At home as it had once been in his hands, it now felt nothing short of alien.

Like a shape that had been carved out inside of him to offer it a place to belong, yet after he had grown and that shape had been contorted by his experiences, its edges did not quite align with it anymore and that shape had started to feel more like a hollow, nagging and bleeding.

Like a symbol worth more for its meaning than itself.

Like a clichéd metaphor penned down by an inept writer incarnated.

Strange how those things worked.

His hands clammily held on, not sure what to do despite already having been given a task to busy themselves with. Like they were hovering into nothingness, searching for a way to mask his inaction from onlookers.

Buried in dust and cloth beneath a humble collection of other goods — some of which he recognised on sight, some of which a stranger altogether — it was the first thing that caught his eye. Only a small part stuck out from under the textile it had been hastily wrapped up in, beneath a small pouch that seemed to contain snail shells by the sound of it and diverse piles of feathers tied together with a flimsy piece of string each, but he didn't need to see more to know what it was.

The black cover of a thick book, hand-painted white ink displaying the intricate landscape of a grassy plain with a sun right above the horizon. Its title was lettered in the same ink, the work almost as pristine as it was when he first bought it but now mildly affected by the moisture that got to it due to lacklustre preservation. Maybe the pages weren't even legible anymore.

There was no reason for that to be the first thought that came to mind.

He wasn't going to open it to make sure. Knowing his luck, the chances of opening it at a page that had a small note scribbled on it were too great. He wasn't here to tear into fresh wounds like that.

And yet, despite having such a clear picture of what he was here to do, of the places Armin's mind wasn't allowed to wander; involuntarily, it was ablaze and he couldn't do anything about the things so starkly forced to the forefront of his mind after having pushed them down so successfully.

Their long free afternoons on the one day a week where they had such time, spent crammed together into that cosy little storage room that barely qualified as a library, sometimes close enough to feel the other breathe; so at ease with one another that they barely even minded the lack of personal space or the silence, littered only with the turning of pages and the repositioning of aching bodies, that could reign between them for hours on end.

The first work of fiction that he'd truly fallen in love with, and the one he had shared it so openly with to the point of expanding it from his to theirs; making it the highlight of their day, their week, even their month to get to share such a spectacular story while no one around them had a clue what world they had gotten lost in.

Where they'd last left off. Chapter 13 out of a total of 36, on page 84 out of a total of 263, finishing two-thirds down the page and three words into the line with three paragraphs printed onto that page, capping off the chapter with 'She cared not for any of that, for she knew she had to get her Squire back, no matter the toll.'

How he lacked the courage to seek out a new copy after he'd lost track of where this one had gone to finish it alone, like this part of his soul was now irrevocably corrupted and he wanted nothing to do with it anymore, ready to forget he was taken advantage of. He hadn't known who owned this copy anymore, nor had he had the drive to find out, and he almost hadn't expected to find it here inside this box. He'd hoped that someone would've taken it or that he'd left it behind somewhere hidden or that it was just never recovered.

It was all fresh in his mind, yet old and buried, mountains of dust gathering over the shroud of suppression that covered it. When the associated emotions washed over him, he understood perfectly why. To have something so exclusive, a fragment so close to his heart it might as well have been its very pericard, ripped out of that hollow he'd made for it; to doubt if anything he shared was real, and to be at a point where he might never even find out.

It was enough to make Armin want to drop the book back in the box and burn all this stuff, preservation be damned. If it were possible, he'd toss Bertholdt into the fire along with it until every trace of his existence had been burned out of this world.

But he couldn't. As much as this was part of Bertholdt's history, it was also part of his own. Part of himself, no matter how much he wanted to shed it. That wasn't the part of him that was in control right now, holding onto that book like it was a cherished memory and not a grim reminder. He wasn't here to destroy memorabilia. He couldn't let himself be burnt out of the world in the crossfire of his impulsive retaliation.

Wasn't this exactly what he was looking for?

"Disappointed that's all there is?" Levi asked when he saw Armin stare at the black cover for this extended period of time. Armin's voice refused him, so he weakly dipped down his head instead, not letting his eyes leave the book.

Jean took note of Armin's transfixion as well and continued the conversation in his stead.

"I know we didn't exactly own a lot, but there's barely anything in here." He laid a supportive hand on Armin's shoulder, getting only a light jolt in return at the unexpected intrusion, so he pulled it back and took a step aside, running a hand over the table Armin sat at. "If this weren't here, I'd say that this place got ransacked. Thieves wouldn't leave behind something expensive like this."

"There's a stockpile of clothes in the back," Levi responded, leaning against the wall with crossed arms. "There's not much you can do with those. We kept everything in case it had any clues about their origin and no one bothered to throw them out after that. Too undermanned. Money was confiscated. Nothing should be missing except for things we couldn't find so it ain't gonna get better than this."

Honestly, Armin wasn't even sure what he hoped to accomplish here. Maybe it had been a mistake. Maybe he just wanted a place to go and a goal to achieve so that he could go home satisfied to tell everyone that he had done something today and they could all cheer him on in that pleasing tone everyone had been assuming with him ever since the Battle for Shiganshina. That he'd been successful at at least something he'd tried after a long series of failures.

Four months since that battle, and he felt lost, plain and simple. Rummaging through the old stuff Bertholdt had left behind when he fled the Walls might give him a sense of personal closure he couldn't possibly find elsewhere, even help him form a bridge to reconnect with the shifter if all other means failed, but he doubted that it would change much for good in the larger picture. None of the ideas Armin had ever were without severe recoil that far outweighed the grounds they won him.

He remained silent, and Jean didn't attempt to keep the small talk going.

Levi sibilated at the lack of a response. "Hurry up wrapping things up here. You can talk outside after I've locked the place up. I'm waiting by the gate." He stood up from the wall, walking out and pulling the door ajar behind him, leaving Armin and Jean alone in the room.

Jean opted not to bother Armin, walking over to the side of the table to rummage through the box before pausing and taking out a small paper box.

"What the hell?" he said, examining it more closely. Armin couldn't tell what it was from the corner of his eyes, but it was likely the card set Armin had spotted when he searched these possessions. "These tarots are mine. I thought I lost them somewhere, how did they get here? We adding theft to the asshole's list of crimes now? Unbelievable…"

Armin couldn't find it within himself to give it much thought. Jean noted his lack of response and stopped trying, pocketing his cards before he eventually lost interest in the box and sat down on a chair, leaning his chin against his folded hands as Armin kept his eyes glued on the cover of the book.

Finally, he let out the sigh he'd been holding in and placed the book down on the table without letting go, catching Jean's attention.

"It's crazy," Jean started when Armin didn't, gesturing down at the book. "Didn't you spend a small fortune on that thing? He had friends here and he still did it. Imagine throwing all that away. The ungrateful bastard." The growling laugh under that last word spoke for itself.

Armin had banned all thoughts about this novel to a deep corner of his brain, hoping he'd never have to revisit it. In hindsight, Bertholdt's uncharacteristically staunch refusal to accept this gift from him made a lot more sense. He'd been ashamed to accept something like that from his own victim. The victim he was so quick to treat as just another enemy to overcome. The victim he intended to kill on the very same day he would've gotten this gift. The victim he would go on to scorch within an inch of his life and then leave for dead.

Armin paled. There was a good reason his mind didn't wander there if he could avoid it. But he'd gone looking for memorabilia by his own will when the others weren't so sure about it. Could he really complain that it was turning bitter so fast?

Jean looked at him, concern mixed in with his distaste before irritation overtook his features. "To think that he'd be so cruel to drag you into his war. That they were so cruel to blend in and use us as cover just to increase their odds of not being suspected by just a little bit. Didn't even have any regard for what it'd do to you, then had the audacity to call his war tactic genuine and real. How dare he do that to a friend…"

"I think you're mistaken, Jean. We weren't friends."

Looking at him wide-eyed, Jean was caught off-guard by Armin's matter-of-fact tone. He tilted his head just a little, a curious look in his eyes. "Yeah, you were."

A grimace showed on his features when Armin resolutely shook his head and he almost felt the pity behind those words, as if spoken to a senile man who had to have it explained to him how he he was getting lost in delusions again, how the world really worked. He hated when Jean got like this.

"We shared a hobby, but that's where it ends," Armin continued in that same low, controlled voice. "There was nothing beyond it. If we hadn't both enjoyed reading, we would've never spent any time together in the first place. We just liked the same thing and bonded based on that, but we never established anything deeper like I did with you, or with Eren and Mikasa, or with Connie and Sasha."

Jean unfolded his arms, pushing on them to sit straight a little more. "Okay, no. Stop that. He lured you close and he hurt you with that, Armin. You were used. Don't let him get away with that by saying he didn't actually hurt you as badly as he could've."

Thinking about it just left an empty void inside him that he didn't want to confront. He'd been wrong estimating how close they were, had seen things that weren't there and turned them into something meaningful. To claim otherwise was foolish. Jean didn't know what he was talking about.

"No," Armin persisted, voice faltering. "I barely know anything about him. I thought I did, but I don't. I can't even tell what was real and what wasn't. We weren't–"

Jean slapped a hand on the table and Armin's shoulders jolted.

"Can you cut the crap, Armin?" His eyes were now piercing Armin's. "You don't spend a fourth of your savings getting a gift for a guy who isn't your friend and you definitely don't spend hours of your week holed up with someone you don't feel good around, let alone for three years. You even know his mannerisms and his habits. He took advantage of a friend, not an acquaintance. Hold him accountable for how horrific that is, for fuck's sake. You were friends and I ain't letting you downplay that. He deserved what happened to him, and he definitely doesn't deserve you defending him!"

The grip of Armin's fingers onto the book tightened to the point of his flesh whitening. He swallowed hard. "I'm not defending him or protesting what we've done, Jean! I'm doing this to be of service to Paradis and that's it. I told you that's why I'm doing it, why don't you believe me?" he pleaded, nearly shouting out the last part. It was hard to keep his tone strict and neutral under these circumstances and he was cracking. He wished that he could explain to Jean just how wrong he was, but he'd spent more of his time around other cadets than around Reiner, Bertholdt, and Annie. How could he ever understand?

"For Paradis, huh?" Jean leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "And yet you're still compassionate towards him when it doesn't help anyone at all. You're giving him far more than he deserves… You don't have to subject yourself to all of this hurt by digging into painful memories. No one wants you to go that far."

Armin remained silent, running a hand over the cover once more as the other held onto the spine, the rich textures cold against his fingertips. Even in the corner of his eyes, it was obvious that Jean was looking down on him with pity.

"Or is it that you find comfort in this?"

Armin abruptly pushed back on his chair and stood, picking up Tale of Dawn as he did, and stormed off to exit the room without surveying Jean's reaction.

"Hey!" Jean shouted behind him, but Armin kept going. Jean would have to put that box back in storage by himself, it wasn't that much of a hassle. He needed breathing room after that.

How great. Jean had offered to accompany him to the old Survey Corps headquarters to help him out, even if just as a form of moral support. Instead, he was weighing Armin down.

He stopped when he was in a hallway past the corner, drawn to a window mortared into a stone nook when his legs refused to carry him any farther. He turned towards the light, placing the book onto the stone windowsill and again peering deep into it, as if it would reveal all answers to him if he just stared hard enough.

Would this even spark anything at all, or had it been a waste of everyone's time coming here?

The thought of finishing it constricted his chest, threatened to send him into a fit of nausea.

It wasn't going to happen.

This was never going to be alright again.

What a weak plan. His first in a long time, and it had already combusted and unceremoniously burnt to ashes before he'd even left the building. What had he connected with Bertholdt over their shared interest again and again for years for, so often he'd lost count, if all he had to show for it was the ghost of his former infatuation, buried amid the still smouldering cinders of what may once have been a radiant bond?

What had it all been for?

Maybe he should leave his book behind undisturbed and forget about it somewhere he couldn't make dumb decisions. Who was to say he would always resist the urge to toss it into the firepit and come to regret burning up so much value that went well beyond the monetary later? He could rationalise it all he wanted, it would take just one moment of weakness to think that was truly what he wanted to actually do and come to regret it the next.

How childish.

To stand here like that, almost in tears over a book.

To have indulged in this hobby the way he had, blinding him into forging a transient friendship– no, camaraderie with someone he didn't even like in the slightest.

To feel sad for himself that he could never again enjoy reading about the adventures of people who weren't even real when a grim war was raging out there, destroying lives every day.

What did his hurt over a flight of fancy mean in the face of a much grander conflict that loomed over them all? What right did he ever have to find refuge in stories, walling himself off from the world like that? Why did he care so much that this was taken from him when others had lost so much worse?

Why did he insist on going the same way Bertholdt had?

His sight went blurry. Hot tears trickled down his face, rolling over his chin and neck, down the opening of his collar and dripping onto the ground. He'd been too caught up in judging his stupid interest that he hadn't even noticed his emotions were spilling over. Another one for the long list of failures attributed to his name.

Footsteps came from behind him and he instinctively bowed his head so that his bangs covered his eyes from all angles Jean could realistically see.

Jean stopped a few paces behind him, and Armin knew that he knew. Jean was always too good at reading people. Some days, it annoyed Armin. Others, it came like a blessing. Today, he just wished he could be left alone, unperceived.

"You don't have to do this, Armin."

There was compassion to those words, yet Jean didn't understand. Armin had to, but his duty wasn't all there was to it.

"I want to."

Jean softly sighed. "Yeah… I know."

A hand on his shoulder urged him to turn around. Armin resisted it, so Jean walked closer to stand next to him, then worked his way around Armin's body and turned him until he was wrapped up within Jean's arms.

"It's okay," was all Jean said, but it awakened something inside Armin and he couldn't hold back anymore. Tears turned to sobs, silent at first before growing vocal. Jean patted his back and spoke soothing words to him that he wasn't processing right now.

How childish. A childish boy crying childish tears over a childish subject. How worthless, how utterly pathetic. This was what the death of the last hope for humanity had left in its wake?

What a farce.

"You don't have to do it all at once. If you absolutely want to go through with it, then don't bite off more than you can chew. It'll be better in the long run," Jean cooed, running a hand over Armin's upper back. "If this is what you want, we'll help you."

Jean's words should've put him at ease, but they didn't.

Was this it? Would he let himself be like this for the rest of his life, at the mercy of how successful people were at comforting him, handling him with the utmost care so as not to harm him, talking to him like they would to a child who'd just stirred from a bad dream and who needed to be put back to bed?

Unless he made the conscious decision to change, he would stay in this pit. There was so much more that could be done, if only he simply bothered.

He breathed out hot air between gritted teeth, heart ablaze in a way it hadn't been in months.

He had to outgrow that childishness and face the world with newfound maturity that was required of him if he ever hoped to achieve anything instead of always being left behind, snivelling and feeling sorry for himself as he reminisced.

Whichever inhibition it was that was holding him back — pride, nostalgia, shortsightedness, arrogance, vulnerability, ignorance — he'd have to do better than that if he wanted to mean something to Paradis. He had to if he wanted to prove that he wasn't better off as a scorched corpse rotting in the soil of Shiganshina while the world moved on without him.

He was sixteen, more than old enough to overcome such irrational notions, to avoid letting his judgement get clouded because he was so overwhelmed feeling that he couldn't think.

He'd need to do better. He'd steel himself to face the task ahead. It was the least he owed those who had made sacrifices so that he could stand here today, alive and well.

He had the perseverance to do that.

Pushing at Jean's shoulders, he looked upon him with determination in his glistening eyes. Jean looked down on him with a satisfied smile.

"There you are. I was wondering when I'd see the Armin I know. Knew you'd find that willpower eventually. You always do."

Armin couldn't subdue it either, corners of his lips quirking up into something confident, something hopeful, something self-assured.

Things would be fine. He'd had his epiphany. So long as he stayed on this path and didn't look back, he would be fine.

He picked up Tale of Dawn from the windowsill with a sense of optimism he had direly missed in recent months, not with the desire to destroy it, not with the wish to revisit its contents the way he once had, but with the prospect of using it to its fullest potential for his mission. He beckoned Jean over with a tip of his head, taking the lead.

When he stepped out those castle doors, it was with renewed vigour, determined to turn the page and start a new chapter in his life. One where everything would truly be different, and he could finally leave all that came before to rest in its charred wake.

This time, he would make a difference.


We've reached the end of my first finished longfic! Thank you very much for reading, and feedback and constructive criticism are always appreciated.

The ending is open-ended about whether Bertholdt survived Shiganshina or not. I have a more extensive ending author's note on the same fic uploaded to my AO3 (LivianLynx), which you can also find linked in my profile in case you want to know more about this fic. If you enjoyed this story, please consider reading my other fic Who We Are Today, which explores the story where Bertholdt survived and was captured alive instead. It's up on this account as well!