He Was Dying in My Arms, and His Feverish Confession Changed Everything

The heavy wooden bar slid into its iron brackets with a solid, definitive thud that echoed in the small cabin. It was a sound of finality, of separation. Outside, the wind howled a lonely lament through the skeletal trees of the Titan territory. Inside, there was only the crackle of the fire and the shallow, unsteady rhythm of Eren’s breathing.

Mikasa checked the shutters on the single window, ensuring they were latched tight against the encroaching darkness and whatever horrors it held. Her movements were economical, precise, honed by years of military discipline. Every action was performed with an ingrained efficiency that left no room for hesitation. To an observer, she would have appeared calm, a perfect soldier securing a temporary outpost. But beneath the stoic mask, a cold, hard knot of fear was lodged deep in her stomach. It was a familiar sensation, one that visited her every time Eren threw himself headlong into danger, but this time it felt different. Sharper. More acute.

With the cabin secured, she turned her full attention to him. He lay on a narrow, dusty cot, his Survey Corps jacket discarded in a heap on the floor. The firelight flickered across his face, casting shifting shadows that hollowed his cheeks and deepened the lines of pain around his mouth. A sheen of sweat covered his skin, yet he shivered, his body caught in the violent grip of a fever.

She knelt beside him, her practiced eyes taking in the extent of the damage. His uniform was torn and stained a dark, ugly brown where the blood had dried. The primary injury was a deep gash that ran along his left side, from his ribs down to his hip. The metal casing of his ODM gear had failed during a high-speed maneuver, the shattered shrapnel tearing through leather and flesh with brutal force. It was a miracle the wound hadn't been fatal on its own.

Gently, her fingers lighter than she would have thought possible, she peeled back the tattered edge of his shirt. The skin around the laceration was an angry red, swollen and hot to the touch. It was already showing signs of infection. Another, shallower cut marred the muscle of his right bicep, and a collection of bruises was beginning to bloom across his chest. Her gaze traveled to his face, noting the faint tremor in his eyelids, the way his brows were furrowed in some unconscious agony. She laid the back of her hand against his forehead. The heat that radiated from him was alarming, a dry, searing blaze that spoke of a battle being waged within his body, one just as fierce as any he’d fought against the titans. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through her composure. He was burning from the inside out.

She moved to the small hearth, dipping a strip of cloth torn from the lining of her own jacket into the pot of water she’d set to boil. It wasn't sterile, not truly, but it was the best she could do. Alongside it, she placed their single, precious bottle of strong alcohol, usually reserved for sterilizing blades after a fight. It would hurt. A lot. She hardened her heart against the thought. Pain was better than the poison of infection that was already creeping into his blood.

Returning to his side, she knelt again, the damp cloth in her hand. The fire cast long, dancing shadows, and as she leaned over him, the deep crimson of her scarf fell forward, its worn fabric catching the orange glow. She hesitated for only a second, her breath held tight in her chest, before she pressed the hot, wet cloth to the edge of the wound on his side.

Eren’s body jerked, a sharp, reflexive spasm of agony. A low groan escaped his lips, a sound of pure misery that twisted something deep inside her. She worked quickly, her touch firm but gentle, wiping away the grime and dried blood from the inflamed skin. The smell of copper and sickness filled the small space between them.

“So cold…”

Mikasa froze, her hand hovering over his skin. The words were a faint, broken mumble, thick with fever. His head tossed restlessly on the makeshift pillow.

“The floor… it’s so cold,” he whispered again, his eyes still closed, trapped in the delirium. “Dark… wood… splintered.”

The air left her lungs in a silent rush. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, painful rhythm. She knew that room. She could feel the chill of the rough wooden floorboards through her own thin clothes, see the slivers of moonlight piercing the gloom through the cracks in the walls. It was the memory that formed the foundation of her entire world, the dark, terrifying moment just before he had burst in and saved her.

His fevered mind had gone back to the very beginning. To her.

A tremor ran through her own hand. Unconsciously, her other hand rose to her neck, her fingers finding the familiar, soft wool of the scarf. She clutched it, her knuckles white, pulling the fabric tighter as if it could ward off the ghost of that memory, or perhaps draw strength from it. It was a comfort, a shield, the tangible proof of the promise he had made her that day. The promise that she was no longer alone. The fire crackled, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden, tense silence. He was fighting for his life here, in this remote cabin, and his subconscious had sought refuge in the moment he had first fought for hers.

The fragile memory shattered. A violent shudder wracked Eren’s body, a convulsion so powerful it seemed to shake the very cot beneath him. His eyes flew open, but they were wide, unfocused, and blind with fever. The quiet, pained murmurs were gone, replaced by a raw, guttural shout that tore from his throat.

“To the right flank! Now! Kill them all!”

He tried to surge upward, his back arching off the mattress. The movement was pure, frenzied instinct, the reaction of a soldier under attack. Mikasa saw the raw edges of the gash on his side pull apart, a fresh line of dark red blood welling up to stain his skin.

Panic, cold and absolute, seized her for a second before her training took over. She dropped the bloody cloth and threw herself across him, her body a living shield, a human restraint. Her forearm pressed hard against his sternum, trying to pin him to the cot, while her other hand grabbed for his thrashing arm.

“Eren, stop! Lie still!” she commanded, her voice sharp with desperation.

He didn’t hear her. He was lost, drowning in a nightmare of blood and steam. He fought against her with a terrifying, delirious strength. It was the frantic power of a trapped animal, all sinew and desperate will. His skin was scorching hot, the fever radiating through her own uniform, a dry, unhealthy heat that felt like it was burning him alive.

“I’ll kill you! Every last one!” he screamed, his voice cracking. His free hand clawed at her shoulder, his nails digging into the thick fabric of her jacket.

The struggle was raw and intimate. She had to use her full strength, the prodigious power she rarely unleashed outside of combat. She shifted her weight, hooking a leg over his to still their violent kicking, and leaned down, using her entire body to hold him in place. Her face was inches from his, so close she could feel his ragged, hot breath on her cheek. His wild green eyes stared past her, seeing monsters she could only imagine. The small cabin felt suffocating, filled with the sounds of their struggle—the creak of the cot, his hoarse shouts, her own strained breathing.

“Eren, it’s me,” she grunted, the words jolted out of her as he bucked beneath her again. “It’s Mikasa. You’re safe.”

He continued to fight, his muscles bunched and rigid under her hands. He was a storm of pure, unfocused rage. She could feel the frantic, hammering beat of his heart against her ribs, a wild rhythm that seemed to echo the thunder of a titan’s footfalls. Names of the dead spilled from his lips, a broken litany of his failures and his grief. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the violent energy began to wane. His shouts devolved into choked sobs and incoherent muttering. The frantic thrashing lessened into a full-body tremor, a deep, exhausting shudder that was almost worse than the violence.

Mikasa didn’t move. She remained pressed against him, her body pinning him down, her breath coming in deep, ragged gasps. The adrenaline slowly receded, leaving behind a profound ache in her muscles and a hollow fear in her chest. She was holding him together with nothing but her own body, the only barrier she could offer against the inferno that was consuming him from within.