Wings

Chapter Three

I see the light.
I see you.

***

Where am I?

He strains his eyes—or, at least, he thinks he does—but all he can see is darkness.

Dark.

It's eerily quiet. As if he's separated from the world.

Can't move.

Can't breathe.

He can feel his consciousness slipping away from his reach. He desperately tries to grasp it, hold on to it, but still it escapes.

He's about to sink back into nothingness when a voice, muffled and distant, rings out.

His entire mind snaps back to reality. Was that someone calling me?

All of a sudden, a surge of hope hits him. Without warning, his heartbeat speeds up, and his mind reaches forward, towards that voice.

“Hey.”

Still muffled, but clearer. He clings onto that weak word.

White and gray flicker at the edges of his vision.

Light?

It must be.

He reaches further still, eager and desperate.

His vision shakes. Much to his amazement, he feels something touch his skin, albeit almost imperceptibly.

The black of his vision has now lightened into gray flecked with white. There’s a sudden feeling that something has been cleared. The backs of his eyes seem much lighter.

Wait… eyes?

I’m still alive?

His heart pumps a little faster. He tries opening his eyes.

And they do.

The light that meets his eyes isn't what he expects at all. Contrary to what he envisioned—a blinding, sterile white—the light he's bathed in is a mellow, warm gold. And for once in his life, he truly feels safe and secure.

A figure comes into view. Completely shrouded in black, with a well-defined outline. The figure crouches down beside him. Almost instantly, the boy finds a pair of steely gray eyes boring straight into his, appraising him stoically. The adolescent's stare is so penetrating that the boy's suddenly hit with an uncomfortable notion that he's being seen straight through. He swallows nervously and winces feebly as his throat burns.

The adolescent doesn't miss the slight contortion of the boy's features. Those gray eyes leave him for a second (and strangely, the boy wants them back on him again), then return. A firm, warm hand slides under his lead-filled head and lifts it gently. At once, his vision swarms with dark spots. Even through the vertigo, he still senses a cool, smooth surface against his lips. A cool liquid glides over his cracked lips; feebly, he pries them open just a sliver, allowing the cool water to run down his parched vocal cords. It stings, but it's soothing.

“Th-Thank you…” he whispers. His vision has cleared considerably, and he twists slowly (albeit painfully) to better examine his savior.

Lean, and surprisingly short for his age (if the boy gets it right), an impassive face with hard, chiseled features, framed by neat black hair in an undercut. His fringes just barely fall into his eyes—his mesmerizing, smoldering gray eyes, which seem to hold a hint of a storm swirling underneath—

“What's your name?”

The boy starts, followed by a reflexive “Huh?”

“What's your name?” A deep voice, with no hint of inflection or emotion.

The boy casts his eyes downwards. “I…I don't have a name.” His voice is timid, quiet. He can sense the adolescent’s unwavering steel-gray gaze burning into him. He seems to be contemplating something.

“Eren.”

The boy starts again, but this time, he fixes the teenager with an inquisitive look.

“Eren,” the adolescent repeats. “It'll be your name.”

The boy nods once, shakily. Then he realizes he knows next to nothing about his savior.

“And your name is…?” He asks, his voice barely above a whisper. Even so, the adolescent still catches it.

“Levi. Levi Ackerman.”