[ he’d been at the orphanage when the first strum of painful impact oscillated the thread of their bond like the pulled string of a guitar. it could’ve been anything, from stubbing one’s toe to tripping, mind, and usually eren would give it a moment before it meant anything else. the second strum came enough that the phantom pains in his missing limb felt shoved, and he would’ve fallen over if it hadn’t been for his crutch, an artificial pedestal that hasn’t budged an inch when his knee would’ve jerked into a forced bend. now, he was wary, excusing himself from the gaggle to send his bond a message, to check in, if all was well and just a mere blip.
the call for help, like a silent scream for his name that jostled his insides into a violent shake shoots his gut to his chest. that was all the message he needed in turn, without sending his question and only pulling his coat open to expose the ink over his heart. the clothes— he could get new clothes, as they tore just as easily as his flesh did, like butter, to fit the hulking form ripping his frame from beneath and cracking bones into larger limbs. he can’t get another styx.
the enchantment weaves into the tattoo activates only by mutual command, and with styx’s hail and eren’s urgent acceptance, the gate opens. who knew what was happening by the time he’d done all of this, but there, in the alleyway above one of the rooftops, the air distorts, reality ripples, a brick wall crumbles as massive talons grip their corners to drag himself out— a wyvern, his wyvern, cold with calculation and ripe with protective ire, shrieks his coming. ]
so anyway—
the call for help, like a silent scream for his name that jostled his insides into a violent shake shoots his gut to his chest. that was all the message he needed in turn, without sending his question and only pulling his coat open to expose the ink over his heart. the clothes— he could get new clothes, as they tore just as easily as his flesh did, like butter, to fit the hulking form ripping his frame from beneath and cracking bones into larger limbs. he can’t get another styx.
the enchantment weaves into the tattoo activates only by mutual command, and with styx’s hail and eren’s urgent acceptance, the gate opens. who knew what was happening by the time he’d done all of this, but there, in the alleyway above one of the rooftops, the air distorts, reality ripples, a brick wall crumbles as massive talons grip their corners to drag himself out— a wyvern, his wyvern, cold with calculation and ripe with protective ire, shrieks his coming. ]