his skin.
“Eren, are you okay?” she asked in her small, concerned voice, settling in beside him. Her head had healed from the templar's blow, but she retained a bit of a darkened patch around the left side of her face. She pulled her knees up against her chest as she inspected him with large eyes that fell on the bandages under his shirt. “Does it...hurt?”
“No longer,” Mitos sighed.
The child's ceaseless prodding had been exasperating these past few days. The whole family had fretted over him almost nonstop, asking him every other hour he was with them if he was feeling alright and if his injury was bothering him. When they weren't doing that, they were watching him out of the corner of their eyes, most of the time with faces wrinkled in thought. They were growing suspect of his behavior no doubt, especially the Father. One of the free mages, apostate, they called them here. It would be a shame if he were the one to expose him. That would mean Mitos would have to kill him and run.
He cracked an eye open and glanced over to Bethany, who looked back at him.
“Do you wish something of me?” he asked- she shook her head.
“N-No, no I just...” She twisted her finger into a lock of hair, curling it, then letting it spring free. “I was worried is all.”
“No need to concern yourself. Father has done well to close up the wound, I am in no pain.” He took great pains to remember to call Leandra and Malcolm 'mother' and 'father' as a child would, but even that seemed strange to them. Maybe he was saying it wrong. He did have a tendency to slip up now and again.
“Good. That's good.”
He turned away from her again, pushing his arm deeper under the water and feeling the ripple of movement as a fish skirted around him. Bethany stayed silent and close for a long while. She had proven herself to be a flitting little thing, always near him, always close enough to touch and implicitly trusting her big brother would do her no harm. There were a few times he considered how easy it would be to reach out and slit her throat in her sleep and be free of his burden, but then the dead boy's voice would echo in his mind and his vow would swim into his thoughts moments before he could lay a hand on her head.
“No one has seen those templars since...” She trailed off, unable to really speak of the attack. He wasn't sure why. The words were simple enough for a child to understand- they had been attacked. She took a deep breath and continued, “Father says we'll have to leave soon, before they return. Otherwise they might tell on me for using magic.”
“They likely deserted. Or maybe they grew tired of abusing children in the name of religion.” He felt the sorrow in her gaze as she fixed him with an odd stare.
“What did you do to them? I mean, how did you escape? After you were... after they...” Her lip wobbled when she looked down at his chest.
“It's all a blur, really,” he sighed in a theatrically morose fashion. He could come up with no lie good enough to explain how a body like this outsmarted or overpowered a group of trained mage killers. He allowed them to concoct their own stories. Everyone had more fun that way.
“It's my fault, isn't it?” Bethany whispered suddenly.
“I did not trip and fall on the templar's blade,” Mitos replied in disinterest. He was far more enthralled with tracing his hand idly down the river, drawing it from the water to watch the sunlight spark on his wet fingers, pale snakes of color running across his knuckles as he tilted them back and forth.
“You almost died. You almost died because of me.”
“I'm terribly fragile,” he said with an amused smirk at the joke only he knew. “A stiff breeze can kill me.”
Such was the price of a mortal body. Beauty beyond measure and a world of foreign pleasures all at your fingertips, but mortals could die simply from not wearing a coat out, so it was a bit of a wash. Not that he couldn't still commandeer a dead body, but they began to stink after awhile, and depending on how far they'd decayed, it was more difficult to blend in with humans.
“I'm so sorry, Eren...” He glanced at her, only to see droplets like the ones in the river running down her cheeks. Curiosity struck him. Did all mortals have rivers behind their eyes? He knew they were made of blood and bile and many other things, but were they made of rivers as well? Did fish live in their bellies? He knew so little about how a mortal body worked. He was always awe struck by the one he possessed now, so full of mysteries and marvels they took for granted. He should have paid more attention on the other side of the Fade.
He shifted to sit, crouched on the balls of his toes. He was only a little bigger than her when he sat like this. She had begun making odd noises, rubbing at the water dripping down her face, and her breath began to come in strange, short gasps that made her tiny frame jump. He reached forward with his dry hand to brush away the dew drops on her cheeks. She looked up at him, liquid eyes full of...was it hurt? Guilt? They had so many emotions. Humans were so very complex like that.
“This one...” Eren. The boy's name was Eren. To her, he was Eren. He averted his eyes a moment to study the tear he'd caught on his thumb. “I acted out of love, little sister. Foolish and foolhardy as it is. Heh. Such a silly thing. Let's speak no more of it. I grow weary of the matter.”
The smell of food had caught his attention. He had no need of it really, but he enjoyed playing pretend. He stood without another word and began walking back towards their cottage. He licked Bethany's tear off his thumb. It tasted different than the water in the river.
Perhaps mortals had oceans hiding somewhere behind their eyes instead?