There were two plans Armin had devised based on his first good contact with Bertholdt.
One was to regain Bertholdt's trust and get close enough that he'd allow himself to believe that what Armin was saying really was the truth. That the downsides of his cooperation were minimal compared to the benefits that both he and the Eldians in his home nation would enjoy. That there was great altruism in making the right choice. Become a stable presence in Bertholdt's life and gradually plant in his head the idea that Armin represented comfort, and his absence pain.
The other leaned on the same principle. If he failed to convince Bertholdt in time, a force out of Armin's hands could take away what they had rebuilt. Visitation rights being suspended by the upper brass. An accident. Hange telling him to focus on other, more fruitful work. And if Bertholdt didn't follow him to the surface, then he'd never see another friendly face again. A drastic gambit, but an effective one if Armin carefully sank his hook deep enough first.
One was more abrasive than the other, but if neither worked, then it would be fair to conclude that Bertholdt had outlived his usefulness as a source of information and Armin indeed was better off spending his time elsewhere.
It was all a matter of what paid off the most.
1
Returning to Trost on Sunday evening, it took Armin until Thursday to have a proper chance of running into Hange again. Their successful recruitment efforts had netted them a good total of 25 new permanent recruits from all districts combined, and they'd been busy making arrangements to train and prepare them for future expeditions.
Armin found Hange in their office for once, hard at work burning through some dreaded paperwork. After confronting Levi following his successful rally in Stohess, approaching Hange didn't make Armin's stomach twist half as much as it had before.
"That could work," they said after hearing him out, sitting back in their chair with arms crossed behind their head and a sceptical raised eyebrow. "But will the other military brass find that such a good idea? I'm not so sure of it either, I wouldn't want blood on my hands."
"Blood on your hands? That's not what I'm asking for at all," Armin contested. "I just would like him to be fed."
Hange sighed.
"I know. But every regulation we have in place was set for a reason. Safety goes above all, even if it sometimes comes at the cost of our humanity. He's a mass murderer who's made the choice to allow even more people die through his silence. This is not someone I care to protect. He knows very well that his circumstances are something he has caused and he'll need something to show for it if he wants better."
"Yes, I understand," Armin said. He paid attention to his body language, keeping a straight posture and avoiding fidgeting with his hands. "He is not the one who wants it, though. It's me. I've calculated the risk and it's insignificant compared to the benefits it will bring."
"That doesn't change anything about the importance of safety down in the mine."
Armin shook his head.
"It doesn't. But," he held up his hand, fingers all curled up except his thumb. "We've taken three of his limbs," he uncurled his index finger, "covered his body with a harness that takes keys, technical knowledge, strength, and blood to take off, and," his middle finger joined, "the hand he does have has been made unusable for over 23 hours a day. He doesn't have what it takes to regenerate. To starve him on top feels unnecessarily cruel, not to mention counterproductive."
He held up his three fingers for a little longer to make his point before pulling them back into a fist and dropping his hand to his side again.
"That, it may be," Hange responded, adjusting their glasses and laying their arms on the table. "The condition for keeping him alive instead of killing him in Shiganshina was that we had to find a way to safely contain him until we found a suitable inheritor. If there's even the slightest risk of breach in his containment, we need to put him down. It's cruel, but it's the only way. My hands are tied."
It did make sense. That didn't make it right. This was a step in the wrong direction, to opt for something that would directly work against what Armin was trying to do here.
"The engineering team has gone through rigorous testing on this equipment, no? You oversaw it yourself. There's nothing that can cause him to take it off, and without doing that, he can't regenerate."
"There are circumstances we cannot predict. We didn't know that the Armoured Titan was still a threat when his head got blown off either. If there is any chance that he can get the equipment off or that someone helps him, then the time needed to find and digest food could be the only thing standing between security and a breach."
Another avenue was needed. Something that had worked in the past.
"Getting him at a healthy weight again is pivotal to my method."
"I'm sorry, Armin, but I decline. I trust your judgement, but the lives of those who guard him and those of the people who will be affected should he escape are worth infinitely more than his comfort."
That couldn't be an ethical mentality, he thought, lips tingling at the crass nature of the statement. Staying well-fed shouldn't be called comfort. It should be a right available to all humans, ally or not. What made him less human than they were?
"I promised him that I would help him get better food. If I come back on that now, it will undermine what I've been working towards," Armin tried one final time.
"Then be more careful with the promises you make."
So Bertholdt was right that Hange was the one who didn't want it, no matter how good of a reason there was to change it. All Armin had left now was to beg, but he was above that. He'd have to find another way to convince them to give in to the plea.
He left disgruntled, and his interactions with Hange continued to be strained for a while afterwards.
When he returned the next Sunday, it was with cold feet after wasting an hour on the surface before finally descending into the mine. There was no knowing whether Bertholdt still held a grudge over how Armin's last visit had ended; if the aftermath of his panic over being approached still had him wary or if he'd be calm. Assuming he'd just let go of it felt naive. More bad news could set him off again.
It didn't matter how he stood there, just that he'd shown up. He'd simply need more time, there was plenty he could do to afford it.
He pulled open that gate with full confidence for once, ignoring the lurking sense of unsettlement that the dark corridors of Tourze always thrust upon him. Bertholdt was awake, lying on his side in his sleeping bag. Armin doubted he ever left it for more than a few minutes a day.
"Hey, good morning," Armin greeted. "How are you doing today?"
He got what he thought was a groan. Not quite a response, but Armin didn't mind, hanging up his lantern and sitting down on the crate with his backpack at his feet. As he settled down, Bertholdt made the effort to sit upright against the wall, showing he intended to pay attention and be present in the conversation. A great start to the day.
"You don't have to answer if you don't want to, but I can help you out better if you do."
Another groan, but this one culminated into words.
"Same as last time."
"Did the apple I gave you do anything to improve things?"
Bertholdt shrugged.
In his new position, the collar of his stained shirt was better lit and Armin noticed how more blood specks had appeared on it since last week. They were still beating him. He'd have to have a word with the policemen after this. Maybe Hange considered it another way to keep him weakened. Worst case scenario, they sanctioned the treatment themselves and wouldn't back his request for better practices.
"I wouldn't expect your situation to improve from just one piece of fruit," Armin continued.
He took the knapsack he'd prepared at breakfast behind everyone's back out of his backpack, looking over his shoulder as he held it up a little higher and Bertholdt's captivated eyes fixed upon it.
"I brought you more this time. Enough to supplement what you get for the upcoming week. I've got three loaves of bread, two apples, and a tin of assorted nuts and seeds with me. It may get a little stale as the week progresses, so you should eat the fresh produce before using the nuts to make it through the last days without hunger. Do you want any of it now?"
Bertholdt shook his head, so Armin stood up, hand on the crate's lid.
"I'm sorry that it's not exactly what I promised. The Commander's been busy, I haven't been able to reach them yet."
He opened the crate and placed the knapsack inside. The darkness had almost concealed it and caused him to get up again, but then he saw an apple tucked away where he'd lobbed it last week, untouched, and he lingered.
"Bertholdt, you didn't eat the apple I got you?" he asked, looking back over his shoulder at a slightly bewildered Bertholdt.
"I forgot it was there."
"Oh," Armin simply responded. He closed the lid and sat down again, drumming his fingers on his knees a few times. "I've put your food in the crate. You should eat something from it once a day, it'll make you feel a lot better."
"I will."
"Good! Try to remember." Armin smiled. "Did you come up with anything else to ask me this week? I still owe you a free answer."
"Um… Not really. I forgot."
"That's fine. Maybe you'll get inspiration while I'm here. We can also just talk, it doesn't need to be an exchange."
"Yeah."
Bertholdt was responsive today. Equally languid as he'd been at the start of their other sessions, but experience had taught Armin that the longer they spent together, the more Bertholdt opened up and snapped out of that daze that consumed him.
"I brought something else with me. Another small gift, if you'll let me," Armin offered.
"Okay.".
From his backpack, Armin retrieved a small paper box he'd nabbed from the Survey Corps headquarters a few days ago figuring that no one would miss this invaluable tool to his efforts. He held it up in the light so that Bertholdt could see it more clearly.
"Know what this is?"
Bertholdt squinted and leaned forward, but just as soon relaxed back against the wall.
"No."
"It's a double deck of cards," Armin explained. "Aside from bringing you food and items that'll make you a little more comfortable, I don't believe there's anything I can do about your hunger and fatigue, but I can help you deal with the boredom. Care for a few games?"
"I suppose so," Bertholdt responded, not sounding all too exhilarated about the proposal. He never had been one to play the others' games by his own volition unless it was chess, but that didn't have to mean that he didn't enjoy them.
Moreover, so far, he'd given up on resisting Armin. Maybe he was already close to budging and giving up the fight altogether. The thought made Armin's stomach jump with giddiness.
"I'd like to keep the cards clean. Since you didn't want me to come any closer last time, I had an idea." He tapped his index finger on the crate. "If I put this between us as a physical barrier and keep my distance while we use it as a playing surface, will you be fine?"
Armin put the card box down next to himself, waiting patiently for Bertholdt to realise his input had been requested.
Bertholdt nodded. Armin stood up, pushing away the piled-on dust by its base with the tip of his boot before searching the crate for an easy grappling point. With some effort, he managed to pull it loose from the wall it stood against. A couple of bugs and insects crawled out from behind it and the suddenness gave Armin the power in his limbs to pull it back and push it close enough to the centre of the mineshaft that Bertholdt wouldn't need to lean too far to reach it.
Sitting down on the dusty floor on the other side with shaky legs (his pants would have to forgive him later) and sweeping the crate's surface as clean as he could, he grabbed the card box and removed both decks, joining them and shuffling the stack.
"Do you have a preference for a game?"
No, Bertholdt shook. "I prefer chess over cards."
He'd often play against Reiner, and occasionally even against one of them. The few times they had played against each other, Bertholdt's strategy had been sophisticated, using methods that were rather unconventional. Armin wondered if that was something typical for Marley's local playstyle, but it was so different from Reiner's. More defensive and reactive to his opponent's moves.
"I can see about bringing along a chess board, if I find one that's easy to carry with me. Cards will have to do for now."
He placed down the shuffled stack, then took two pairs of four and placed one on Bertholdt's end of the crate before sitting back.
"Take a look at your cards. Remember them but don't tell me what you have."
As Armin went to take a look, he saw Bertholdt reach for his own quartet before stopping.
"Um… How?" he asked, looking back at Armin — ahead rather than up, for once — with the expectation of a solution, bandaged fist hovering over the cards.
"Oh," Armin said. That was one detail that had slipped his mind when he'd planned this. "Let's see… I can unwrap your hand and dress it again before I leave. No one will have to know."
"No. Don't do that," Bertholdt whispered back.
"Okay…"
He probably didn't want to risk being caught. It was a natural extension of not wanting to be approached, but it showed it was just Armin, since his wardens would have to touch him if they wanted to take off his bandages. Yet another overkill measure that complicated things. Armin really had to do something about this when the safety equipment was more than enough to protect against transformation.
He stood up again, pulling back on the crate so that it stood a little farther away from Bertholdt before sitting down again.
"I'll show you your cards and carry out your actions for you. I'll see if there's anything I can do to make sure that your bandages are off when I come to visit."
Another promise that he wasn't sure he could make good on, but he had to try. Bertholdt needed free use of his hand, especially if he could associate said freedom with Armin's presence.
"Anyway," he continued. "We can play Fours. This is a game I came up with myself based on one we always used to play, Nines, except with four cards, and you're allowed to look at your cards at the start. Do you know the rules?"
"Yeah, I do."
"Good! I'll show you your cards in a moment, then arrange them face-down in a row. When we start, you can no longer look at your cards, so remember their order well. You can start. Lowest sum wins, and the king, queen, and jack all have the same special meanings as Nines. Tell me when you want the game to end and we'll compare sums and decide the winner."
"Yeah," Bertholdt confirmed.
Armin held up his cards one by one, turning them face-down when Bertholdt nodded for the next one, then took a look at his own and arranged them as well.
Armin started off with decent cards, only accepting the occasional card from the draw pile and discarding most others. Bertholdt, on the other hand, discarded a good card in one of his last turns, giving Armin the upper hand in the first game. It became a trend for him to discard better cards in exchange for worse every now and again, but he was trying; his groan the fourth time it happened and his growing agitation attested to that.
They played seven games, but two had been enough to give Armin the information he was looking for.
Bertholdt's memory was terrible.
He could barely keep track of his cards despite doing his best; not when Armin talked to distract him, not when it was silent and he could focus his full attention on their game. This was not at all comparable to the insightful chess player Armin had faced in the past, or like the careful reader who was capable of picking up on and remembering minor details in stories that seemed insignificant at the time but that turned out to be of great importance later.
To let good arguments infiltrate a mind and convince it that they're good arguments, such a mind would need to be whole and attentive. Bertholdt's was fractured. What sat in front of Armin was a shell of his former self scrambling to keep his dignity in the wake of his mind's abandonment. Everything Armin fed it would eventually slip through the cracks, his efforts lost.
At least, it was for now. Fractured didn't mean irreparable. If Armin could refortify the whole structure with good food, company, quality rest, and hope, maybe he could also rearrange the shards to heal into a shape that was of more use to him.
"Maybe we should play something a little less intensive," Armin suggested at the end of the seventh game when Bertholdt started to visibly get annoyed. Bertholdt had won two, Armin the other five, and their last one ended in his favour with Bertholdt training his eyes on the gate in disinterest as a result.
"Sure," Bertholdt replied. Despite his agitation, Bertholdt never asked to stop.
"How about Twenty-One? Keeping with the trend of games named after numbers." Something easy on the mind, something that didn't require much strategising and that allowed them to talk.
"Yeah."
For several hours, they ended up playing a variety of games to the sound of Armin talking about inconsequential things like the weather's development, what he'd been up to, and latest news among the 104th in the Survey Corps and his new peers.
Armin talked, Bertholdt listened. It felt so like the conversations they used to have tucked away in a dusty library, hidden behind unordered stacks of books and off into their own world. Maybe even fun, in the same way a mandatory exercise could be lightened by a push in the back or how a winter outdoor chore was made bearable by throwing snow at a pal.
Although Bertholdt was at times slow in gesturing to Armin what his decision would be, he remained engaged. He was starting to do better despite the risk of increasing social fatigue.
The final seven rounds of Fours looked radically different from the ones at the start of the day. This time, Bertholdt had a decent grasp of the cards he had on his side, and the playing field was levelled. His choices took a little longer to make, but he was thinking them through. Ending with a score of just one below Armin, Bertholdt earned himself four out of seven victories, and the tiny smile at the end of the last game didn't escape Armin.
Somewhere beneath that cracked surface, he was catching glimpses of the Bertholdt he once knew. Today, Armin proved that there were ways to drag him out of hiding. No matter who it was, that the man he initially was wasn't fully gone, that there were ways to make him think. Just imagine what he could do with a full plate of nutritious food every day, with a comfortable bed to sleep in and people to converse with and sunlight that warmed his bones.
No. No sunlight. That was a reward for cooperating, not a trigger. Armin couldn't give him everything all at once, that would take his incentive away.
All Armin needed to do was create a state of mind where Bertholdt's rationale won from his instincts. Armin wouldn't need to reject his humanity to make him useful after all, and it came as a relief.
"Have you thought about the offer I've made you while I was gone?" Armin asked as he was pulling the crate back to its original spot. "There's a lot more I can do to help you if you agree to help us make peace with Marley."
"No."
"No, as in you haven't thought about it, or you still decline?"
"I'm not interested in your offer," Bertholdt insisted.
"Why not?"
"No."
"There has to be a reason."
"No."
"There's no reason, or you don't know the reason?"
Bertholdt simply glared at him, evidently tired of the back-and-forth.
Armin could push, but not if it led nowhere. He was well aware that he had a tendency to leave the mine in a bad mood over his failed rationale when he pushed things too far, and he'd made the resolution to stay aware and in control of his emotions every time he went.
Putting either of them in a bad mood by being abrasive would only do damage. Planting seeds and scattering breadcrumbs here and there was far more subtle and had fewer downsides. He'd take every small gain as a step towards victory.
"Well… I'm just saying it still stands, that's all." Armin finished putting everything back in place, dusting off the seat of his pants before brushing the palms of his hands together a few times. "I'll leave the cards here for next week. Could be useful to have something to do when I visit. Oh, and don't forget that there's food in the crate too. Ration it carefully and it'll last you the rest of the week."
"Yeah… Sure," Bertholdt said with little interest, letting his head lull to the side so one cheek leaned against the wall.
When Armin left, his quiet didn't go unnoticed by the police, who quickly sang a different tune when Armin admonished them for their brutality.
2
"I've conducted some research of my own with Bertholdt and got interesting results."
It was the first thing Armin had said about this to anyone, so of course the rest of those present at the Survey Corps' biweekly meeting reacted with interest.
Hange clapped their hands together, an excited smile on their lips that had become rarer and rarer these days. "Oh? Let's hear it!"
"I was surprised at how erratic his behaviour has been since his capture, so I put it to the test. I've been measuring his memory at the start and at the end of my sessions with him, and every time so far, he possessed much more clarity by the end than he did at the beginning."
Armin folded his hands on the table under the confused looks of Connie and Sasha. "If talking to him can so strongly improve something like memory capacity, which at first glance would seem pretty set in stone, what else could be influenced?"
"His mood?" Connie asked.
"His willingness to cooperate," Jean correctly asserted.
Armin nodded in Jean's direction. "Think about it this way: if talking to him a couple of times can do so much already, can you imagine what the difference would be if his needs were properly taken care of? We should discuss a change to his safety protocols. He can't think clearly and he won't help us if he's not in the right mindset to listen to what I'm saying. He needs more and better food, for starters."
The table remained quiet. Sasha stared out of a window, Jean and Connie each had their hands folded on the table with a serious face, and Mikasa and Eren both looked at Armin with a hint of pity. Hange's excitement had diminished after realising Armin was there again with his requests for 'unsafe practices' and Levi didn't particularly seem to care for the subject.
Only Floch had presence in the room as he spoke.
"More food? If he was going to break to the offer of more food, he should have given in when we were torturing him. Now we're supposed to treat him like a king?"
Torture. Such an ugly word, the way it made several of them flinch or shift in position. Such an ugly action, too. Such a good guilt factor Floch had brought up that could sway things into Armin's favour.
"But were his torturers as clear about the benefits of helping us, or did you just hurt him until he agreed without explaining to him why he should?"
His eyes went from Floch to Hange, who visibly anticipated that Armin wasn't going to hold back this time but suppressed it in favour of looking pensive.
"I explained it to him, but we broke his ability to understand it. As long as he doesn't get treated better, it will stay like that. And… And if I may be honest, Commander, I doubt that the choice to set him on fire and maim him for hours on end before even allowing him to surrender formed that effective of a bridge between our sides. The fact that we tortured him is why he's not with us right now."
This time it was Connie's turn to stare out the window as if something incredible was happening just outside while Sasha picked at her fingers. Even Jean, with all his talk of not having to defend Bertholdt from the consequences he deserved, seemed taken aback. Eren and Mikasa lacked a reaction, as did Levi, having been present himself to see it live, and Floch grimaced.
It was news to most of them. They vaguely knew what had happened and that it had lasted for weeks, but none of the details. If they were going to make any decisions here, then they should know what they were up against; what ineffective, over-the-top brutish treatment they were agreeing with.
It was difficult not to glare at Hange. They had their hands folded and leaning against their mouth as they stared ahead, frowning.
"So now it's our fault? We're responsible for his bad choices?" Floch asked indignantly.
Hange closed their eye and sighed.
"No, I agree with Armin," they said, to Floch's displeasure. "I admit that I miscalculated heavily and we ended up paying the price for that. Regardless, I don't see any way in which we could have avoided interrogating him. We were backed into a corner."
They opened their eye, pinning it on Armin half-hooded and lost.
"I made clear to him what the benefits of defecting were. I've repeated them many times, and yet, he didn't budge."
"By then, I speculate that his ability to judge was already gone. I've read about what was done to him, and I doubt that any of us would last a day if it happened to us. Why would he be different? We drove him too far and broke him, and that's why he didn't cooperate."
He dug one hand's fingernails into the insensitive underside of his other's thumb. There should've been an internal debate about whether or not he'd drop this information in front of his peers, but the moment the idea had entered his head and proved itself effective, it was already a guarantee to be expressed.
"I mean… I know it's not something we're told, but for a full day, he conformed to your demands, and yet you still continued to torture him."
Armin was pushing his luck declassifying information that Hange themselves had given him access to. Who would've thought that he'd end up using this against them before using it against Bertholdt? If this earned him disciplinary action, he couldn't even say it surprised him.
The mood in the meeting room had grown tense. If the previous leaks from the files had been sensitive, this information was definitely something he was supposed to keep to himself. The revelation left the 104th shocked, and he could feel how their opinion changed from guilty indecisiveness towards doubting Hange, further pressuring them into humouring Armin's stance.
At the moment, Armin didn't care that he was undermining his Commander's authority; he had results to obtain, a protocol to be changed, and neither side was going to budge without pressure obtained through underhanded means. So long as Hange didn't revoke his visitation rights, he'd be fine. He could bite his fist for being so forward when the meeting was over.
"He lied to make me stop. That was not cooperation. If he had given up resisting, I wouldn't have laid a finger on him ever again. He understood that."
"Of course. But I talked to him about that. I asked him why he lied. He's adamant that he didn't until he believed that the truth no longer served him and he would book better results saying something else. The transcripts implied it and I am inclined to believe him."
Hange shook their head. "Unfortunately, right now, we have no reason to believe him. I've told you before that we can't take this type of risk. Not for him. We need proof we can't obtain, and that is very sad, but there is no way around the reality we face."
Honestly, Armin hadn't expected this level-headedness out of Hange. Part of his argument relied on an outburst that could've made him look more in control than them and swayed his peers, but Hange was staying much calmer than he had anticipated.
Armin looked around the room, for anyone who would step up to defend him, but no one responded. Either because they agreed with Hange or they thought they were overstepping a boundary if they didn't, they didn't argue for Armin's case. They didn't believe that Armin could do it. His gambit had collapsed, and on top of sustained failure, he now yet again had to deal with increased tensions between him and Hange.
He could still ask about undoing the bandages on Bertholdt's hand, but he didn't want to risk them declining and passing along to the policemen to be extra watchful that he followed the rules. Bringing in food was already enough of a risk of its own.
So he gave up. For now. This was not today's battle.
"Can I at least supply him with comfort items?"
"Yes, you can. So long as you keep within the protocol, you can do what you think is best."
That it ended without a fight was the best thing that could be said about this meeting.
The evening before his departure, he dreamt for once not about being eaten, but about eating.
Wake at half past four, leave the Survey Corps' building at half past five, depart with the suppliers a little before six to arrive before eight. It was a price to pay for wanting to remain unseen in the frigid shroud of the morning. Armin hoped that he would get back in shape enough to ride a horse here on his own soon and avoid having to wake up even earlier once the days lengthened and they were set to depart at five instead.
He accompanied Romi and another policeman he didn't know who helped move supplies down to the mines immediately this time, and she waited until they were almost at the policemen's pocket to bring up a rather important detail.
"They just fed the Colossal. You might wanna give it a minute to go through its morning routine. Tends to react badly to being disturbed, yanno?" she said far too cheerfully for the topic at hand, and Armin could only suppress his sigh.
"How long?"
"Half an hour. You can come sit with us until then!"
It was like she'd forgotten what had gone down between Armin and Svea the last time they engaged in that pocket.
"Thank you, but I have other things to fill the time with."
"We have tea and biscuits."
"That is a very kind offer, but no."
"Huh," Romi huffed, curious more than annoyed. "Well! Follow the rules and you can do whatever you want."
Armin didn't need to be reminded, so he simply concurred. He ignored Svea the same way she ignored him by opening the newspaper she was handed as soon as the group entered while he walked past the pocket, continuing towards Bertholdt's cell without being stopped. Down that dark passageway, instead of going left, he took a right turn into the unknown.
The still stench of sweat and rot preceded the visuals, indicating that this was definitely the right section, and Armin felt his stomach roll at the confirmation.
This was where it had all gone down.
Armin took a moment to stand still and subdue his vivid mind that attempted to tie the room together with the things he had read that happened here and assign them a visual.
The passage he had chosen was much shorter than the path towards Bertholdt's cell, ending in another broader pocket. Several crates, tables, and even a shoddy cupboard stood against the wall, old mining tools discarded atop and around them, and in the middle stood a table made of the same material as the others but stained and worn.
He swallowed, then stepped closer, examining his surroundings. Several spools of rope lay against the wall, enough dust gathered on them to suggest they hadn't been used recently. Hammers and picks of all sizes, hooks, drills, tongs, a shovel, and other mining tools Armin was certain he had read about in the report yet couldn't identify were strewn all about the room. Notably, the table and its general vicinity were clear of them, instead offering its surface to three small bottles that contained clear liquid.
Atop one crate lay three different blades: a knife, a military-grade steel bamboo blade broken down to its final segment, and a shaving razor. Should Bertholdt choose to visit here, he'd be armed. It seemed unlikely that Svea never came down to this segment. For all her talk about breach hazards, this was a careless detail.
Armin placed his lantern down on the table. He rummaged through the cupboard's contents and opened the crates but found nothing of interest until he lowered the lid again and noticed several things had been carved into the wood. Various crude drawings and geometric patterns alongside some written messages.
stef
rockslide (written inside the drawing of a collapsing tunnel)
N + L (crossed out)
steak for dinner finally ! ! !
jinae biches do it best
S (or was it an 8?)
h is a tempestuous lover
N + E (once again, crossed out)
sylvester was here (with a misspelled wo before the was scratched away)
N + A (for a third time crossed out)
N + L
2 more hr
hello
shut up
shut up
shut up
SHUT UP
god won't find us down here
A shiver ran over Armin's spine. Police must've been posted here to keep watch during interrogation or tests and carved messages to keep themselves entertained. The ominous nature of some and the dismissal of what they were witnessing of others made Armin want to leave immediately.
Standing up, he decided he was already done exploring.
So would he stay in this shaft that felt like it could collapse onto his shoulders any moment, or was he going to accept that he'd have to spend some time around an unbearable policewoman?
His stomach caved as he leaned his hips against the table.
Fine. He got up and took his lantern to return to the pocket, taking a silent seat on the bench Romi sat on. The other policeman had already left again, so it was just the two of them he'd have to deal with. Hands folded between his swinging knees, he waited for the time to pass, and when Svea looked up from her newspaper, he sensed trouble.
"What?" she asked.
"Hm?" Armin hummed in response.
"What do you want? Why are you back?" Svea specified before taking a sip from her tea.
"I changed my mind on disturbing Bertholdt. I'll just wait here until he's done eating."
Svea looked him down with those typical uninterested eyes of hers, which went back to her newspaper with a neutral hum that Armin interpreted as her way of getting off his case.
"Here!" Romi cheerfully offered, pushing a cup of scalding tea she just filled Armin's way. "It's a new blend. Still cheap, but much better than the last. Beats twiddling your thumbs the entire time, right?"
"Thank you, Romi," Armin said with a gentle smile, accepting the cup. Despite her difficulty reading the room, Romi was quickly becoming his favourite MP among the regulars in the mine.
They spent the rest of the half hour making small talk over tea, surprisingly ignored by Svea. All it took to pacify her was apparently a bit of information about the world above the ground.
"Hey, Bertholdt, good morning," Armin greeted in a cheerful fashion, finally given clearance after Bertholdt's hand had been wrapped into that tight fist again and he could go see him if he wanted to. "How are you doing today?"
Big surprise, no answer. Bertholdt hung against the wall in his usual posture, wrapped up in Armin's blanket and with his sleeping bag hanging around his waist, but he sat a little closer to the back of the mineshaft this time.
"I've brought some more stuff," Armin said as he placed his backpack onto the crate and opened it. "If you'll have it."
"Okay," Bertholdt responded surprisingly early this time, eyes trained on Armin's actions.
Armin emptied the bulk of his backpack: first a full waterskin, then a small stack of washcloths, two folded up towels, and finally, a satchel containing a cup and a toothbrush.
"I thought this could help you keep up your personal hygiene. They didn't stop me, so I would guess that it's fine that I bring these to you. Hange won't let them interfere with goods like these, after all, so they won't take them away."
Bundling up a washcloth with a towel, Armin held them up in the air demonstratively. Bertholdt needed a moment to realise that this was a prompt and nodded, before getting smacked square in the face with what Armin realised just a little too late was too forceful and too badly aimed a throw. He managed to catch them in his lap before he surfaced his arm and cradled the textiles, inspecting them like they were poison.
"Hah… Sorry," Armin awkwardly apologised, failing to suppress the amused smile that welled up from within. He cleared his throat, grabbing the waterskin. "You'll have the best luck if you make your skin wet first. How should I bring this to you?"
"Put it in the middle," Bertholdt said. "Where I can reach it."
"Okay," Armin said, crouching as close as he could before placing down the waterskin and rolling it his way instead so that it landed against his leg. Bertholdt set aside the bundle and reached over. It took him a few tries to grab it.
"Is this safe water?"
"It's the water we drink at the headquarters. Why?"
Upon that, Bertholdt practised balancing the waterskin on his closed fist a few times, struggling in the process.
"Let me help you," Armin offered.
Bertholdt didn't react, so Armin figured he'd better stay where he was.
Bringing the waterskin to his mouth and pulling it open with his lips, Bertholdt, instead of pouring it onto the cloth or his skin, began to drink it.
"Do you… need more water as well?"
Bertholdt nodded before he stopped and managed to close it again with his lips. It was a good thing Armin had chosen one with its lid attached to the neck.
"You can clean up," Armin suggested. "I was thinking about taking a few of these every week and taking the ones that are no longer usable with me to wash. I can rinse out the dirt and throw them into the headquarters' wash pile, no one will question it."
It took some consideration, but at last, Bertholdt lifted the washcloth to his neck, where he left it as he opened the waterskin again and poured some water on top. After putting it aside, his hand found its way into the washcloth and he ran it over his face to start scrubbing away at the grime that coated him.
Armin was satisfied with that so he sat down on the crate, silently drumming his hands on his lap.
"So… About the food. I still haven't been able to negotiate. But I will. In the meantime, I've brought the same portion as last week. I'll store it away when you're done. Just clean up for now."
That washcloth made it easy for Bertholdt to hide behind something, a privilege he used to its full extent. The textile was already stained black. Naturally, the first time would be the worst, but after that, he could take care of his personal hygiene better than he would with the scarce dirt-blackened clothes he had at his disposal.
"I had another question, by the way," Armin said. "It doesn't need to be an exchange, but if you want, it can be. I'm just curious."
"What?" Bertholdt asked, pouring another swish of water onto the cloth around his hand through the skillful cooperative maneuvering between his mouth and his shoulder.
"I was curious where you'd go if you had none of this to deal with. You know, none of Paradis or Marley, no crimes or war. You could just go anywhere you wanted."
It came from a place of genuine curiosity. Just to understand Bertholdt a little better, see what he yearned for now that he could speak more openly and didn't have to pretend his future lay somewhere within these Walls.
"Far away," Bertholdt answered with his usual delay. "Anywhere that isn't this chaos. Maybe Agbowo, I don't know."
"Agbowo?"
"It's… It's in the south."
A free answer, likely another nation or region.
Agbowo. Not a word that seemed familiar to Armin, especially the unusual way Bertholdt pronounced it, turning each syllable into a dome. They must speak differently there than on Paradis and in Marley.
"Why there?" Armin followed up.
"I don't know. It's a cliché, maybe, but it sounds scenic. I've been there only once, but it looked gorgeous and peaceful."
"I see," Armin said. "Is that a dream? To settle down over there, somewhere nice and peaceful?"
No answer, but Bertholdt stopped scrubbing, too busy thinking. Then, he lowered the cloth, glaring straight ahead of him, focused on nothing in particular.
"Just because I'm declining your offer doesn't make me an idiot."
Armin's heart stopped in his chest from the unexpected seriousness of his words. Bertholdt had managed to remove layers of grime from his cheeks but his eyes were left stained in black, framing his face with dark intent amidst the sudden comment.
"… What?"
"I know what you're doing."
He growled those words, hooded eyes reduced to an accusatory squint as they darted up at Armin.
The threat didn't need to be voiced for it to be there.
Back off, what are you taking me for?
This could be bad.
"I'm asking because I'm curious. Going home aside, you never spoke of dreams before," he defended himself.
"And I'm not easy like that. I'm not…"
Stupid? Blind? Naive?
He sat there for a moment before he brought the washcloth back up to his face and continued grooming, clearly as a way to ignore Armin.
"Okay. I'll keep it in mind," Armin cautiously responded, fighting against the heat in his chest. "It's not why I'm here or why I'm asking that."
That was far more clarity than Armin thought Bertholdt would show this early on. Far more resentment and anger, too.
Bertholdt either accepted the answer or was too offended at the notion to argue back. He kept going over his face with the same washcloth, which at this point was just smudging him more than it was removing any grime. He eventually tossed it aside and switched it with the towel when he realised that.
"What about you?" came very softly and muffled by fabric, and Armin almost thought he'd imagined it.
"What about me?" Armin echoed, taken aback by the odd tonal shift of this whole conversation.
"What would you do?"
"Oh." So contrasting with the earlier mood, making it hard to get a good grasp on his thoughts and feelings. "I'd go see the ocean. After that, the rest of the world. I've always wanted a hot air balloon to see things from high up with. Higher up than maneuver gear could ever take me. I'd like to follow in my parents' footsteps."
Bertholdt hummed in response. Without anything to follow up with, it seemed that the conversation ended there.
Maybe Armin could continue it later. Bertholdt looked done anyway, for the first time having his skin relatively well-visible. He had never had much spare padding, but he looked emaciated, adorned in the beginnings of stubble along his jaw and chin. But he did look better. Armin was sure the gift would have its long-term benefits.
"Better?" he asked, holding out a hand from where he sat.
"Yeah." Bertholdt reached for the washcloth and tossed it Armin's way before the towel followed, both landing at Armin's feet. Would they forever be bound to having to toss things each other's way?
No thanks came. Bertholdt looked like he wanted to, but wasn't sure how.
Armin set both objects aside for now.
"Here's the food I promised," he said as he grabbed the packed-up bundle of bread, fruit, and nuts. "This week, I'm going to talk to the Commander about a protocol change. I'm putting everything in its usual spot so that it can't be taken."
Standing and lifting the lid, he yet again found that none of the things left there had been touched. He hesitated for a moment, unsure what to do next, why Bertholdt was refusing something that could help him by a lot at no charge.
I know what you're doing.
Was that it?
Did he think that far ahead on such grounds? He didn't refuse anything else Armin had given him and showed that he was open to accepting such help; water, towels, and a blanket were fine, but not food?
"Bertholdt, is this not a good location to put things in?"
Armin tested the lid a few times but it was not that heavy. Bertholdt could evidently move around the mineshaft to crawl to the makeshift toilet they had dug in the back of the shaft, so the trip here and back shouldn't be too much of a hassle in exchange for food.
Bertholdt didn't answer, averting his gaze into the darkness of the mineshaft. Sighing, Armin placed the textile and the knapsack inside the crate before turning back.
"Why aren't you eating? You would feel a lot better if you did," Armin tried to reason.
Again, Bertholdt remained silent, eyelids twitching momentarily into a slight squint.
"Do you… not want to feel better?"
"I don't know," he responded.
"What do you mean, you don't know? Surely you must know what you feel?"
No answer.
It was odd, to say he didn't know if he wanted improvements to his situation. Of course he wanted to feel better. He couldn't be that docile that he'd refuse an extra meal just because he couldn't be bothered to make the trip.
"Please just try. Even if you don't have an appetite, it's still better to try. I don't know for how long I'll be able to keep bringing you things if they never get eaten. I wouldn't want to dirty this place up by piling up so much decomposing food."
"Okay," Bertholdt gave in, no conviction present in his voice.
"You'll eat?"
"Yeah. I'll eat."
When he came home and sat down at his desk to document the events of the morning, there was one detail he couldn't give a place. Insignificant as it was, it probably didn't need a spot in his journal, but he couldn't shed it. It had been itching his brain the entire cart ride back.
Against his better judgement, he went all the way to the last page and, on the back of the hard cover, scribbled down the God won't find us down here that refused to leave his mind.
3
The Survey Corps headquarters had become more lively. Once, it had been intimate and cosy; inhabited by friends who'd gone through thick and thin together and made it out alive. Now, it was overrun by recruits and the dining hall was loud, but that did lead to unique opportunities.
Armin was asked to instruct them on the theoretical parts of the curriculum, a task he gladly accepted. He felt at ease passing on his knowledge in front of so many people paying undivided attention to him, pleased to stand on the other side of the classroom for once. His self-confidence gained from his recruitment rallies was starting to run out, and getting to teach replenished his spirit. In the absence of his participation in the upcoming expeditions, it felt refreshing to contribute by teaching the recruits about their long-range formations, communication systems, and future plans to clear out Wall Maria, as well as refresh their knowledge on titans. Though much of this knowledge would soon be obsolete, it was still a must-know for any aspiring Survey Corps member.
After letting their skills and physique waste away in their respective divisions, the new blood was advised to pick up rigorous training. As the weeks piled on, Armin was less and less often alone at the city's training grounds. He couldn't say he was particularly exhilarated about that change.
Jean had joined Armin on his morning run in the fields surrounding Trost, deciding he could use the exercise and company was better than being alone. It was fine; Jean was one of the few people Armin welcomed by his side so early in the day.
"You can almost keep up with me. Recovering well, eh?"
A few metres behind, Armin was fighting for his life. He was only keeping up because he was pushing himself over his limit.
His muscle volume was slowly coming back after having wasted away for so long, first bound to a bed for months and then too weak to properly start rebuilding them until just recently. Not so long ago, he could barely walk for fifteen minutes before he risked collapse. Look at him now, running the whole distance. The pain was lessening with each passing week, and rather than feeling cold all the time, Armin was switching over to feeling hot at the slightest exercise.
The quality of his recovery had all been thanks to his physicians' intensive care. They were the ones who taught him how to massage and stretch his skin and joints and which oils and lotions he could apply, pushing him through the pain to get him to minimise long-term loss of motion.
Although it had gone well, now that he was on the move again, he felt just how much it limited him nonetheless. He still felt it the worst when he started the day. They'd told him it would never fully go away and that he'd live years of his life having to repeat his stretching and exercises to keep his skin supple. So the more Armin did, the faster he'd burn through that healing phase.
Jean slowed his pace until Armin was jogging next to him again, patting him on the back as he did.
"It was worse… the first time… Gonna be easier now," Armin puffed out, lungs ablaze but mind resolute to keep going.
"Come on. We're almost there," Jean encouraged him. He squeezed Armin's bicep, then poked him in the thigh. "That? That's meat I feel. Beef that wasn't there before. At this rate, you're gonna be on horseback again in no time. You'll definitely be in shape to come with us next month."
"Yeah, I hope so… Wouldn't wanna miss it," Armin panted. "Hange said I needed… I needed to get in shape for vertical maneuvering first, before going back to Wall Maria… Too dangerous to go if I can't get to high ground by myself."
"Keep it up, you can do it." Jean turned around, running backwards in front of Armin and beckoning him through his encouragement. "If you can't come along the first time, you'll just go the second time. There'll be plenty of opportunities to join us on a titan-clearing expedition in the coming months. By the time we've cleared everything, you'll be in tip-top shape."
"Yeah… So I hope."
Jean had a point. He had been needing less food and his arms no longer felt as bony as they had before he'd started. Even his scorched skin itched less these days. They told him that with burns the size he had, his body would expend quite a bit of extra energy for upkeep, but it looked like he was finally leaving that spell.
More than anything, he needed to be ready to travel to the old harbour and see the ocean, so he devoted whatever time he had available outside of instructing the new Survey Corps recruits to his own exercise.
They reached the mark they'd agreed upon and it took Jean's supportive arm for Armin not to collapse onto the ground into a puddle of pain. To Armin's displeasure, Jean pulled him along by the arm to keep walking when Armin wanted to stop, but it was better that they caught their breath while keeping their muscles warm.
"Hey," Jean said, loosely carding his fingers through the tips of Armin's hair and brushing away the strands with the back of his hand. "Getting a bit long there. Committed to growing it out?"
Armin looked up at him, then at his now shoulder-length hair.
"Looks like it," he breathed out. "I didn't get it cut while I was in the hospital. Only my bangs. They were in my eyes."
"Need a hand? I can get you back to normal."
"I like it this way, actually," Armin answered, running his hand over the strands stuck to his sweaty forehead to clear them out of the way. "Hotter, though."
"Hah. Let me tie you up next time we go for a run, then."
"My hair?"
"Yeah. A ponytail. Your neck looks hotter than hell with those drapes."
"What about you, then?" Armin asked, running his fingers through that mullet that Jean had been growing out in similar fashion as Jean had done to Armin with a smile.
Jean pushed his hand away, rubbing his neck.
"It's a deliberate choice! Unlike your overgrown mop…"
At that, Armin let out a light-hearted chuckle that came out breathily. They walked in silence a little before Armin spoke up again.
"By the way, Jean… you tend to know these things. Do you have any idea of what I can do to make Hange change the protocols?"
"This again?" Jean asked. "Do you really think that's gonna work?"
"He's in there," Armin proposed.
"Hah?"
"Bertholdt. He's well-hidden, but I'm gonna find him. Drag him out if I need to."
"Sheesh, so intense," Jean laughed dismissively, poking Armin in the side with a whimper and a jump as a result. "If you're dead-set that it'll help, maybe try to convince them with evidence instead of anecdotes."
Armin chose to walk a little farther away from Jean, rubbing his assaulted side.
"I tried, but it didn't stick. Did you have anything in mind?"
"I dunno, prove that the engineering holds up? It may not do everything you want, but it's good proof that he doesn't stand a chance."
"Yes… Yes, that may work," Armin said, lost in thought on how to go about proving that.
This could just be what he needed.
Something surged through his chest, and before he knew it, he was back on his way jogging, leaving Jean shouting behind him. Something about being a jerk for leaving him behind when he needed to catch his breath.
Once again, he shared a cup of tea with the policemen due to having arrived early. Though Travis was present this time, he caused no issues, and Armin saw an opportunity to improve his standing with these people if he played his hand right.
"Should be useful, right?"
It had taken Armin quite a bit of guesswork and estimations — his memory was good, but not that good — but he managed to fix it. Three clean shirts, three pairs of shorts the right length for his legs, and a week's worth of underwear were all he could stuff into his backpack alongside a towel, a washcloth, and a bundle of food before its volume became really conspicuous and he risked getting it checked by Svea and starting the day with a headache.
Bertholdt was perplexed. Six months of wearing the same clothes had to be strenuous on his hygiene, let alone his state of mind, and he wouldn't gain any advantage if he simply were cleaner, so Armin was in the clear. Bertholdt stared, didn't speak up, but it was clear in his eyes that he was relieved.
"You don't need to say anything. Just make use of them when I'm gone. I'll take any laundry you have with me every time I'm here to wash it by the next week, so these should last you a little while."
"Uh…" Bertholdt closed his mouth. "I didn't expect you would do this."
"It's basic decency. It's the only thing I can do as I await the Commander's answer."
Armin smiled and he thought that Bertholdt briefly quirked up the corner of his mouth as well.
When Armin left that afternoon, it was after having to make Bertholdt promise yet again that he'd eat the food he had brought along. It was starting to get ridiculous; almost made Armin want to sit him down and feed it to him himself. He'd been begging to eat, and now he wasn't accepting it when he got it?
No. He was delirious. It wasn't fair to judge him on his actions when he didn't understand what he was doing all that well. Armin would bridge this cautious period, no matter what it took, and elevate him to a better state. A state where he could reason and understand. A state where he had things to lose.
Armin took the risk and went for the Survey Corps' stables as soon as he returned to Trost. All it took was the effort to gear up a horse and span it in front of a cart, the rest was just sitting for an extended period of time. Grateful as he was for her help, he'd diplomatically sent Mikasa on her way when they were done; something about not being allowed to divulge the location of where he was going without finding the elusive Commander to get permission. Ignoring that he'd run into Hange in the morning and they'd been in a good enough mood to, with eager excitement for his plans, sign off on the decree he needed.
Twenty minutes east of Tourze, he reached his destination. One of the factory cities where blades and gear were manufactured, the closest one to the mine so that engineers were always close by in case of an emergency. Getting his authority level verified took an eternity, but when he finally got what he came here for, the rest was easy.
4
Between instructing, training, and meetings, Armin spent the following week trying to break the two complete sets of safety gear he'd taken with him.
Fidget with the small mechanisms of the one attached to a dummy in any way he could, use his foot to put pressure onto the leg caps of the loose one for hours on end while he was reading, eventually even try to cut through the metal-reinforced leather near the end of the week. No one ever questioned why he was missing out on their shared eating moments anyway.
The results were conclusive: only two parts were significantly damaged on the dummy version and three on the loose one, but not enough to get any of the caps off.
"That's negating how much it would hurt to pull on those areas in the first place, considering the parts of his flesh that are grafted to the mechanism," Armin explained to the rest of the conference room. "The engineering is solid, built to last given the regular weekly maintenance that it's subjected to. By now, I've become far stronger than Bertholdt is. If this is the most damage that someone healthy with two hands, two knees, and full access to the mechanism can do, then there is no way that someone weakened and limited by his own physical body could ever destroy it. Even if he were to be well-fed, he'd never be able to break it, and neither would someone with a blade unless they seriously hurt him with many slices before they could break the steel within the leather, which would likely knock him out and buy us time regardless of whether or not he needs to eat first. Plus, we now know more about its weak spots and where to pay extra attention."
"I'm impressed," Hange commended. "That is very useful data. Can you convey it to the engineering team on your next trip? Take the equipment with you so that they can examine it, this can be handy in improving the model."
"I will, Commander," Armin said with a smile. "Is that enough to change the protocol?"
"Hm?" Hange hummed, and already Armin's heart sank.
"You know… Now that we know that there's no way for him to get the equipment off, there's no reason to keep him hungry?" he messily explained before regaining his steadfast tone. "Or for his hand to remain bandaged like that. This is the proof you were looking for to change the protocol."
"Right," they said. "I did tell you that I'd look into it if I got concrete proof. I will discuss the matter with the Military Police, then. Ultimately, it's their decision to make any changes to the protocols before I get the clearance to make them."
"Thank you," Armin responded.
Like this, he could finally get started with some real work. No more smuggling food, no more having to do everything for Bertholdt when they played games. This was where things started.
It became more common for Bertholdt to tear himself loose from his bonds and consume Armin in his dreams. Three times now since he'd started trying to break the mechanism.
His mind was more pessimistic than he was, hellbent on rejecting all logic and empirical data.
Lately, his notes had been getting more detailed. Keywords from his talks with Bertholdt had turned into detailed accounts written when he returned, and Armin no longer felt like his first sessions had been adequately reported on. There were things he didn't want to write down into the journal Hange had given him either, knowing these could become part of official documentation. Bertholdt started to show up more and more in his personal journal, and he was running out of space.
So on the Saturday afternoon before he was set to leave for Tourze again, Armin grabbed his coat and took to Trost's streets alongside his friends in the Survey Corps. The late March weather made his journey a pleasant one, face heated by the sun and body empowered by the joyful awareness that he no longer struggled to walk long distances.
With three newly-bought empty notebooks in his backpack, they decided to spend the rest of the afternoon in the city. Armin had time anyway, so he kept his eyes open for something to buy for Bertholdt as well, something that wouldn't be as easy to decline as food. The chances that he had eaten were slim, so he needed to change his strategy.
A bookshop wouldn't do. Armin had enough material to take with him, anyway. One book still stood out like a sore thumb, untouched since he'd gone to retrieve it — he'd eyed it several times but decided that long before he made such a personal offering, his impersonal offerings needed to stick first.
Pastries and street food were just the same as what he'd brought along but in a different coat, no matter how much sugar they poured on top. Aesthetic gifts would just be insulting. He briefly considered buying a sturdy coat or sweater, but they proved to be pricey when Bertholdt seemed to be doing fine with the blanket and sleeping bag he'd gotten, no longer shivering when Armin visited him.
It was a game shop that made Armin stop to enter for a look around and leave again with a box.
Bertholdt had changed.
With a clean face and fresh clothes on, he already looked like an entirely different man. A towel and a washcloth couldn't clean up the grime of months of living without proper hygiene — he'd need to shower to get every last bit of dust out of his hair, and water was too scarce down here for that — but it was a good start. Clean, the sharp angles of Bertholdt's body stood out even more as his skin lay taut over his muscles, cheekbones and collarbones casting prominent shadows and his lower eyelids sunken with a black tint.
So long as Bertholdt didn't eat, Armin could change nothing about that. Only his tangled-up greasy neck-length hair and his stubble remained in terms of things he could fix. A comb shouldn't be an issue, but scissors and a shaving razor might be. Even under the unlikely circumstances that Bertholdt would let Armin approach him, there was always danger involved with bringing a bladed object within his vicinity. Armin simply couldn't afford to throw it his way and arm Bertholdt. If he didn't let Armin approach him freely, Svea would know that Armin gave it to Bertholdt, pass it on to Hange, and get him banned from visiting again.
It was a matter to think about later. Today, he was there to check how much progress he'd made just by giving him social comfort and basic hygiene.
"The pay as a veteran is far better than when we were trainees, so I managed to buy one with a sturdy box that doubles as an elevated playing field. Wanna play a game?"
Bertholdt nodded at the chessboard Armin had taken with him tucked under his arm, eyes wide as he for once looked excited about what they were going to do. The cardgames had been dull from the start, but after playing them for so many hours on end, they direly needed this change of scenery.
Armin laid out his coat on the floor, then sat down on it on his knees to start setting up the board.
"When we're warmed up, you have to teach me how they play in Marley. Which of our moves are unusual over there, and the other way around."
"Yeah, sure, Armin."
Armin gave him the first move, moving his pawns to the location Bertholdt specified for him. There was strategy involved in Bertholdt's slow playstyle, but it wasn't at its best. The first game, Armin won in just under fifteen minutes. The second in ten. The third in twenty, and the fourth, Bertholdt came very close to a stalemate after half an hour of playing, and Armin was impressed by how insightfully he'd made his moves.
It was almost scary. Cardgames offered only limited insight into his psyche, but Armin knew what kind of chess player Bertholdt was. He was trying his hardest to remain lucid and win, and he was starting to succeed as they played on. That meant that he was more than capable of planning, reasoning, and estimating Armin's moves and intentions. That he wasn't nearly as fractured as Armin had thought. At least not permanently. He had presence in these matches — good awareness that attested to near-optimal rational capacity the more games they played.
Were they right? Was Bertholdt more dangerous than Armin anticipated? He thought he wasn't underestimating him, but this? He hadn't seen this coming at all.
Not a lot of things Armin did after that could do much to improve his capacities, and that was the one thing Armin was betting all in on. If Bertholdt saw through it all, which he might just do considering he was still refusing any supplementary food, then that could create issues. So long as he didn't accept help and luxury, Armin couldn't retract it either.
Was he just playing along? To what purpose?
To make Armin trust him in return?
I know what you're doing.
He'd have to make up his mind: was Bertholdt capable of such deception or not? He couldn't suspect him one moment and underestimate him the next.
This wasn't leisure. This was work; talking to someone who had killed hundreds of thousands of them and who was dead-set on letting the other million follow suit. This was a necessity because they had no other way. They weren't going to win a war by combat, they lacked the weapons to retaliate. They could only talk if they wanted a future. Don't forget why you're here.
Half-truths for half-truths. They'd have to meet halfway. If Bertholdt didn't know whether or not he could trust Armin, then the same went for Armin. Regardless of who was the real Bertholdt and who the façade, neither of them were cunning. And with more and more fragments of the past Bertholdt shining through…
It didn't matter. That's not why he was there, that was merely something that could form the bridge between them. All Armin had to do was remain cautious and aware of who he was and what he was doing, no matter how much these cramped walls seemed to push him in Bertholdt's direction rather than away.
There was time to find out. Not much, but it was there.
When he left, it was with the particular clarity that these dark passageways still oppressed his mind and dragged down his mood. It had been a while since he'd noticed it, but it had never left.
5
He managed to trail behind Hange on Friday, catching them on the way to their office, probably heading for another long night.
"Do you have any news about the appeal?"
"Ah, Armin," Hange said, taking a sip from their tea. "I'm sorry, I haven't been able to discuss it yet. This is a large schedule item and the next meetings are reserved for the discussion of how we will clear out the rest of Wall Maria and repopulate the cities. There may not be time."
"I understand."
He didn't, but there was no choice. He'd been talking to Bertholdt for a month now with no results, he needed his peace offering to be effective and swift.
"Do you have an estimate of when you will be able to discuss it?"
Hange ran their free hand over their forehead, visibly exhausted. "It's hard to tell. Probably in three weeks at the earliest."
"Is there no way to speed things up?"
"I'm afraid not. And please don't bring it up during the meetings. I will do so when we have demarcated our immediate needs."
He spent the rest of his evening stewing in his room, wading his hands through hot water in his typical motions to keep calm as an itch raged through his torso.
"Okay, careful, now."
With a push against his ass, Armin managed to slide onto the saddle, though Jean's 'help' would've made him tip over the other side had he not held onto the saddle tightly.
"Jean, I know how to get on a horse! You don't need to push me," Armin complained, flustered.
"You looked like you were struggling, I was just helping you out." Jean crossed his arms and turned his back on Armin. "The thanks I get for being nice."
After Jean had helped him gather his hair into a stubby ponytail at the headquarters to keep it out of his neck, it seemed he was eager to continue 'being nice' even when it was far more overbearing than helpful.
Looking over the two from his place leaning against a fence, Eren softly laughed.
"Armin can fend for himself, Jean. He got on just fine."
"Yeah, whatever. You want me to come along or not, asshole?" Jean addressed more at Eren than at Armin.
"No, stay," Armin pleaded. "Come with us."
After Eren and Jean mounted their own horses, they were on their way to accompany Armin on his first horseback ride since the Battle for Shiganshina. Armin didn't last quite as long as he wanted to before they needed a stop, but he kept pushing to start again whenever he felt he had the energy. He wouldn't make it to Tourze in one trip just yet.
All in all, things went well for how long he hadn't ridden a horse. Armin's revalidation had gone spectacularly, but the ride pointed out the weak spots in his core that he'd neglected and once again emphasised how tightly his new skin had been wrapped around his muscles and which parts of his skin he hadn't focused on stretching and massaging enough.
Practice would make perfect again. Very soon, the first expeditions into Wall Maria territory would be dispatched. So long as Armin wasn't ready for vertical maneuvering yet, he wasn't allowed outside Wall Rose, but there was time. Two months at the minimum to prepare his body for the trip to the ocean.
He'd make it. Nothing in the world could make him miss it.
Reading through his first journal to double-check everything he was expanding on in his new, personal journal, Armin's mind kept regurgitating certain notes.
Notes that promised hope. Notes that spelled doom. Notes about what he should do, and notes about what he shouldn't. The many feelings he'd had about Bertholdt and how they had evolved in the past months; the obvious unprocessed anger and loss shining through even his limited keyword style of making notes, the optimism that his responses meant progress, the branching nature of his plans.
Discomfort and pain will NOT work
How he wished that they thought even half as often about this notion as it possessed Armin's mind and determined his actions.
There would always be cruelty in the world. If he wanted it gone, Armin would have to be the one to inspire it to choose a different path. No one was beyond hope. They could learn yet.
He found another note that had kept his mind occupied for weeks, right at the end of his notes.
God won't find us down here
Pessimism, carved straight into the wood of a crate as someone was made to witness things no one should have to, where it would sit until the day that soul was finally released.
What to? If not a god or a saviour, what would await Bertholdt once it was over?
As Armin reflected on it, it only began to anger him. An attitude of defeat and resignation.
How dare they give up so easily? How dare they be fine with leaving the world behind as broken and awful as it was when they found it, like they were passive observers and not the ones who had to live in it?
The burst of anger set Armin's scars on fire. He grabbed his pen, and with determination in his heart, he completed the expression at the back of the notebook.
but I will.
Armin would have to take things into his own hands. So long as he didn't get caught and it paid off in the end, there shouldn't be any issues with taking a few risks. He could always ask for forgiveness when he'd booked success.
"I want to teach you something," he said after he'd made his usual unrequited morning greetings, stored yet another package of food and textile into the crate, removed the spoiled bread and fruit from the untouched ones and laundry, and settled down atop his crate. "It'll make things a lot easier for us."
Bertholdt looked at him with the expectation to continue, still in his silent phase.
Armin grabbed a roll of bandages and Bertholdt looked at him strange. Armin had stopped wearing bandages to the mines a while ago when his hands no longer were susceptible to infection and the cold and dusty environment posed no more risk, so this wasn't for him. But it went too slowly otherwise. He needed to build trust, fast.
"Look closely. I'll repeat it a few times, but make sure you see it."
He held his left hand behind his back, then began to wrap the right one's wrist with the bandage a few times before balling his fist and running the bandage roll across it from one side to the other with the help of his lips and teeth. It had taken him an hour of practice in front of a mirror to get the technique down, and he confidently performed it here for Bertholdt until his fist was sufficiently wrapped by the bandages the way he remembered being described in the protocols. Like how a hunting dog's injured paw would be bandaged, had been a footnote of the instructions.
"See this? It's sturdy and exactly the way it's supposed to be. And with a little effort…"
He bit down in the part where the bandage had been stuffed under another, pulling the whole thing loose and undoing it with his teeth and the rotation of his wrist. He started the process again, until he'd done the whole thing one more time.
Under Bertholdt's sceptical gaze, Armin pointed at him.
"You try it now."
"Me?" Bertholdt's surprised reply came.
"Like this, you can hold your own cards and play your own pawns. I'm sure you prefer it over me having to do it all for you. You'll feel more like you're your own person if you do, and you will even be able to do it when I'm not here. That's more comfortable, right?"
"I'm not doing that." Bertholdt sounded offended at the suggestion.
"What? Why not?" Armin shot back.
"I'm not," Bertholdt remained resolute in his usual stubborn spell.
"Come on, Bertholdt…" Armin whined, but Bertholdt wasn't having it, leaning the lower half of his face into his blanket as a means of deflecting Armin's presence. "Why don't you let me help you? Why are you sabotaging yourself so much?"
He shouldn't have said that last bit, but it was already out. The frustration had welled up from inside him before he could even catch it from weaving itself into his words. Live with the consequences now.
"Why are you trying to make me do things I'm not supposed to?"
Bertholdt sounded like he was accusing Armin of some heinous crime over his acts of kindness, and it prickled Armin's temper.
"What do you mean?" he retorted, unable to hide that it'd struck a nerve.
"Giving me food, showing me how to undo my bandages, being comfortable. You know I'm not supposed to."
"Because I want you to be less hungry and have some autonomy, that makes me insidious? I don't have bad intentions toward you, Bertholdt. What would that achieve?"
"I don't know."
It was the first time that he'd uttered these words to Armin with more than passive fatigue. It was the first time he'd sounded this intense. The first time he meant it.
"Bertholdt, do you really think that I would've come down here every week if I hadn't forgiven you already?"
That agitation written all across Bertholdt's face thawed, making way for hurt. Armin bit his lower lip, settling back down and breathing a few subtle deep breaths to calm himself. This was a good thing, but that didn't make it any less shocking of a route to go down.
"Look, Bertholdt…" he tried, much quieter than his previous words. "I really just want to help you. If we can't get the bandages back on, if you ever get caught eating food I brought in, I will take responsibility for it. You have nothing to fear. I promise."
Bertholdt just blinked at him, eyes glancing away and jumping from one point on the wall to another every few seconds.
"How do I know?"
Trust me would have the opposite effect. There could be more tact to this. Something to latch onto.
"There's no certain way to know. But I have no reason to want to hurt you."
"I've been lied to before," Bertholdt whispered, defeated.
The grit of his teeth went accompanied by a defendant squint of his eyes. This was a bad place to go, and an even worse place to stay at.
"I know. And I hate that you have. I want to prevent it from happening again. I promise."
Bertholdt closed his eyes, sighing a close-mouthed breath as he let his head hang.
"How can I believe that?" came weakly, barely audible.
"You can't be sure, but it won't get better if you never try. Just like I have to trust you will do what you say you will if you agree to help me, you'll have to be a little uncertain about me when I try to help you. But if you don't accept any help at all, you'll never get better. Why not take this leap of faith with me and see where we land?"
No, Bertholdt's head shook, but then stopped dead in its tracks mid-motion. He was shivering again, something Armin hadn't seen him do for a while now.
When he finally surfaced his face from that blanket again, it was with a shaky voice.
"Okay," and Armin wanted to know so badly exactly what was going through his head right now. If this was trust, or merely submission when the fight became too tiresome to keep up.
It wasn't Bertholdt's usual deflection and Armin considered it an improvement.
"Okay. Thank you," Armin replied, relief washing over him that he'd at least gotten this far.
This could've turned south fast had he not nipped it in the bud so quickly. He'd have to avoid full transparency like that again. Today, it had set him a step in the right direction, but he may not always be so lucky. Whatever it was that had made Bertholdt see the light, it was a good thing.
"Then can you give it a try? Just bite off the one you have on and give it a try with this one." Armin grabbed a second roll and held it out.
With a nod, Bertholdt pulled loose the worn bandages and caught the roll when Armin tossed it over. Following Armin step-by-step, he managed to apply them — loosely but sufficient for a first try — while notably listening to his instructions rather than looking at what Armin was doing. By the third, he had the technique down pretty well, so Armin called it a day.
This should make things a lot easier when he came to visit. Armin was curious to know how often Bertholdt would take the risk to remove the bandages during the week to spare the muscles of his fingers, but he was rather certain he'd never get that information.
He needed to start somewhere. If food was no option, then this small gesture of comfort would have to do, and he could build them up over time until he reached the level he needed. Anything to coax him into acceptance would help.
People could only stay resilient to offered help for so long before they got too tired, after all.