Why hello there, and welcome to my new story! This is an SnK England/evacuee WW2 fic, and the least family-friendly thing I have ever posted here.

Heavily inspired by the one chapter of "Liebe und Krieg" which is currently published. If anybody has a copy of the original story, or who can actually contact the author (CaptainMotgane) to ask them to post it again, please do so. I would really appreciate it.

Other sources of inspiration include Roman Mysteries novels, "Capture" by ostara-san and "Wish you well" by David Baldacci. I also thank all the reference books that better informed me about the Second World War in Britain (the Horrible Histories' "Blitzed Brits", mainly) and religion ("General Knowledge for Dummies". Just, don't judge.).

I by no means wish to offend anybody with this fic, so I will admit this straight away: my education, concerning religion and English history and Geography anyhow, is somewhat lacking. A realistic amount of swearing will take place in this fic as well, but I suppose that if you can stand what to read what I put up in the warnings, a few rude words shouldn't offend you. Anyway, I will look up things that I'm not sure of, but if you do see anything which looks overly out of place, please contact me so that I can correct the mistake. Thank you.

I don't own SnK.

Edit: The chapters are now being betaed, so there may be some minor differences with the original version.

Chapter 1: Coal brings fatality

This chapter features neglect, mentions of abuse, mentions of suicide and agoraphobic and asthmatic characters. If you find the descriptions unrealistic, offensive, or other, please don't hesitate to leave a comment so that I can correct my mistakes. Thank you.

"Berthold, you worthless lout! Get here right this instant!"

"Bertholdt," the person in question corrected, sighing quietly, before getting up from the bale of hay he had been resting his sore bones on. He should have known: the sun was going down, it would soon be time to bring the cows in from the fields. He looked down from the loft, towards the person who had called him. The woman had her grey-strewn fiery red hair in a bun on top of her head, little stray wisps escaping here and there. She wore a scowl on what could have been a pretty face, were it not for the bitter expression she sported daily. One of her hands was sitting on her hip, and a switch usually used on misbehaving animals tapped continually against the high boots she wore, held in her other hand.

Bertholdt gulped slightly, and started descending from the hay-loft as slowly as he dared. Her gaze never left the point between his shoulder blades as he turned his back on her to use the ladder. He felt it burning into his flesh. When he got to the bottom, he looked down at her, seeing as she must have been a good two heads shorter than him. Her scowl deepened even further at this; after all, she has always hated him for being so tall. Scratch that. She has always hated him, point blank.

Without a word, she shot him a furious look, raising the thin piece of wood in a threatening manner. He flinched away, taking a step back and averting his gaze. But nothing happened.

The tall boy looked at the woman again. She now had the most pleasant expression on her face that she has had in days, a smile, even though it was by no means kind. Small brown eyes narrowed in hilarity, she was now pointing the stick at him, as if she had only ever intended to pass it over to him.

He stayed motionless for a few seconds more, just to make sure that she would not take him off guard, and then took the weight of the switch from her. His eyes lowered again, he quickly scuttled past her, but not enough so as to avoid a rough smack to the back of the head.

"And get back in time to get the coal in!"

No matter how long he stared, the cracked mirror only showed him something that he would rather not see. He raised a hand, dragging it through his short blond hair, before passing it in front of his clear blue eyes, temporarily obscuring his vision of himself, then down his chiselled cheekbones and chin.

"Don't get cocky, son. Arrogance will get you nowhere in life."

The woman who had spoken from the corner of the room was busy patching up an old coat. Her hair was undone, draped like a golden curtain reaching halfway down her back. Her eyes were tired, and she didn't look up from her work as she spoke.

Reiner went back to his bed, which creaked as he sat his consequent weight on its frame. The flimsy thing was not meant for a person of his mass, and he highly suspected that the metal bars supporting the mattress he laid on every night were starting to bend in the middle.

"I would have preferred to stay in Bristol."

There was a pause, just long enough so that Reiner could regret his words, before his mother's eyes turned from weary to sharp. She looked at him, and her words came out like knives. They did not cut through him with anger: although they barely scratched his mental skin, they stung badly with the disappointment that they held.

"We worked very hard to get out here, Reiner. It was difficult leaving the city, as much for me as it was for you. But your father had to go to the front, and a woman and a boy can't keep shop by themselves. You'll just have to make do with what we've got for now."

She had spoken in her native language, the one she was most familiar with. The blond nodded his head in understanding, even though he had already known that that was what she was going to say. His mother was a person who needed to lull herself into a false sense of security, even if she had abandoned her livelihood to do so. When his father was around, she would be content, his massive presence in the room reassuring her. But with the war on, she has had to find herself another rock to hold on to, and that had turned out to be wherever the evacuation had wished to leave her. She had settled as soon as she had been taken on as a-woman-that-does-the-sewing on this rich property, which only just paid for the room she rented for both of them. As for Reiner, he was to provide all the rest: food, coal for the small fireplace, cloth, and anything else that permitted their survival. He took on small jobs, on the manor grounds or around town, only ever interrupted by Church on Sundays and the setting of the sun.

Even he has to admit, it's a hard life, and he sometimes wished for more. But he couldn't. He struggled for work, but he thought himself lucky that some people would still take him on for a few coins an hour, despite knowing of his origins written all over his face, and that the townsfolk didn't treat him too badly. Most of the time.

The woman set aside her sewing to walk over to the unlit stove that she then started kindling with deadfall. In retrospect, Reiner was happy that he took that detour through the woods the other day to pick up the pieces of wood littering the forest trail. It should keep them going for some time...

"We need more coal."

He got up slowly, bones popping back into place as he forced his heavy frame to stand.

"Cracking bones means that you don't use them enough. Sloth is a sin, you know that?"

"Yes, mother. I will get some coal now."

"Hurry, then. This night will be cold, and it will rain to-morrow."

He grabbed his coat on the way out. It was an old thing, black leather with a sheepskin lining, but it has served his great-grandfather and all his descendants well. It has turned into a family heirloom of sorts, passed on to him as his father left for the front. Every time his hand reached for it, he hesitated. It didn't help his appearance in any way, he knew that, but common sense dictated that none other than the heavy piece of clothing could keep the biting wind off. He tugged the door to their room closed, only letting in a small draft as he quickly slammed it shut behind him.

He found himself on the outside of the main house. The room had been a coachman's quarters, which has a door leading directly outside to get to the horses quickly, as well as an entrance onto the main house. This was convenient; Reiner didn't have to disturb the occupants of the grand place with him trudging through it with various mess-prone things such as buckets of coal or his muddy boots.

He headed down the path that led towards the edge of the domain, the wooden pail in his hand, picked up from where he had left it before. The gate creaked on its hinges as he pulled it towards him, and then carefully closed it, dropping the latch back into its little niche. From here onwards, the path was dark and wooded. It was not one that Reiner would use often, if he could help it: but there were very few people walking this country road at such an hour, and he relied on that. Yet, this was the quickest path to the church, a place where he knew he would be given a bucketful of coal and a kind smile for free if he were in need of it.

He hurried along the road, determined to get back before the sun went down fully. His boots slapped against the moist ground, sometimes trampling small plants on the ill-used path. Soon enough, the trees cleared on his right, replaced by a field bordered by a wooden fence. It was empty now, but the closely grazed grass spoke of cattle of some kind. There weren't many left over, since all available agricultural space was now being used to grow potatoes more than anything else, but after all, some farmers loved their animals nearly as much as the King himself.

The tall lad snorted, amused at his little comparison, and then stopped as he felt the familiar tightness in his lungs.

Shit, shit, shit, SHIT.

His hands fumbled through his pockets, but he could not find it. His digging became more and more frantic, and finally he found what he was looking for. He pulled his most prized possession out of his pocket, but his trembling hands betrayed him at the last moment.

Only a few seconds were needed for the horror to submerge him, but when it finally did, it hit like a train.

He had dropped it.

He was immediately on his hands and knees, his unseeing eyes desperately trying to find the small object in the darkness, while his lungs sent him one, painfully continuous message:

No air can't breathe no air no air no air…

The sun was about to start hiding its powerful mass behind the crest of a hill, some of the rays using this low point on the horizon to create a beautiful palette of warm colours on the mackerelled clouds. The complex mosaic of sky-blue and deep reds and pinks was a vision of dreams for certain, a romantic moment to be spent with a close partner, sipping coffee or some other warm beverage as the day came to a close. This was not the case for Bertholdt, though. He despaired at the sight of the light source turning in for the day, while he trudged through the boot-sucking mud and shivering in his sorry excuse for a jacket.

He had brought the cows in, but as he was closing the gate, he noticed the absence of a very noticeable large brown piebald, a certain…

"Rose! Rose!"

He has been calling the animal for hours now, and has yet to even glimpse the distinctive modern art painting that was her coat yet. She was one of the rare animals they could not put a bell on, simply because she would get the leather collar stuck on absolutely anything. She had nearly died one time, and that had convinced the Tenards to get rid of the device. It did not make Bertholdt's task any easier, since the animal was a wanderer as well. But the mere amount of milk she produced every day was worth more than he would ever be, he had been told, on the day he had dared share his thoughts on the matter. So he left it at that, keeping to himself after that.

That's when he spotted the break in the fence.

Bertholdt groaned loudly. This has never happened before, even though he had been dreading the day it would. The smart animal has noticed that some of the wooden posts were more exposed to the damp than others, rotting them enough so that a large weight leaning on them would eventually break the flimsy material.

Hoping that she hasn't gone too far, he walked through the gap that had been formed onto the forest path beyond. He had been on it before, to get around the field without the effort of walking through mud, but never at such an hour. The branches hanging down from above his head were oppressing and the brambles catching at his boots felt like little hands holding him back, trying to stop him walking towards an imminent threat. Or an escape route. All depended on how optimistic you were.

The path pointed in two directions, back towards the farm and the village, or else the mansion ten minutes away. Judging by how crushed the vegetation was on the way to the grand house, Bertholdt decided that his best bet was probably this way.

He walked for about five minutes before stopping. He could hear walking up ahead, heavy, like someone wearing boots with iron nails drawn into them. Who could it possibly be?

Suddenly, the tramping stopped. He could hear the rustling of clothing, then the sound of leaves being turned over, all these sounds having a certain desperate quality to them. Or maybe it was the ragged breathing that accompanied them, getting harsher and harsher as the mysterious person struggled with whatever they were doing up ahead.

Bertholdt debated whether he should go on and offer help, or just continue searching for the cow while there was still light to find her by. He paused, disgusted by the latter of his reflections, before setting down his foot and continuing onwards with determination. As the breathing got more and more desperate, another thought struck him. It immediately lit his face with a bright red hue, and nearly made him turn the other way and run in embarrassment. Fortunately, common sense caught up with him: he had not heard a second set of footsteps, nor had he heard giggling or anything else in the same vein. This person seemed in genuine need of assistance.

As he turned the corner, the cow-herd's suspicions were indeed confirmed. A bulky blond was lying in the middle of the path, sweat on his forehead and mouth open and gaping like a landed fish. Both hands were still scrabbling through the mess left by autumn, and he was covered in small pieces of woodland from his current struggle.

The farm-hand took a step forward, eyes narrowing. A large leather coat, blond hair, blue eyes… a German? What was he doing here? He looked too young to be an officer of any sort, even though the coat on his shoulders could have proved him to be so. Hatred sparked in him, as he saw in the person on the ground the ones from which he had hidden so fearfully a few months ago. He stayed like that, motionless, emotionless, letting the person die a slow death at his feet.

Finally, their eyes locked.

Bertholdt had always been incredibly drawn to eyes. They were the windows to the soul, his mother had told him, what now seemed an eternity ago. When he looked into people's eyes, he would catch a glimpse, which would usually spark a thought or an image in him. Only a sentence, the following, was what he heard when he caught the blond's door to his inner storm, before it slammed in his face, as if drawn by a strong gust of wind:

You should not let this person die.

He was instantly by his side as he helped him out, turning over every leaf, pushing every branch aside. He knew the symptoms; he had seen them before in numerous patients in his father's office. Finally, he found the small glass and rubber object, and thrust it into the desperate, shaking hand. The blond brought the object to his lips immediately, and inhaled as deeply as his aching lungs would let him. But it was enough. The product took effect, and a few pants later he was found breathing normally, if not heavily.

The stranger stayed seated there for a while, recovering from his near-death experience as best as he could. Bertholdt kneeled next to him, half expecting to receive a knife in his gut for his efforts. But still. It had been his decision, and he did not regret saving a life in the slightest. If he were to die now, it wouldn't be too bad, he realised. At least he had finally done something with his life, something that meant that he wasn't on the same level as them, that he was still human, despite his faults.

He shook his head again in disbelief of his own thoughts. Was he really putting all his fears, lumping the responsibility of a whole nation, on the back of some poor guy in the middle of the English countryside, who just happened to look like the worst enemies of his culture? And who, above all that, has suffered an asthma attack just in front of his eyes? Maybe he wasn't any better than them, after all.

The blond guy finally got to his feet, a little slowly, and with wobbly knees. He looked at Bertholdt, who was still crouching down, his thoughts lost elsewhere.

"Hey… you… thanks?" he said haltingly, as if trying not to waste too much precious oxygen in speech. Bertholdt nodded, before saying: "House?" and pointing questioningly down both paths one after the other.

The heavy brow wrinkled in thought for a second, before he pointed down the lane towards the manor house. He tried taking a step forward, but his trembling meant that it was more of a stumble than anything else. As he followed up with a second one, his knee buckled, and he would have fallen flat on his face if it were not for the farm-hand catching him at the last second.

Without a word, not even replying to the surprised glance that the blond shot him, he put his arm around his shoulders and proceeded to pull him along, slowly enough so that he could follow, but fast enough so that they would maybe be able to get there before the temperature dropped again for the night.

Leaves crunched beneath their feet, the steady rhythm only interrupted from time to time when they needed to stop, so that the blond could get a gasp of relief from his inhalator.

After a few more of these cycles, he decided to break the silence, to Bertholdt's discontent. He didn't like to talk much.

"My name is Reiner, by the way."

Reiner, huh? Sounded pretty German to him. Still, he was looking at him as if he expected a reply, and he might as well give him one. If he was planning on killing him once he got back into familiar territory, he would go down knowing that, like him, he was a human being who has a way to be identified as an individual, he mused, still vaguely wondering whether this was a good idea or not.

"Bertholdt," he said through gritted teeth, trying, for all he was worth, to keep the reply as brief as possible.

"Reiner" nodded shortly between gasps, seeming to only be taking in the information as a secondary thought, his breathing getting strained once more. He took out his glass device again, which looked a little bit like a perfume bottle and atomizer. Inhaling the vapour until his breaths fell once again into a more normal pattern, he then put his weight back onto Bertholdt's shoulder.

The guy was very heavy, the farm-hand reflected. He was shorter than him, but his muscle mass was huge compared to his own. In a fight, he wouldn't stand much of a chance, unless he exploited his weakness, that is. The question was, what would be the most efficient way to do so? A handful of dust in the face, maybe?

He shook himself mentally. He was such a hypocrite, and an indecisive one at that. If he really wanted to take advantage of a weak position, he should have done so earlier on. He could have even let the guy die there; nobody would have gone looking for him at this time in the evening. That look in his eyes, though. There was something more there.

"We're… nearly… there…"

He turned his attention back to the person he was supporting, whose face, which looked like something chiselled from a block of granite, wore a relieved expression. A gate's silhouette could be picked out against the very last rays of the setting sun. With this, the thoughts of the wayward cow came crashing down on Bertholdt again, and he resigned himself to whatever was waiting for him once he got back to the Tenards. One thing was certain, though: he was pretty sure that it was neither a warm meal, nor a place to sleep near the fire.

They got to the gate, and with a little struggling on Bertholdt's part, he got it open and closed it again. He was now a little nervous. If this "Reiner" was some sort of aristocrat, his chances of escaping him would be even smaller if he decided he wanted to keep him around. And at the very least, he would be involved in some sort of embarrassing "thank you for saving our son/cousin/other relation, but get off our lawn now please" kind of speech. They were not only uncomfortable, but time-wasting as well. And the faster he got back to the Tenards, the better.

They shuffled off to the side of the building, not actually taking the main path to the entrance. Maybe he had sneaked out, or even better, was he just some sort of unimportant guest or a stable-boy of some description? The low light wasn't giving him much of an indication over what kind of clothing he was wearing, but in that moment, he had only been able to process the fact that his heavy coat looked all too much like the ones he had escaped coming over here.

They walked closer to a barn-like structure surrounded by the smell of engine oil and animal faeces, probably the place where they kept a car and horses. The path then split, giving the choice of either turning right to a door onto the main building, or going straight on past the stables to another unknown location. Like all the other people in the area, Bertholdt had walked past, and even, on one occasion, stepped onto the grounds of the estate, but he could not claim to know this part of the property at all.

Reiner shoved him gently, motioning towards the back door of the stately manor. Right. At least he didn't have to lug him around much further.

They got to the door, and the taller of the two youngsters rapped on the door thrice. There was a shuffling, the sound of a bolt sliding out of place, then finally the door opened a sliver to reveal a blonde woman.

"Mother…"

The door opened fully to reveal the lady. She seemed to be in her forties, even though the bags under her eyes added years to her. She opened her mouth, and said:

"Where is the coal?"

Her expression remained steely, and somewhat disinterested. Bertholdt didn't quite understand. If this woman was really this person's mother, then where were the worry and hugs and the where-have-you-been-I've-missed-you? It was as if she didn't really care if her son died. Did she even know he wasn't well?

"Please, mother …"

She looked at him disappointedly again and waved them in, with Bertholdt still supporting the weight of the larger person. He was directed to a bed in the corner of the room, where he let the blond collapse and reach for a mask connected to a large device behind it. He got the machine working quickly enough, and was soon gulping down lungful after lungful of the medicated air.

The saviour then turned to the woman who had let them into the room. She took her place near the stove, a wobbly stool which she had pulled as close to it as possible. She was staring at it, as if she could see the heat radiating off of it. It was pretty warm in the room, he observed, as he had taken in his surroundings. Two beds, a few chairs and stools, and a sink with a cracked mirror occupied the space. It wasn't much, but it was enough for two people to live in. Continuing his inspection from where he was standing, he caught sight of a rather large pile of black rocks in a corner. Coal.

Most sources of heat have been rationed, but there seemed to be plenty here. And that wasn't the strangest thing yet. Reiner had been sent out to get even more of the stuff, but what for?

His eyes went back to the woman, who he was surprised to find staring back at him.

"What are you still doing here?" she said, with a hint of surprise in her voice.

And not just that, but she had spoken in German.

A groan sounded from behind him, and Bertholdt turned to see the fully-recovered Reiner with an embarrassed look on his face.

"Look, I'm sorry, thank you for saving me back there. I don't know how to repay you, but please take this. It'll help you get back to wherever you're from without tripping and splitting your skull open."

He reached under the bed, and pulled out a torch with a layer of fabric tied to the head.

"This is a torch I used for walking around when there were blackouts back in the city, but I think that if you're careful enough, you could take the fabric off if there still isn't enough light to see by."

Reiner got up from where he had been sitting on the bed and came over to him, pressing the torch into his hands. It was rather heavy, of good quality, and Bertholdt nodded in gratitude at the gift.

"Reiner? What are you doing?"

"I think it is better that you go now; things could get out of hand," he added, pushing the tall boy gently towards the exit. He let him do so; he didn't really want to stay much longer in the presence of this mad lady anyway.

He was soon outside, in the cold, shivering under his vest which offered him hardly any protection against the harsh wind. He turned around and watched as he caught a glimpse of the woman who had previously been sitting next to the fire getting up and walking closer and closer to her son, her face no longer indifferent, but closer to sad.

As the door closed on him, Reiner added, seemingly as an afterthought:

"I hope to see you soon."

Then the sliver of light coming from the door disappeared, and the farm-hand made his way down the path, new torch in hand. The thought of the Tenard family waiting for him when he got back sent a shiver down his spine. And he was certain that it has nothing to do with the cold.

"Only if I survive the night, Reiner."