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The Heirs

Chapter Text



Hange Zoe <hangezoe@crown.eng>

To: Eren Jaeger <> 

July 19 at 9:53 am

Attached herewith is the betrothal contract that has been drawn up. 

Her majesty is open to any changes on your party, if you so desire.

In fact, she wishes to personally discuss the matter with you, knowing the delicacy of the situation. 

Is the 23rd acceptable for such a meeting? 

Please send us your response on this email. 




Eren Jaeger <> 

To: Hange Zoe <hangezoe@crown.eng>

July 20 at 3:07 am

If her majesty so wishes, the 23rd shall be reasonable. 




Hange Zoe <hangezoe@crown.eng>

To: Eren Jaeger <> 

July 20 at 6:18 am

Her majesty insists to clarify that she has explicitly requested your approval, and has not in any way or form ordered you.

If you felt coerced, do please forgive us. Emails are hardly conducive to tones.

And if you have any prior engagements on that day, then her majesty completely understands. 

She profoundly hopes you treat her with the familiarity you would particularly award to your mother-in-law, much sooner than later. 

Please do not hesitate to send us your response in this email. 




Eren Jaeger <> 

To: Hange Zoe <hangezoe@crown.eng>

July 20 at 12:01 pm

Oh no, I did not felt coerced at all. As you have mentioned, emails are hardly conducive to tones. 

The 23rd is perfectly suitable. 

And uh, I hope it's perfectly reasonable if I hold out against the familiarity. 

Everything's going a little too fast for my comfort, and I'm still having reservations about the whole arrangement. 

Please don't take any offense to this. 

I'm just flustered. After all, a mere citizen doesn't usually find himself engaged to the crown prince, in real life that is.




Hange Zoe <hangezoe@crown.eng>

To: Eren Jaeger <> 

July 20 at 12:30 pm

Rest assured, there is nothing in your writing that is even marginally offensive. 

The Queen is very eager to finally meet you. 

She hopes to rouse you out of your reservations. 

She also hopes infinitely for you to like Prince Rivaille's company. 

A car will pick you up at precisely 3:00 pm. Please dress comfortably. 

Chapter Text


Claire Reiss <>

To: Eren Jaeger <> 


March 20 at 8:36 am 


I am thrilled to inform you that the Committee on Admissions and Financial Aid, after much deliberation, has chosen to offer you a place in the class of 2018. Enclosed within this email is the soft-copy of the certificate of admission. Your letter of admission and printed certificate will arrive shortly by post. 

Moreover, our faculty and students offer you a special invitation to visit the campus over the next few weeks to acquaint yourself with how Sina University rolls, in hopes that it will help you decide your final college choice. We tremendously hope that you will utilize this opportunity; the invitation is attached. 

We need to be informed on or before May 1 if you have accepted our offer of admission, either by visiting us at our website, or by filling out and returning the postcard that will be sent to you along with your acceptance letter. 

You will find more information in your letter of admission that will be knocking on your door in a few days.

I personally extend my warmest congratulations to your achievement. 


 [guess what, my dearest and extremely suffocating sister]

[I can hear the smug tone despite the apparent disuse

of vocal chords. What?] 

[i'm joining the flock, that's what]


[i'm on my way to being a certified Sina University student, baby]



[I should be happy but I'm just seriously lamenting this blunder.

Honestly, my admiration for the institution just took a fascinating dive.]

[*sad face emoji]

[look, i may seem tough and i am but you're honestly hurting my feelings here.]

[i thought you'd be happy. you know, you can stalk me more *wink emoji] 

[Eren, you have fervently expressed your distaste for my tendency to 'baby'

you on numerous occasions. Repeatedly teasing me about that won't help

your plea for more freedom, just saying.]

[Nor is admitting yourself to my current school, for that matter.]

[sheesh, i'm just trying to reassure myself that you still love me]

[this freedom thing's making me realize how cold you really are]

[like snow queen cold, elsa degree]

[oh and sina university's my first choice, you just have to adjust. remember your promise.] 

[and stop texting so formally]

[i'm not a teacher i won't give you an f for texting with wrong grammar]

[Your persuasions will amount to nothing. I'm comfortable texting this way. 

You should be grateful that I'm texting at all.]

[grandma, live a little] 

[but we digressed, am i not deserving of a simple congratulations?]


[that's ... filled with warmth, i suppose. i'll take it.]

[You'll be under my wing, understand? I'll help you until you've adjusted

completely to your new environment.]

[and here we go again]

March 30, 2018 


Happy birthday, Eren. This is the last time I'm getting you what you want. -Mikasa

P.S. I'm serious this time. 

Eren ignores the warning, knowing how amusingly untrue they are, tearing through the meticulously wrapped expensive paper like a bulldozer, intent on uncovering the mysterious gift that he's so sure is a tasteful piece of new tech. The one he keeps on shamelessly alluding to during his late conversations with Mikasa. 

The wrapper makes crunchy noises until he is introduced to the pristine box of a new Samsung S9 sitting bare on his slightly trembling palms. 

The box looks exquisite against his hands—which has never touched an item so expensive and his, in years; and he cradles it with tremendous reverence, irrationally afraid that it’ll imitate a butterfly that’ll fly off in one wrong move—a horrendously expensive butterfly at that. 

His mother makes a series of disapproving noises on the background. No doubt frowning as well—pale face creased with lines more prominent than it should be for her age— but he's in a trance at the moment. 

Damn Mikasa and her connections.

"Eren, your sister's not a credit card. Stop asking for expensive things like a brat!" 

He understands her sentiments, really. He's been a proper imp, demanding things like a sugar baby.

It just so happens that he's not really virtuous enough to refrain from exploiting Mikasa's inherent 'Eren caring' side. 

"I'm her brother! I put up with her shit for years. This is just rightful payback."  It isn't a nice answer but it's the most accurate. And Eren's always been particular with accuracy.  

Instantly, he feels the back of his very dirty shoes colliding with the back of his head. He grimaces—not at the impact, though his mother certainly still has strong muscles— but at the thought that his threadbare sneakers are utilized as a flying projectile.

God, the shoes has probably taken more damage than his head.  

Shaking his hair to remove any crusts of mud that may have cling to the strands and placing the box gingerly on the table in front of him, he twists, attempting to crouch down the floor to retrieve the shoes and never place it on his mother's line of sight ever again, on pain of destruction.

Operation 'save the shoes' is in motion when he notices that-- his sneakers has assumed a different shape and form.

The synthetic cloth-like thing composing the outer part of the shoes has gone from faded blue to a sharp black, devoid of the unflattering tears and holes that has decorated the entire thing since time immemorial. 

It's in pristine condition, and judging by the bow tied artistically on the shoelaces where a small card peeks through with a giant 'TO MY OFFSPRING', it's for him.  

He looks up; and his mother looks at him with all the nonchalance in the world, like she hadn't just chucked her gift across the room. 

He doesn't know if he should be amused or annoyed. In the end, he settles for incredulous


Carla Jaeger huffs, crossing her arms like a stereotypical imperious parental figure, "I was getting tired of hearing you complain about the problematic gum in your shoe."

Eren fish-mouths, "and you just had to throw it at me instead of giving it to me like a civilized person would?"  

She scoffs, "sure, blame me for being creative."

He snorts in disbelief, of course. 

His mother has always been a hard creature to comprehend. 

He's pretty sure she's an alien, hell-bent on teasing her only son and her only form of amusement. 

His eyes stray towards the photo on the side where his grandfather poses, looking all commanding like his daughter. The man's dead, but his presence seems to be locked inside the frame, ready to be unleashed every time Eren's being slow and tarnishing the family name.

He rolls his eyes, unable to do anything else. He has really never known his grandpa, but he's got a feeling it's for the best. Father and daughter's personalities seem much the same, or that's the vibe he feels anyway, having them both pulling on his pigtails may result to an early death for him. 

"Are you lonely?" He mocks after recovering from his previous state, and his head snaps back like lightning when a harsh smack is delivered on his forehead. 


He thinks his brain may have been shaken out of its position. He rubs his forehead carefully. 

"Can't I give you a present without being called depressed?" 

"It's not the present—you can give me as many as you want, actually. It's your continuous attempts to entertain yourself at my expense, mom. I wasn't born so that I could cater to your whims." 

Carla slowly raises her eyebrow; and it makes Eren twitch. He hurries to add, "not even when you think I am, otherwise," raising his index finger and directing it at her in warning. The smug aura around never wavered though, and the eyebrow remaining raised unnerves him. 

The staring contest is interrupted when a barrage of chimes attacks their front door. It seems urgent, but when he moves to open the front door as was properbecause Eren you can't hide inside the house like a recluse when someone's asking for you out front, it's impolite, I didn't raised you like that, or that's what she said, anyway, when he's got that annoying stalker from fourth grade relentlessly attacking their front door—Carla has already captured the hem of his shirt in a little death grip.

"What? Afraid that the police has caught on on your plans to torment me further?" 

He startles though when she shoves something in his hands, and finds it's a couple of bills. 

"Go buy something at Gino's." 

Eren looks at her, peeved, "Gino's is like--a 30 minute walk from here!" 

"Yeah, well walk faster sweetheart." 


She pays no mind to his fervent protests and instead pushes him to the window. 

"Go, climb down the window." 

"Are you insane?" He exclaims, because firstly it's his birthday and secondly it's his birthday, he should at least have a temporary immunity against his mother's whimsical nature, or at least be granted the courtesy to use the door when he suddenly gets kicked out. Carla looks on though, gesturing towards the window impatiently. Her face gets this look, dour(ish )— and it escalates with five-percent increments every time the doorbell chimes. 

Eren sighs in defeat and tramps on, opening the window and slowly lifting himself towards the emergency stairs. It's not the first time he climbs down the window anyway, screw Mikasa for being a tattle-tale. Now, his sneaking out tactics are awfully backfiring.

A few minutes later, he successfully steadies himself on the iron stairs, after his mother pushes him and he has a mini heart-attack while swaying shakily in the air that is. 

She leaves him with a," Love you dear, and happy birthday! Enjoy your walk, don't worry Mikasa's waiting for you at Gino's. You can go to a bar, I think Mikasa has your fake I.D., just try not to puke on the carpet when you return, or better yet crash at somewhere else's place," and slams the window close. 

On his way down, he prays hard that he hasn't and will not contract her apparent lunacy. 

Once Eren's finally out of the room, Carla steels herself and abruptly wrenches the door open to find a miffed entourage. 

"You still came?" She says, boldly. So, it's probably a jumbo crime to disrespect one's sovereign as if she's the troublesome gum on her son's century-old sneakers but Carla Jaeger has had enough of this. 

Wow ... she realizes. The analogy is apt as fuck. 

"Can I come in?" The intruder, whom the majority of the country may treat as a guest of honor, but not her --no, asks smoothly, unafraid yet firm.

'No' is what she would like to say, but she's got more manners than that even if she is technically raised in a barn. 

She wordlessly opens the door wider and the smaller woman enters, her legion of body guards attempting to follow her inside but then stops abruptly when she dismisses them with a single wave.

Carla is amazed at how much power one woman possesses—the world's come a long way, huh. On a side note, she wonders how powerful her pinky finger can be. 

Queen Kuchel, who made headlines when she publicized her decision to shelter her children away from the limelight, sits on her 20 year-old loveseat and looks every bit as regal as if she's trying to take on the parliament. 

Well, it's fitting, Carla guesses, she can be as uncooperative as the parliament. 

"I hear your son has turned 18 today," The queen says casually, while Carla shuffles around the kitchen to make cheap tea from the local grocery store. She curses silently when she sees the ants have decided to invade their honey jar, well what's left of it that is. Damn that kid and his tendency to secretly slurp all their honey. 

Silence reigns in until she places the tray containing two cups of pure cheap tea and a couple of cookies on their chipped table, and answers with a clipped, "yes, he has."

The queen's a shrewd woman, and she probably can notice that trivial pleasantries will not cause a positive effect on the conversation.

Most likely why she goes straight to the point. "I'd like to personally ask why you're so against the arrangement."  

Carla lifts the cup to her lips and sips, unperturbed, and the queen continues. 

"My father's indebted to your father for his valor, and as courtesy it is only fitting that we return the favor. Marriage to the royal family is the highest form of—"

She's heard all this rubbish before, and her ears will honestly bleed if this continues, so she decides to get on with it. "I told you before and I'm telling you again. I'm not selling my son." 

"Excuse me?"  The queen's incredulity is sharp. 

"I'm not selling my son." 

The queen's forehead creases in dissatisfaction, "we're not some cheap prostitution ring." 

Carla places the tea cup back on saucer soundly, and pierces the queen with an intense stare, conveying the magnitude of the circumstance that the queen seems to have missed, or perhaps has deliberately decided to ignore. 

"Eren is his own person. God knows how I hated it when someone makes decisions for me, and I'm not a hypocrite. I want my son to fall because of his personal mistakes, or to rise for standing through his own convictions. And it's not as if you're the only one giving something in the arrangement. If I agree, my son will have to sacrifice his future. And I only see chaos when I'm faced with you people." 

The seat creaks when she stands pointedly, not-so-subtly indicating that it's time to leave and that she has enough

Kuchel tilts her head daintily, ignoring the signal, "are you so caring about his future because you already sullied his past?" 

Carla stiffens. Tsk. If she wanted to convince her, this was not the proper tactic. 

Wrong move, buddy. 

And as if the queen hasn't got the attention she needs, she plows on. "He is illegitimate because you decided to dally with a married man. Are you feeling guilty?" 


Carla hadn't known he was married then, but it wasn't enough reason, they say. It always isn't. 

She smiles at the queen though, despite it all, because she pities her the most. She who was shoved on the role of making decisions while decisions were made for her in childhood.

What a delicious irony. It's a fucking makjang-drama. 

She remains quiet while walking to the door and pulling it open, the universal sign for 'get out'. This time, though, the queen seems to finally comprehend it. She stands, albeit without any display of shame at being unceremoniously kicked out. Although before she crosses the threshold, Carla grasps her arm, inadvertently causing her to stiffen in surprise.

They stare at each other intensely, and after a beat she waves her paranoid guards off—who are all poised to blow Carla's head, and which is not a comforting thought. 

Carla wastes no more time and unbeknownst to her, her brown eyes are churning like a chocolate storm cloud, mighty and invincible when she says, "I will never regret my decisions. I just hope you won't regret yours, your majesty."