Chapter 20 – Reiner – (Arc 1)
Reiner Braun has lived a life divided, his mind fragmented in two; The Warrior and the Boy. Both halves constantly at war with each other but as dusk settles on an eternal battle, who will rise once more with the sun?
Reiner Braun lived on a small lumbering island, it was a simple life if he was honest. He had a strength that was innate to him, but lacked the natural anger to use it, living his life docilely alongside his father and his close friends, Annie, Bertholdt, Marcel and Mina. And in all honesty, he was alright with it. Happy. Peaceful.
If only he could go back to that he thought as he sat in the cold pit, rain soaking his already torn shirt, dirt staining his trousers. Pulling the mace from the mangled remains of his most recent opponent's skull, he lifted it above him, the light glimmering from the cold sun that broke through the house of hell that he had come to call home. Hearing the wooden gears of the gate behind him grind together as it began to open, he let his weapon drop to his side, gripping it loosely as he stalked back into his cell. He reminisced to when he had first entered this place: Alone. Confused. Scared.
It wasn't until he had been thrown down into the dirt that he realised the reality of his situation. And Reiner's parents had always taught him one thing:
'You know that reality won't change. You know that you won't change. You just have to accept it'
Looking before him, and seeing a thin red path stretched out at his feet, beckoning him to follow it, he accepted his life now. Knowing the way before him could only be walked down on an ever growing mound of corpses, he was conflicted, part of his mind screaming, begging and clawing to return back to his simpler life, not having to do this.
That desperate part was crushed under the iron fist of the steeled Warrior, offering no freedom as it hurled it's pathetic counterpart into the deepest roots of his psyche, with even greater strength than the boy's fist as they were thrown into the guts and skulls of the challengers to his will of survival. As he tore into his fellow slave soldiers, he knew that he had fragmented. Shattered. Broken in half by the world around him. This he knew.
He knew that even in the darkness and the cold that his hope still existed, but it was kept chained down, just like the dragons brought before him in the arena. Gronckles. Nadders. Changewings. Nightmares. He had had them all. And each and every one unleashed in his cage was killed without mercy, without remorse from the warrior.
He knew, as he stepped out of the blood crusted hole, his face, half burnt by dragon fire and his arms ripped to shreds by sharp talons, that this had become his life. Fight. Kill. Ignore the pain. It doesn't exist. And the Warrior loved that, eventually taking the title given to it by its enslavers: The Armoured Titan of the First Pit. It loved the title. Made him feel invincible. Untouchable. Immortal. And it was a lie.
Its pride was as it often is, his downfall, for the enemies of the present, wielding weapons and rage, dragon fire and monstrosity were no match for him; But the small knife, long forgotten, buried in the past. That was the chink in his armour. That was his weakness. No rebellion nor uprising to quell for the time being. Just an abnormal absence. A lack of moral objection. The Warrior revelled in it, believing he had truly slain the boy's petty delusions.
It wasn't until he stood in the central pit, predatory eyes sketching over the forms of the people the boy hand once knew, what were their names, Annie? Bert? He frankly didn't care, believing them to be nothing. Before feeling it.
A small blade, skewered through the one hidden chink in his arm; blindsided with shock, the Warrior turned to see Reiner, his hope, his empathy and his emotions, unerring in their glare and more importantly, in his rage before his towering form buckled.
As Reiner's eyes flitted back to his now hardened childhood friends, standing before him, he felt a weight drop onto his shoulders, weight of the Armour that his psyche had worn for years as the guilt of all of his actions hit him with full force.
As he knelt in the mud, rain falling onto him, he saw Annie's form rise, seeing her fuming rage as she glared upwards. Realising what she was doing, hearing the ringing resonate in his concise, he forced his legs up, his broader form rising as he put his hand, with as much purpose as he could muster, on Annie's shoulder, glancing to his side and looking into the chestnut eyes of Bertholdt that he hadn't seen for years and feeling his resolve strengthen. Following the path that Annie's sight walked, he joined her, locking gazes with the cold masks of his captors. As the metal fell around them, he walked forward, gripping his calloused palms around the haunting grip. He hated this weapon but knew that it was now his to bear.
May the Gods themselves have mercy on those who first put it in his hands. Because he won't.
As they walked the path together on the northern road, Reiner reached into the depths of his concise, feeling for the cold metal surface of the Armoured Warrior. As he found it once more, he drew it's bloodied and broken corpse up to his face, demanding as he held back his anger how many were killed by this monster using his hands. As the broken and hoarse whisper reached his ear, his grip on the now madly chuckling, broken memory broke as it fell into the abyss of his mind, the life finally leaving his already cold eyes.