The Turquoise Cure (Eren X Reader)

Chapter 1: That Fateful Day...

{The day that Wall Maria fell, 845}

You felt yourself beginning to slowly awaken. You groaned, wishing to treasure these last few moments of sleep, but you could feel your limbs begging to be stretched and moved, and your eyes were practically screaming to open.

Finally, you pulled yourself off of the floor and made the dangerous trek to your mother's room to see if she was awake yet. Surely enough, she was out like a log, snoring softly as she clutched one of her precious blades between her fingertips as she rested. You didn't dare interrupt. She had been rather unbearable lately, droning on about how fruitless life was and how unnecessary it was to bare children in such a disgusting and lacking world. Your father had left soon after you were born, yet your older brother seemed to be the only member of your family who pretended that he has once existed.

Lightly stepping towards the further end of the squat and dilapidated home, you saw that your brother, (your brother's name)'s, spot on the floor was vacant. You ruffled the tattered blanket, checking just for certainty. You sighed angrily as you realized that he was gone. This could only mean one of two things: he was either stealing food and medicine at the market again, or he was begging merchants to hire him in their practice. The family was desperate for money, barely able to keep everyone living, but your brother and yourself had always tried to contribute.

It was such a pain to go sauntering after him: it was so difficult to find which merchant he was irritating each day. No self-respecting merchant would allow a boy his age (around 12) to work for them and help their business. Your brother had plans to join the Training Corps soon, but he was still not old enough. You and him had both discussed your plans of which branch to join- you both refused to merely pick crops and perform the unsatisfying duties of the other townspeople who looked down on you and your suffering family. Your brother had wanted to join the Survey Corps, and after hearing him ramble about the hypotheticals of venturing outside of the walls, you began to admire those hypotheticals too. However, your mother was very cynical of your desires. "As sickly as you are, your puny ass will never make it to the Survey Corps. You won't even make it to age 10," she had said, scowling when you told her your intentions.

The sad thing was that her words had been true. You had always gotten sick easily, and you nearly always had to wear a mask when you left the house. The other people in town were wary of you and thought that you were a disgruntled and disturbed bastard child, of which you were, but their eyes boring into your soul and inquiring about your hardships made you want to throw something. You had faced many illnesses that had nearly killed you, but you had managed to be grappled back together each time. However, as your mother always said, "the next round of the cold could truly kill you," which made you feel anxious and wary.

As you made your way to the facade of discarded trash that served as the door to your house, you grabbed one of your masks from the wall. You inhaled a deep breath before having to feel the slight asphyxiation and claustrophobia that the mask provided. Your head throbbed just slightly, likely from the stress of having to go find your brother. It was rather late in the afternoon, yet you had only recently awakened. You had begun to sleep more lately, as your mother had become more reclusive and frightening. Your brother had reacted in a very different way: he spent even more time outside of the house. He was always doing something, whether it was chasing around some friends or searching for employment; he was always busy. You envied him. You always had your nose invested in a book, of which was nearly always about science or anatomy. After having been sick for so long that it felt chronic, you had taken a liking to the medical books. The doctor that had frequented your home, Grisha Jaeger, had gifted you some of his old books as part of a congratulatory recovering gift after your last case of chronic pneumonia, of which you almost didn't make it. He often charged your family nothing for treatment, knowing the economic status of your family, but medicine was still hard to afford.