Authors Note: Just so you know, the previous chapter was merged with another chapter as of December 10th, so depending on when you read this, you might want to go back and make sure you read all of it :)
. . .
"If Levi thought I was dumb during my tutoring, I don't even want to know what he'd think of me when I'm with Mr. Niccolo," Sasha said long ago. She couldn't have been more correct with that seemingly inconspicuous phrase: young romance made people extraordinarily stupid.
You were no exception.
You thought about those words the entirety of the six consecutive nights you crawled into Jean's sheets and patiently waited for him to return to the lake.
He would arrive well past midnight. You would watch him from the safety of the bed as he undressed. Then, he would throw himself beside you with a heavy sigh, and you would sink into the rolling waves of his breaths. He would mumble updates regarding what he and Eren had done before he came to see you. It was always the same: nothing new. You would then change the topic, whispering how you were glad to see him until he succumbed to exhaustion.
Jean grew more defeated with each recitation of insufficient progress. His pretty eyes drained of their old warmth, and although he softened once your fingers slid over his chest or your voice grew stronger than the day before, there was no question that his mental foundations were cracking.
While he toiled, you only wanted to escape into that picturesque future you only grasped once. Unfortunately, proper sleep never found you. You waited in the thresholds of consciousness each night, listening to quiet breaths and matching your inhales to Jean's, only for Jean to leave in the morning with a kiss on your forehead, appearing only marginally better than how he arrived.
Was it wrong to desire his comfort after what had transpired? How could you hold Jean close when you had knowingly cursed him with affection? Why did you feel so guilty about a situation entirely out of your control?
Perhaps it was because, for the hundredth time, you forced others to tighten the slack of your life's fraying tethers. Your half-assed escape was just another fleeting moment of bravery in years' worth of cowardice. Once it was over, you crawled into blankets like the child you were but refused to admit it and waited for others to solve your problems.
Sasha might have been right about love, but Mother was right about you: you were weak.
Love was supposed to make the world conquerable and foes appear small, but it only made you stupid. You were unbelievably stupid for believing that a kiss would magically cleanse away the impact of your attack better than any cedar smoke. Jean was just as ridiculous for thinking that man's hands could make the universe fair. Beautiful dreams wouldn't wash that truth away. Avoidance couldn't cleanse the self-hatred that festered in tired hearts.
There was so much hate silently vibrating behind your sunken eyes.
Whenever you sat awake in the daylight of your room, you thought about how differently hatred worked compared to love. Niccolo would sweep into your room, sweet and cheery as a peach with a full breakfast, talking your ear off about how wonderfully he had slept the night prior and how much peace it must have brought him to see you stronger.
Hatred did not weigh him down as it did you. Sleep welcomed him with loving arms. If he noticed your restlessness, his face didn't show it. The comfort your nightly drugging brought clouded his vision too much for him to see.
Where love allowed Niccolo to be content, hatred stoked your embered desire for revenge. In your exhaustive loathing, you had an epiphany–Nature, a beautiful yet brutal extension of the same fraternal universe that cursed you, was a mother for a reason. A man's hands were worthless, but a woman's push had yet to be fully applied.
And so, hatred prompted you to once again sneak another dose of medicine into Niccolo's nightly beverage and don your manly disguise on that eighth night following your first chance encounter with love. Hatred guided your hand to stow your knife and answering book in deep pockets. Hatred accompanied you to the Yeagers' house and under a familiar windowsill well before the candles inside burned low to throw pebbles until two tall shadows appeared in glassed reflections. Hatred allowed your eyes to see Eren's face when he came down to greet you, burning red with hellish retribution while blocking your ears from hearing Jean's clouded pleas for you to return to the safety of the lake.
Love locked your tongue behind cracked lips as you led both men to the tavern, but hate's curse still walked you there. You reasoned it was better than being useless.
Again, you stepped through the tavern hall but motioned for your companions to take seats while you stalked corners for the gossip that seeped into every conversation.
"Did you see that girl in church the other day? Wearing such bright colors with her nails long enough to poke an eye out? She was better dressed for the brothel, not the House of God, if you ask me..."
"I'm glad to see that troublesome girl gone. What was her name again? Ymir? I hope the Reiss girl leaves her in Italy for the locals to deal with..."
"Have you seen Marlowe Freudenberg's wife? She clearly married for money with a face like his. Can't say I blame her. I heard she has another lover in New Jersey whom she invited to her house not long ago. Some fellow named Boris..."
"Mr. Pixis is drinking again. Heavily. If he keeps it up, I reckon his wife will get sick of him spending all their coin on liquor and slip something in his next drink..."
"The oldest Springer is back. Someone should call a blacksmith to craft enough chains to lock up every woman in town. Or better yet, someone should meet with the Ripper to end that boy's whoring..."
"The Sergeant's wife told me how her husband was wounded while deer hunting the other day. The beast raked its antlers over his chest and gave him a real slice. Poor man. I hope he recovers quickly..."
You listened, lingering outside shadowy groups. Two sets of eyes followed every movement you made from their quiet table. Their watchful stares kept you safe in your eavesdropping.
Eventually, you settled in one corner when your legs grew tired. You must have lurked for an hour, and nothing worthwhile reached you. All the judgments filled your ears, yet none were useful.
Or so you thought until a whispered conversation perked your interest.
"Nobody's seen the witch in weeks. That stupid bakery owner says he'll miss her, but I say good riddance. It's what she deserves for slapping you."
"Her slap was as weak as she is, but it would be a real shame if our little witch died. How else would I entertain myself?" And the bastard who said it laughed at your expense with such disgusting revelry.
That conversation flooded your senses, and you glanced over your shoulder to find Floch's back as he talked to one of his cronies at a nearby table. With your disguise hiding your identity, your serial tormenter had not yet recognized you standing inches away from him. Pushing off your wall, you drifted around to see Floch's smug smirk as he gloated with his friend.
Although you were another stranger in the hall to him, he was everything to you. Your uncovered eye studied his mouth until the images blended in your memories. Every crease and crevice poked at your mind until a single memory stood tall about the others. It ignited a rage so intense that your skin burned.
A hand, a smirk, a fall.
That smirk. It belonged to none other than Floch Forster.
Floch had been the last to see you go before you were tossed down the stairs—the last to know anything before you were nearly snuffed from existence.
You nearly lunged toward the table with the intent to kill but stopped before acting irrationally. Instead, you escaped from the Floch's hellish voice to breathe fresher air at your companion's table. Jean and Eren swarmed you like gnats.
"What happened?" Eren whispered first. "Why'd you bolt like that?"
"She needs to go home. It is too much for her," Jean answered.
"Who are you to decide? She wants to be here. She didn't walk all this way to go back with nothing. Every night is more of the same: a bunch of fucking nothing. Maybe she can–"
"Shut your mouth and use your brain. This will not be solved in an hour or even a week. She is hardly the one to handle the matter."
A hand, a smirk, a fall, you went over it again and again. A hand, a smirk, a fall. A hand, a smirk, a fall. A hand, a smirk, a fall.
If you could reach for the puzzle pieces of your memory, you stood a chance of solving your case with a woman's touch where Jean and Eren's manly hands failed. They would no longer have to give up their sanity for you, and you might reclaim some of your own. All would be well and over. You could run back into dreams until the summer faded into a distant memory of its own.
If only your companions had the sense to stay quiet while you thought.
"Why?" Eren spat back. "It's because she's a girl, isn't it? You think she can't handle it because–"
"It has nothing to do with that. She should rest."
"She seems well rested enough to me!"
"Because you are an–"
"Shhh!" You silenced their bickering and shut your eyes so tight that no candlelight burned orange in your lids. Although their voices went dead as cadavers, quietness did little to aid your thoughts.
You needed to get into the cellar. You would find answers there, but would you have the stomach to return to such a dark place? And should the basement not offer the answers you seek, what would you do then? It would only serve as another waste of time that would cripple your resolve yet again.
Show the world what it truly means to be a witch.
Mother's words rang out clearly, and you abandoned your fruitless memory fields to focus on what that meant.
Floch saw you go. Floch knew what happened that night better than he let on. Floch had the answers you needed, but how could you get them from him?
Show the world what it truly means to be a witch, you heard again.
A plan began to form in your mind. It was half-baked, like everything you did, and could do you more harm than good, but it was something.
You turned to Jean and pulled out your book to write him a note.
I need you to get Floch alone and lead him into my old house. You need to pretend to be his friend. Can you do it?
Jean's face twisted in confusion. "Where is your old house?" he asked.
"It's the house we found her the other night," Eren answered as he stole the book to read the note himself. "Why Floch? Did he do this to you? Do you remember it?"
You shook your head and tapped the skin underneath your eye.
"He saw it?" Eren tried to clarify.
When you nodded, Eren sharply stood up, but you grabbed him before he could go. You looked to Jean, silently asking if he could fulfill your request. Although he looked unsure, he dipped his head in confirmation.
Stealing back your book, you motioned for Eren to follow you outside.
Once you stepped through the dusted entrance, Eren raged, "I don't get it! I could have just beat the answers out of him right there and then! Why the hell are you having Kirstein befriend him just to bring him here?!" You only pulled out your book and began writing a reply, but Eren kept going, "You should be able to speak by now. Father said two weeks of vocal rest, so talk to me, goddammit! Even if it's whispery garbage! I want to hear it from your voice. Why are we acting like idiots when everything could be so easy?"
You held your tongue and continued writing. Once you reached your old front porch, you shoved your book in Eren's hands.
Pull Floch into my bedroom when they enter. Don't let Mr. Kirstein follow. Rough him up, but not enough to leave bruises. Leave once I enter the room.
You left Eren with your book and headed upstairs to wait in Father's cobweb-covered room. Every creak of the old wood made the hairs on your spine poke through your clothes.
Floch knew you as meek and mild your whole life, but should you give him just that if Jean managed to get him through the door? Or should you be ruthless with your interrogation? Should you speak and demand the truth or stay quiet and wait for him to chalk up to his crimes on his own?
The longer you waited, the stupider you felt. Why the hell did you think this was a good idea: kidnapping the only person who could help you and force answers out of him when you barely had a plan?
Hatred. Hatred made you stupid, too. It pulled you in one direction, while love pulled you in another until your mind and body split. You were hardly in control, acting on impulse alone—impulses you scarcely understood.
But there was no time to question anything when you heard Floch's brief laughter through the old house. There was even less time once you heard scuffles and pounded steps headed up the stairs. There was a thud, the splintering of wood, and Eren's howls shook even the foundation of the place that was once your home.
Floch kept crying the same phrase from the other side of the hall: "I didn't see anything! I swear!" His whimpers only grew more pitiful the longer you waited to intervene.
Floch used to be your friend, your nagging heart reminded you. Your mind pulled in the other direction: a friend would never watch you almost die and do nothing to stop it.
That was when you finally stood, with hatred's power coursing through you, and although you had no idea what to do, you trusted the dark forces guiding hand to lead yet again. Slowly, you crept out of Father's room and removed your hat and eyepatch. Entering your bedroom, you found Floch on the floor–his shirt fisted between Eren's trembling hands with tears streaming down his pink face like a little boy.
Floch appeared as a ten-year-old again who cried when he scraped his knees climbing trees or whined when you and Eren teamed up against him in hide-and-seek. He was anything but the monster you had come to know so well these last few years.
Now, a third force tugged at your hand. It was pity–pity for an old friend that would never exist again other than in memories, just like your old self.
Floch whimpered out your name. "You're... You're supposed to be... How are you..."
"Let him go," you whispered, and Eren shoved the red-headed accomplice to the floor and stalked out of the room.
"I'll be waiting outside if he tries something funny," Eren said before slamming the door behind him.
Floch shivered and crawled backward until his back hit your wall. The terror that filled him was unlike anything you'd ever seen reflected in his eyes.
"Did he hurt you?" you asked as you closed the distance to kneel before him.
You should have choked him where he sat, but that pity overcame you. You took Floch's face in your hand and were surprised by how gently you touched him. He even leaned into your palm like you were there to save him.
"He... he did. I swear, I didn't see anything! Mr. Dok knows! He questioned plenty of people that were at the tavern last night, and I told him what I–"
"Floch," you cut him off and thumbed his cheek, "I can help you get home safe tonight, but only if you're truthful."
"I... I am being truthful! Please, let me go home! We can forget that all of this happened! Just let me go, and–"
"Eren won't let me," you lied easily. "He thinks you did this to me."
"I didn't! I swear, it wasn't me!"
"Then who, Floch? Help me so I can help you."
"I... I swear I don't know! Please, I just want to go home!"
You pursed your lips like a mother who caught her child in a lie. Hatred forced you to pinch his flesh between your fingers, as it had grown tired of the games.
"I see," you answered. "I'll get Eren, then."
"No! Wait! If I tell you, you'll let me go, right?" You nodded. "It... it was Richard Gross. The Sergeant! I saw him pull you away, alright? I... I never thought he'd try to kill you, so I didn't say anything when asked. Alright?! I didn't know how bad it was until I heard from others that you nearly died! Is that enough? Please!"
Sergeant Gross. The man that Jean threatened for calling you a witch. That was your attempted killer, and the information turned your blood cold.
And now, you had to make the difficult decision of what to do with your informant. Should you leave him alive and risk him telling the world of what you had done? Or should you draw your knife and slit his throat where nobody would think to look for him? It wasn't like anyone ever stepped foot in this house; it was a cursed place. Strange smells would be ignored in favor of blissful ignorance.
But were you ready to become a killer just yet? Did your hands carry the strength?
Show the world what it truly means to be a witch, you heard one last time.
You sent Floch the sincerest smile, only to pull out the knife waiting in your pocket.
"Please," he begged. "I gave you what you wanted! I did what you asked! Please! Don't kill me!"
But you turned the blade on your own hand and made a small incision. It was deep enough to draw blood but shallow enough to heal in a few days without Niccolo ever noticing.
Dragging your thumb through the small, red puddle, you stole Floch's hand and began drawing over his palm. Fear froze him in place as you drew symbols on his skin and muttered gibberish under your breath.
When you finished, Floch asked in a timid whimper, "What did you do?"
"A blood curse," your hoarse voice answered. "Tell no one what transpired tonight, and you'll be safe. Tell another soul, and you die. Now, swear to stay quiet for me."
"I... I promise."
Your eyes followed his shaking body. Despite the low light of night, you could see and smell how Floch spoiled his trousers.
"Good boy," you said before thumbing his cheek and smearing blood on his face. "Wash yourself before you go home."
Floch bolted as soon as he was given his leave. When he opened the door with Eren waiting against the wall, you raised your bloodied hand to allow the pitiful departure.
Just like that, it was over. It was so fast; you barely understood what had happened. Whatever entity controlled your tongue in those few minutes fled the room behind Floch. Nausea replaced its hold on you.
But you had your name: Richard Gross. And, thanks to Levi, you had a means to put all this misery to an end: The Ripper. When your attacker was dead, you could return to that secluded house with smoking blue hills and falling autumn leaves.
Until then, you were more cursed than Floch would ever be.
"Did you get what you wanted?" Eren asked.
Did you? You didn't know. Was it better to live in pitied love, or were you better off allowing hate to consume you to save your loved ones from the fear that you could be finished off at any moment?
You just didn't know, so you shook your head.
"What?! Why'd you let him go then?! You said he saw what happened? You said–"
"Enough," Jean rumbled from out of your line of vision. "It is done. All of it."
Jean stepped into the room and helped you to your feet. As he carried you back to the lake, you replayed that night's event with the Sergeant's face embedded where a fog once hung. The puzzle came together perfectly.
You remembered all of it: the venom in his voice, the squeezing of his thumbs, the redness of his face. All of it.
If only Jean knew how right he was. It was done. You were content living in anger if it meant you could sleep in love's embrace someday. For now, you were doomed to live in the agony of your near death. Love's price was hate.
As you relived the terror, Jean brought you into his cabin and sat you on the mattress. He crouched before you and took your hands in his own.
"Look at me," he ordered, but your eyes struggled to focus as warm wetness filled your palms. "You will never do something so foolish again." The artist looked down when he felt red paint spilling over his hand. "You are bleeding."
Jean left you in the bed to rummage through his drawers. He returned with one of his shirts and tore off one of the sleeves into thin shreds. Tying it around your palm, he secured the makeshift bandage.
"You could have been hurt much worse," he chastised you again. You watched as he diligently worked over your hand with his warm fingers. He was always so warm when you felt cold. "You will stay here from now on. Yeager and I will do the rest. Understood?"
"I can't," you mumbled.
"No, you will. This is not your fight anymore."
"I have to see the Ripper."
"What? What is this?"
"The Ripper. I have to see him tomorrow. Levi told me to see him."
"Look at me, please." Jean dropped your hands to clench your jaw between those warm, long, calloused fingers. No wonder Floch leaned into your touch; being held was heavenly. "You have done enough."
Enough.
Jean forced you under covers and pleaded with you to sleep. You shut your eyes, and all you saw was the Sergeant hovering over you. He lurked in each shadowed corner of the cabin while Jean slept restlessly beside you.
You tried to convince yourself with his words.
Enough, you kept repeating. Enough. Enough. Enough. You didn't do enough. Not when there was still so much more to do.
Because it wasn't enough. Enough would come when the Sergeant lacked the life to touch you—both in the waking world and in dreams. You would have enough strength to become a killer when you saw him squirming for his life under your heel. You would sink low enough to take pleasure in putting that monster through hell. You would become cruel enough to play God where others lacked the resolve.
Only then would you have done enough.