Idek.
Chapter soon?
Disclaimer: SnK isn't mine, because whoooo hoooooooo. (lol?)
Three Warriors
xxx. hers .xxx
The dull thud in his head lulls the world to a blur. Staring at the red and white checkered tablecloth blurs his vision, and everything falls to fuzzy pinks and waves of nausea. His breath comes in short bursts, his throat closes, and he can't even gasp for help.
Fear chokes him like nothing else can, and through gritted teeth and tears of terror, he wonders what would happen if he succumbed to the clawing beast that dwelt within his heart.
"Hey, Bertholdt, if you're not going to eat that, can I have it?"
Sasha's intrusive hand hovering over his plate jerks him from his wandering thoughts, and he glances down. His plate, consisting of a meager two rolls with a chunk of hard-earned butter, is untouched. He has no appetite, even though his stomach twists and clenches in empty anguish.
"Sure." He picks up a roll and places it in Sasha's worshipful hand. Before Connie can snatch it from her grasp, Sasha has ripped a massive chunk of bread from the roll, clutching it like a rabid dog between her teeth, growling as she keeps the rest of the precious bread out of Connie's reach.
Queasy, Bertholdt pushes his chair back with a screech. The room is dull and dry; he can see dust particles floating serenely in the weak beam of sunlight that filters through the grungy windows. The air is dank and unpleasant to inhale. He goes outside, though the snowy weather hardly suffices to quench his thirst for a fresh breath of air.
His gut squeezes painfully, gratingly, and he can't tell if he's hungry or just sick to his stomach.
Freshly fallen snow crunches beneath his feet as he meanders from the dining hall to the training area. Oddly enough, Mikasa is hanging from one of the standard gear sets, motionless yet dauntless. Her eyes stare straight forward — she sees nothing on the outside, but is turned to the inside. Bertholdt walks past her quickly, unnerved.
He isn't surprised to find Eren and Armin a little ways off, the former agitatedly trying to fix his belt straps while the latter simply whistles absently. Armin glance up for a split second, and meets Bertholdt's eyes. His blue ones drop away quickly, but Bertholdt's stomach twists nervously at the depth in those eyes, sapphire like the sea.
Someday, we'll see the ocean, Eren had said at lunch one day. Someday, we'll see it all.
But Bertholdt had seen it already — he'd seen the terror and the fear and the despair that fell upon humanity the day he came knocking at its door. If he were to pour out his heart's regrets, breaking through Wall Maria would be his greatest.
No, not his greatest. But one of them.
His breath puffs out in a gentle cloud before him, and his toe scuffs into a patch of stiff, dead grass. He imagines it is green, greener than emeralds, greener than the thickest forest.
As green as his mother's eyes, which have long since faded to gray in a memory he cannot recall.
He must've fallen asleep, because someone has scooped him up, and his head lolls against a slim shoulder. He curls his tiny fingers around a lock of dark hair, the same ebony shade as his own, and his eyes see the apple trees and the picnic table and the seemingly out-of-place congregation of hunters taking an afternoon break in the orchards.
There is a bowl of freshly picked apples — some a bit too ripe — set on the table, primarily to keep the red and white checkered tablecloth from fluttering away.
He is awake now, and he reluctantly allows himself to be lowered from the comforting bosom that cradles him so close.
"Go play with Reiner, love," says the gentle voice, melodious and smooth and sweet like honey. He clutches to her knee, hands wrapped tightly, possessively around the coarse cotton skirt that swishes with her every step and falls in uniform gray pleats. She is a tall, thin woman, but strong in her bony knees and elbows. She has a long nose that doesn't quite fit her face, but melds just finely with his own. He has his father's eyebrows and cheekbones, but his mother's nose and lips and eyes. "Go on," she says, urging him towards the rambunctious boy wresting with Berik under the trees. "I'll be right over here."
He hesitantly step away from her, and she kneels briefly to kiss his cheek.
Her eyes are green, so, so green, greener than the grass and any emerald that may grace the unknown world. They are striking against her otherwise plain features — dark hair, gray skirt and loose coal blouse, pale skin and long face.
"Okay." His small hand lets go of her, and he turns around.
When he comes back, Mikasa is very stoically instructing Eren how to shoot one trigger of the maneuver gear and turn 180 degrees without twisting the other side in a knot. Armin perches on a fence post, almost as if he's too tired to involve himself in Eren's antics — which is understandable — and swings his legs back and forth.
Bertholdt walks past them, and finds himself at the trainees' cabins. He walks to the end of the first one. Inside, there is one mirror, floor to ceiling, cracked, dusty, and filled with inexplicably dark grime. He stares at himself for a long time, and notices that his hair is falling over his eyes, past his ears, at his jaw. It's time to cut it.
His mother used to cut his hair, sitting before a mirror in similar condition. She would snip at his hair, but it was thick and dark and she couldn't bear to cut it as short as Reiner's, despite its awkward messiness. Bertholdt's father propensity to complain about his shaggy, disheveled appearance at dinner never persuaded that woman.
He's staring now, at the mirror, at his sad, tired gray eyes. He is gaunt and slightly thin, even though he is muscled and fit and a trainee who has made it past the first six months. His old, raggedy pants are too short for him, too small for him, and the large shirt he assumed would fit him for at least the next half a year is too tight for him; it lays discarded at the bottom of a shared clothes pile, where the boys haphazardly throw their items and pick up someone else's when they need it.
When they appear behind him, he quite nearly jumps out of his skin and three feet into the air. It's a wonder he didn't hit his head, despite his fright.
"You need a haircut," Reiner says simply, flicking Bertholdt's ear with his forefinger, a grin tugging at his lips. There's a crease between Reiner's brows; he's deep in thought, halfway between trainee and hometown boy. Bertholdt ignores his friend's confusion and glances at Annie, who kicks a shoe — Jean's old sandals — under the nearest bed, uninterested.
"You should grow your hair out like Mikasa's," jokes Reiner, "it would look lovely on you."
He imagines himself with hair that draped ridiculously past his shoulders.
"He would look like his mother," Annie commented bluntly. Bertholdt doesn't say anything, doesn't let them know he feels a pang of hurt and regret, but instead stares intently at the mirror. With a start, he realizes that his typically slate-gray eyes are glinting with a strange green; a trick of the light, perhaps. His mother's face jumps out at him, and with his hair hanging long down his forehead and his eyes bursting with an abnormal hue of jade, he sees his mother in everything that defines him. Even the way he carries himself resembles his mother; tall and straight, not quite a proud stance, but not dejected either.
"Momma's boy," snickers Reiner, patting the taller boy on the back.
Bertholdt fingers a lock of hair by his ear, but Annie catches his sleeve and pulls his hand down.
"I'll cut it for you." She opens the nearest drawer and pulls out a pair of scissors, as if she had known they would be there. "Sit."
Her hands flutter quickly, unexpectedly so, and snippets of ebony hair drop to the creaky wooden floorboards. Annie pointedly makes carefully aimed jabs at a mindful Reiner, who, though constantly thinking up new jokes about Annie the hairdresser, nimbly dodges the scissor blades.
When Annie is done, she stands and leaves. She doesn't wait for them; she is never seen with them.
Reiner yawns. "I'll meet you at the western stables. I think we've got a riding lesson combined with gear maneuvering."
But Bertholdt doesn't really pay attention, because he's staring at his reflection, slightly distorted by the dirty mirror and cracked glass. He doesn't hear Reiner leave, nor does he realize that a few other boys have filed in, and are rummaging through their belongings or the massive pile of shared clothes.
He sees his mother in the mirror, with her long nose and thick lashes, her thick black hair that fell to her shoulder blades and her dragging skirts that he hung onto precariously.
But he can't see her green eyes, her green, green eyes, because as she disappears within his own reflection, all he can see is his own face.
And his eyes are gray, like the sky as a second fall of snow descends upon them.
A cloud passes over them, and the sun hides.
It is dark.
/chapter
I totally just made up Mrs. Fubar.
But she's a nice lady; plain, but kind.
*does a strange, alien dance*
++donotquestionthestrangnessofthiswriter++