First, there was a silence so deafening that it almost made the world feel abandoned.
Then, in the distance, the frantic crunching of footsteps neared, kicking grass and slipping and sliding over cold mud, making it hard not to stumble.
Two boys ran for their lives, one more agile and in much better condition than the other, darting from building to building as fast as their legs could carry them before peeking out their heads and waiting until the grounds fell silent again to make their next move.
With pounding hearts, they sprinted the final homestretch to a lonesome side building in the middle of the grounds, praying that they would be all alone as they pulled open the door, dashed inside, and slammed it shut behind them again with a thud that reverberated throughout their small stronghold, almost hard enough to shatter the glass window built into its wooden frame.
As they stood hunched over panting, more exhausted from their exuberant escape than the actual physical effort, Bertholdt was the first to risk a slow return to the door. He bent down to look through the little window, placing his hand against the glass as his breath condensed on it in foggy patches.
"Did anyone see us?" Armin asked in one heavy sigh. He had to clutch his chest through the strap of his hip bag to keep the cool air from constricting his trachea and sending him to the floor.
"No," Bertholdt answered, wiping the glass with his sleeve. "I don't think anyone was there to see us."
Joining him by the door on wobbly legs, Armin wiped his own spot on the glass, a pane lower than Bertholdt's. The grounds were clear, yet the two of them stood looking until someone walked into sight far away from them. They quickly ducked below the lowest rim of the door window, equally terrified as they were exhilarated.
Armin was first to crawl away from the door and out of the line of sight of the window. As he stood, he couldn't help but laugh under his breath, then with more purpose as he turned around and was met with a curious Bertholdt who had followed him, risen to his enormous height.
"You never struck me as a criminal," Bertholdt teased with a smile tugging at his lips, innocent as it may be despite his jest.
Bertholdt was a simple boy, but that didn't make him any easier to figure out even on his best of days. This smile, Armin did recognise, though. Bertholdt was not one to ever get angry, but he was disappointed with him.
"Bertholdt! A criminal? Me?" Armin responded in exaggeration, astonished as he touched his hand over his heart and opened his mouth wide.
His hands went for the bag that hung on his hip.
"This can't be a crime! This is an act of charity! A gift, a service, a deed of benevolence! How could it possibly be malicious when it entails goods like these…"
From his bag, he grabbed Tale of Armistice and held it up into the air in a victorious pose.
"… for poor cadets like us who need to make do with a tiny library full of secondhand books? How could that ever mean a net negative for the world? They have to understand. They won't even notice it's gone, in a library as large as theirs!"
"I'm not so sure Shadis will agree with us on that," Bertholdt said, his worry not so lighthearted as Armin's dismissal. "And neither will the librarians."
"We won't get caught. I have experience handling illegal books no one wants me to have, but neither of them should be illegal. These are sustenance for the soul! Any book should be available to anyone who desires to peruse them, it's only fair. Don't you think so too?"
"Okay. Okay, fine," Bertholdt gave in, following Armin's laugh. Forgiveness right as a tinge of guilt began to lick at Armin's heart.
Armin's smile deepened. He beckoned for Bertholdt to follow as he padded over to the central part of the fiction section and sought out the letter H, though he didn't need more than a second to find that familiar cove he'd spent months culminating. He pushed apart III and V and gently pushed IV between them, and at last, their humble collection stood in order.
Allumia.
War.
Valor.
Armistice.
Sisters.
Ardor.
Calamity.
Midnight.
"Oh my goodness…" Armin softly spoke, marvelling at the octuplet of novels. He looked up at Bertholdt, whose eyes were examining Armin, not the books. "Do you see this, Bertholdt? This is what a true victory looks like! We're so close!"
Bertholdt's sight drifted to the books. The usual reservation that followed all of Bertholdt's actions was there, but he just as soon nodded at Armin.
"Just… Don't do something like that again, alright? We might not always be so lucky."
"Don't worry about it!"
"No, I mean it. You're going to give me a heart attack…"
"Yes, yes, of course," Armin cheerfully answered, dismissive. "We won't, but if we do get caught, I promise to take the punishment. Alright?"
Armin should take the full fall, so as not to jeopardise Bertholdt's plans to make it into the Military Police. He wasn't that afraid of Shadis anymore. His punishments did always strengthen Armin's heart.
"That wouldn't be right. We should share the blame."
Always so lawful. Endearment tugged at Armin's chest from the typical earnestness that underlined everything Bertholdt did.
"If you insist, then I cannot stop you," Armin said. "But if I get sole blame, don't feel bad about staying silent and just letting me take it this time. It's your choice."
Armin beamed. He invited Bertholdt to just take the offer already and let Armin repay his kindness with some of his own. If not for the sake of friendship, then for letting Armin drag him into complicity to a horrid crime he did not agree with.
"Okay," Bertholdt yielded, and Armin could only breathe out a light laugh as his hand brushed over the bookshelf his beloved series inhabited, still lightheaded from their mad dash back to the library.
"Did you ever think we'd get this far when we started? All that's left is Tale of Dawn and we can actually finish the series together!"
"Now you sound like you're planning another heist."
Armin pulled Tale of Armistice off the shelf again. "I don't know what you are talking about," he guiltlessly said before cocking his head towards the back of the library. "We should probably not be seen with this, so let's not retreat to the barracks to read. Even if the floor will be freezing."
"Are you ready to read more already? We won't last long like this."
"I liked reading together," Armin admitted. "In fact… Why don't we start reading together more often? It's even better than reading the same chapters. We get to discuss every line, every word that we read right as they happen. What do you say?"
"If you're fine with that, then I don't see why not," Bertholdt answered with a timid smile, and just then, his voice cracked and Armin had to laugh as his friend hid his face. Apparently, he wasn't all done deepening out just yet.
"I'm sorry, it just stays… endearing, I suppose," Armin half-heartedly apologised, and apparently, that was enough.
Bertholdt reluctantly took off his coat under his embarrassment as he walked away from the scene and towards the back end of their library.
"Oh," Armin hummed. "It's as cold in here as it is outside. You don't have to do this, are you sure about that?"
"Huh?" Bertholdt asked, looking behind and needing a moment to process what it was Armin was referring to. "Oh, it's fine, actually. I don't mind, I'm still a bit hot from running," he said as he made it to their usual reading spot in that secluded little corner of the library and placed his coat down on the floor.
Truth be told, Armin preferred those rare times when Bertholdt would let him sit on his lap to avoid touching the freezing floorboards. It would be easier to both access their book and their necks wouldn't hurt at the end of a session, but side-by-side worked if they had to.
"How are you always so warm?" Armin asked as he sat down atop the coat, a laugh underlining his first word.
Bertholdt simply shrugged. "If you want my coat as a blanket instead…"
"No, no, this is fine!"
Armin couldn't control the swinging of his legs across the floorboards as Bertholdt joined him by his side. He pressed his shoulder against Armin's to get a good view of their newest reading material.
As Armin opened the cover and that familiar title page sent jolts into his heart, he couldn't help but to, as he always did in this kind of situation, look up and gauge Bertholdt's reaction to their achievement—and what he saw was a side of Bertholdt that not many were graced with. In his eyes sparkled something that broke through his timid exterior, something that spoke of heartfelt wonder and curiosity to find out what lay next on the Druid and her Squire's path as he flipped the pages to go where they'd left off on the Ehrmich library tower. Not that far into the book, as they'd spent most of their time up there discussing the plot and getting into the details of every line rather than reading.
When he noticed Armin surveying his reaction in a not-so-subtle way, he tried to hold back the light in his eyes that gave him away. But as Armin brightened, Bertholdt couldn't hide the smile that pulled on lips and the burning desire to dig in on this feast for the imagination neither boys could ever deny made them fly.
Somehow, in a world where monsters lurked in the dark and the strong ate the weak, Armin had found a kindred spirit who chose to make the simpler things in life matter in his search for a brighter world.
He'd never take that for granted.
Bang.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Armin?"
Bang bang.
"Armiiin?"
Bang bang bang bang bang.
"Oi, Armin? You there?"
A groan. More bangs, pounding on his head like a drum. He pulled his pillow over his face and shut out the world, but that didn't save him when his door was opened and his privacy invaded.
"Hey… You okay? You didn't show up at breakfast again, we got worried."
Another groan. Point out the obvious more.
Connie didn't take Armin's silence as his cue to leave. Steps on the floorboards closed in, and when a few pushes to the shoulder made him toss off his bedsheets and pillow and sit up with a glare, he found Connie pulling away with raised hands.
"Whoa, man, alright! Just wanted to check that you weren't… You know, dead?"
The word choice deepened Armin's dead-eyed glare. No doubt his dark circles and his hair which betrayed his sleepless night made their point, and Connie slowly backed off until he stood a few paces back, far enough to be outside of Armin's swinging range.
"Okay, you live, gotcha," Connie said with an unconvinced double thumbs-up, visibly taken aback. Armin decided there was no point in snappiness.
"I don't know why I slept in late," he answered, making a point to rub his eyes. "My head feels heavy. I think I will just rest this one out. I don't have anything scheduled this week, it will be fine."
The recruits were off on training missions during the day, anyway. Armin had no teaching slots this week. As the Commander had said, they couldn't do a thing about what he did with his free time. So just let him sleep.
"Are you alright? You haven't been… You know, there as of late."
"Of course I am fine," Armin muttered. "Why wouldn't I be fine?"
"We're just worried, the guys and I. We've barely seen you around, and on top of… well, you know, the distance… Just… You can tell me if things suck. If you need to vent or something, I don't know. You know that, right?"
Shaking his head, Armin had to consciously muzzle himself.
"I'm okay, Connie. I caught something when I slept in the forest. I was cold and wet and my throat hurt when I woke up. It finally caught up with me. It's not that bad, but my head hurts and I need rest and silence. So just leave me be?"
"Okay, man. Sure," Connie said, deterred by Armin's bark. "But when's the last time you came down to eat? Did you eat where they keep Bertholdt?"
"Yes. And I snuck out to grab a few things tonight. I don't trust my intestines to handle more than I'm eating. Thank you for your concern, but I am fine, Connie. Okay?"
"Okay. Okay, alright, man. I'll tell the others you're sick, then?"
Armin nodded, rubbing the salt out of his eyes.
"Thank you, that would be kind of you."
"Yeah, no problem. Just let us know if you wanna go out and we'll be with you. My dad always used to say that sunlight can be good for the skin, especially when you're feeling under the weather. Nothing better for getting better than being out. I know it's hot, but… You know. Let us know."
"I will."
Connie lingered before he nodded and left, but just as soon, he was back. He placed something on Armin's bedside nightstand and then escaped the awkward confrontation, leaving Armin alone in his darkened, dank room.
Looking over, it was evidently a flagon of water that Connie had brought over. It was thoughtful, but Armin could just look at it with apathy.
Falling back into the mattress, he didn't bother pushing his hot bedsheets off his sweaty body. He did not remember how he got there, what exactly had transpired when he left those mines. There were some bare details. Hange had promptly stared him down but otherwise let him be when he'd crutched into the Survey Corps' headquarters with a blank face and made it to his room, not to be seen again. It had been too light, so he shut his curtains.
But how exactly he got there, he did not remember.
Well, his head didn't hurt badly enough to have realistically grabbed a bottle. He really just was out from afternoon to noon, and despite his dry mouth and his loud stomach, he was ready to pass out again.
When he tried, all he could do was stare at his ceiling, his mind empty—and he decided that if he wasn't leaving his room, then he might as well peer into the bleak abyss.
Six days.
Bang bang bang.
Gods' sake.
Bang bang bang bang bang.
"Armin?"
His face scrunched up and he pressed his hands over his eyes.
"What?" he yelled.
A pause.
"Lemme come in."
No. Go away.
Instead of waiting, his visitor entered his room. Armin kept his eyes closed, squaring his shoulders to push his pillow just a little closer against his ears. When he saw him, Jean whistled.
"Fuck, Armin, you look mighty crumpled up. Vomit all your water up and forget to drink afterwards?"
"No vomiting, just… It's the heat, I suppose," Armin answered without emerging.
"Connie told me I'd find you here in a bad state, but this is worse than I could've imagined. Dreary place to hole up in."
"I suppose."
Jean stopped by Armin's bed, leaning down like he was his caretaker. "C'mon, gramps. You know the drill. You're going out with us, they say there's nothing better than fresh air to heal those aching bones."
The scars on his back and arms had started to pull on his skin as he hadn't exercised them. He reeked from over a week without bathing and his stomach cramped up from being denied the sustenance he needed. Armin would share the burden of hunger and thirst.
And yet, "Okay," was all Armin had in him.
He did not further protest the decision as Jean pulled him out of bed, gave him the space to change, reunited him with the rest of the 104th in the mess hall to drink, and dragged him from the hot streets of Trost into its cool surrounding forests beyond its northern gate. When they talked, he answered, and when they laughed, through his feigned sniffles and coughs, he laughed with them.
It didn't even matter that Eren wasn't there. None of it did.
So long as they believed him to be his old self covered in a layer of guck, he wouldn't draw any suspicion to his actual reason to have lost all lust for life.
The sun mercilessly bore down on him throughout the day, yet the world left him as cold as that first day in January when he sat shivering in a cart under his snow-soaked blanket. When he finally made it back to the Survey Corps headquarters, he had just enough energy left to make it up the stairs and collapse in his bed, feigning comatose sleep when Mikasa and Sasha brought him dinner and left it on his nightstand for when he woke up.
He returned it to the kitchen storage in the night as the saliva lay thick on his tongue.
Five days.
"Hey, so I was wondering something," Jean asked him while they sat gathered in the elite's lounge. Armin figured that he could no longer stay in his room all day long without drawing suspicion.
Looking up from his book, Armin gave Jean permission to go on.
"I was doing some readings the other night. Y'know, just for fun, nothing really grandiose or impressive. Pulled out some really good fortune for Connie and some really bad for Eren. When I was sorting my deck and laying them out in my room, I noticed that one of my cards was missing."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. The Tower."
"Odd."
"You wouldn't happen to… You know, since you're the one who returned it to me?"
Armin shook his head. "I haven't seen it, but I will check my pockets and bags. If you want me to, I can even ask Bertholdt if he took it or knows where it is. I don't know why he would take it."
"Hey, he grabbed my deck once. Bastard might just have a knack for taking things that ain't his, right?"
Armin laughed along with Jean, but even he could tell that it was forced.
"Well, if he did take it, I don't expect to see it back," Jean sighed. "But maybe coax him to do the right thing and hand it over, alright? These are antique cards and I don't wanna let go of them just yet."
Where had The Tower ended up? Had it been trampled and crooked in the city below only to end up in a gutter and dissolve in last week's storm? Or did some unfortunate soul grab it and keep it as a souvenir, maybe even as an omen?
Another story to add to the list of things he'd never find a satisfying answer to.
Jean got the message when Armin nodded and then stared, so he left him to continue reading. When his eyes fell back onto the pages, they glided over the actual words and he got more comfort out of the movement of his eyes' muscles than any actual reading he'd get done. No written word could catch his interest—not when he read in the lounge to keep the others off his back, not when he decided that there had to be something else he could do than stare at his ceiling all day long. He'd glance over the words before he'd realise that he'd gone three pages without paying attention.
And so he went back to staring, suppressing the mantra that bludgeoned his thoughts when he let them reign, and found that it occupied him just fine.
Four days.
Dressed in a loose shirt and shorts with his hair combed back and a book in his hands, Eren stood by Armin's door.
"I'm sorry," he said, and in the glint of his eyes, Armin could see honesty reflected.
"I'm sorry too."
Eren left the book on his desk and exited. Their cold war had come to an end without a discussion of what had happened or why—and that should have flared something up in Armin's gut, but he remained unaffected.
The book Eren had bought him as a peace offering was about the river ports of the Walls. Armin lost interest during the opening paragraph and stashed it away for later.
Three days.
When his arms shivered against the wood of his crutches and he clattered against the floor attempting to lift himself off his bed, he had to give up on his self-flagellatory fast to preserve his inconspicuous edge.
The others were ecstatic to finally have him at breakfast again, a gesture he presumed to be overcompensation for leaving him behind within the confines of the Walls as they sought freedom beyond. They must have still felt bad for having had their fun while he melted away in the city. The intense flavour of the sweet crescent roll he ate tingled on his tongue and made his eyes tear up, a sharp sensation he hadn't felt since he'd stopped eating.
"What have I told you about brushing your hair if you want to keep it this long, blondie?"
"Sorry."
"Do you want me to give you another haircut tomorrow to keep it healthy?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Oi, you're letting her do it again but you still ban me from cutting your hair? Low, low."
"Sorry."
"Lemme gather your hair instead of Jean, Armin! It's gonna be much cooler without it all hanging in your neck, please lemme?"
"Okay."
"Thinkin' about growing out my hair as well."
"Wouldn't you just look great with luscious locks, Connie?"
"Oi, oi, let a guy grow out his hair, asshole! You let Eren do it just fine without saying a word!"
The conversation veered away from Armin after that, and in the blink of an eye, the elite had gathered their recruits and the mess hall was dead silent. The reverberation of such a large, empty building kept him engaged to stay listening, but eventually, he decided that his languid bones needed to return to his quarters.
He did not rest. His mind wanted to, but he instead pulled back his chair and sat down at his desk with his journal, not because he thought it would relight that spark within him, but because he had to pick up the pieces and force himself to do something else than this.
Tomorrow was the day.
He'd probably resume his nothingness once the news broke, and then people would allow him to sulk for a little while until they got tired of it and told him to return to their world. But there had to be a day after tomorrow. There was a whole life after that; he'd have to learn how to fill it again, even if he did so reluctantly.
His quill drifted over the pages of his journal, lost on what to write until a small puddle collected under the tip. Finally, he scribbled.
Today I ate pastries
With a sigh, he flipped his journal closed and screwed the lid back on his inkwell. Folding his hands over his desk and exploring the various cracks and stains in his walls, he forced out of his mind an idea that hadn't left him alone since the week had started.
But it wouldn't go, and he was in no mood to resist. So he limped back to his bed, opened his nightstand's top drawer, and recovered his copy of Tale of Dawn from its textile cover. But he didn't read the printed text that contained the story's main body. Nothing could draw him in but the handwritten notes left directly onto the pages. Underlined words and sentences praising the author's craftsmanship. Accolades by the sides of paragraphs which echoed childlike innocence that attempted to persist even after it had been taken. Details to gush over when they sat together, to bleed an emotion onto the pages and ensure it would never evaporate. Proof that at one point in his life, Bertholdt had cared about something enough to leave his personalised mark on it. Proof that Bertholdt had lived, scribbled in the margins of paper as much as it had been scribbled into Armin's skin. Proof that Bertholdt had loved, and that Armin had been allowed to see.
Words that would not die, that could not be torn out of existence so long as Armin protected them. Words that stopped appearing after page 84, when the world beckoned a frightened boy out of his slumber and demanded he sell his soul to warfare.
Another story never told.
And Armin wanted to selfishly hoard these words for himself, keep them hidden inside a drawer where no one would ever think them significant; but he understood that they did not belong to him. This book, this symbol of their unity, had always been a gift to Bertholdt, and so to Bertholdt it should return, no matter how many times he'd reject it.
He spent the rest of the evening memorising every word Bertholdt had strewn about these pages and finally came to the decision that he should be buried by the hidden lake Armin had found, Tale of Dawn in his hand as his one portal into a brighter world when he was finally released from this dark hell.
That sounded like a good resting place where no one would disturb him.
Two days.
On the final day of Bertholdt's life, Armin slept in as late as his body would allow him to.
At noon, he left his bedroom to welcome his friends back into the Survey Corps headquarters as they came in for lunch and to plan their free afternoon. He listened to the background chatter as they ate and focused on the moss that grew between the tiles beyond his boot as Mikasa trimmed the tips of his hair.
As he crutched through the paved streets of Trost and returned his friends' small talk, he haphazardly let a single emotion slip past his defences as he wondered if that blade had yet found its way back to Bertholdt's wounded hand; whether he was replaying Armin's instructions in his head to ensure one swift strike or he was hard at work skinning his own legs to free himself.
Between Saturday and Sunday left room for Saturday evening. There was a chance it was already over.
It shouldn't have left him as totally limp and vacant as it did. He expected something. A glimmer, maybe even something he could not repress, but there was nothing to repress. He stared into the tiles beyond his boots and it cost him no effort to laugh at Jean's snide comment.
It did not matter. His task was to do as he always had: build plausible deniability. The Armin they received was the most average Armin they had ever seen in their lives. He had to look fine. He had to sound fine, crutch fine, eat fine, laugh fine. He had to be fine.
This was far from the first time in his life that he had feigned his happiness. So if it came to him naturally, then that was all the better.
His life remained agonisingly dull as he went about his day with numb lips and a vague tingling in the tips of his digits. When he collapsed in bed past midnight and the shift in gravity didn't seem to slide the weight of the world off his shoulders, he went into the night knowing full well what he faced.
So he resumed what he'd been doing for the past days: stare at the wooden ceiling of his room, scorching the seedling of every thought that threatened to sprout into his head out of existence so that mind may match soul, or some other uninspired metaphor. But tonight, it was too much to even repeat his mantra of nothingness. Somewhere during the night, the skies blessed him with the sound of thunder. First far, then closer with the occasional flash of white outside his room as the wind whipped up his curtains. At long last, something dragged his room's temperature down with it, even draining that underlying heat the previous storm had left untouched out of his sweltering bones.
So long as he did not assign any imagery to it, then this oncoming storm offered ample grip to anchor himself to, so he listened as the dawn approached at a crawl and he was left limp and listless, counting down each second.
Steps outside his door.
Running.
Voices whose words he could not discern.
Words right outside his door.
Doors and chairs that slammed and moved.
Commotion unusual for this early in the morning.
He failed to breathe the deep sigh he wanted to. His body lay so motionless that one could wonder if his heart hadn't given up alongside him. And as everything around him turned to static and the tingling in his limbs overtook him, the world around him deafened.
Bang bang bang.
No.
Not yet.
Bang bang bang.
Please.
Just a little longer.
Bang bang bang bang bang.
He inhaled and held.
He'd have to let go at some point.
It was time.
By his open door stood Jean. Armin opened the eyes he'd just in time closed and looked at his friend. There was nothing to say when the look in his eyes said it all, yet the Armin he saw could not yet know what that meant.
"Jean…?" his gravelly voice quietly asked.
"Hey, Armin," Jean greeted, falling silent after the bare minimum.
Armin wiped his eyes and rolled to his side for the first time since he'd gone to bed. "What time is it?"
"A little past five."
Silence, breathing. A groan, then a sigh.
"Right. Gotta get ready to leave soon," Armin said as he stretched his arms above him.
"Yeah, right… Why don't you get dressed already, huh?"
Jean was about to leave, but Armin couldn't let him, not yet.
"Hold on. Why did you wake me up? You never do that on a Sunday morning."
Jean remained quiet by the door, his stare lingering somewhere on the wall of Armin's bedroom. When Armin's face contorted, it was involuntarily, yet just the same as anything had been the past week: a mask.
"Can you get dressed?" Jean simply repeated, and a pang of indignation made it through Armin's defences.
"Did something happen?"
Once more, Jean lingered as the long rumble of thunder sounded in the far distance. Then, he made a gesture Armin did not fully understand before he quietly closed the door again and returned to the chaos that reigned in the hallway.
That was all he needed to know.
He only realised his breathing and pulse had spiked when he was left alone, rolling onto his back before somehow, through his boneless condition, he found it within himself to sit upright and let his feet slide to the floorboards.
Outside that door, there lay two options—but regardless of whether he was about to hear of a terrible disaster gone down in Tourze or a personal loss to the Survey Corps' arsenal, there was no doubt that that shaving razor had been utilised.
So he followed Jean's request and removed his nightshirt, lifted himself off the bed and discarded his pyjama pants and underwear, took up his crutches, made his way towards his drawer, and took his time picking out the clothes he'd wear. Maybe something a little warmer, if that storm was going to raze through the building. Black pants, blue shirt, a high boot, his Survey Corps coat, and fuck–
There were no more reasons to stay in his room, so he crutched his way over to his door and with the wind in his heart left the safety of his room.
It was quiet. Any noise came from the elite's lounge. Jean stood waiting next to Armin's door, that same apprehensive bitterness on his face. Armin looked up at him with his question legible in his eyes that betrayed nothing about what was truly ravaging his head.
"C'mon," Jean said, cocking his head and starting down the hallway.
Armin didn't follow. "Aren't you going to tell me what happened?"
"I think it's better if you read it yourself."
That was the first time Armin was surprised. What was there to read?
A letter from Tourze? Not a courier?
Dread gathered inside his gut over the illogical choice of medium. Still, he followed after Jean, who headed for the lounge and opened the door, revealing that alongside Eren, Mikasa, Sasha, and Connie, Hange and Levi were also inside, everyone strewn about the room in varying states of groom. As soon as Armin entered, everyone's attention converged on him, and he more than anything wanted to slip through the cracks of the floorboards and lodge himself between the unforgiving crevices of the earth.
Before he could make anything of it, a newspaper was extended his way. An ultimatum, Armin figured as his shaky hands went for the paper and the nerves that pinned his brain to his skull made it so that the headline crashed into his consciousness only by the letter, each like a thunderstrike.
COLOSSAL TITAN LIVES
…
"No, this… This can't…" he mumbled. His fingers shivered, crinkling the newspaper from the bone-breaking pressure he exerted on it until the ridges boiled into his skin turned white and he was left staring at the printed words.
For a moment, all he could do was breathe, ensure that he was still breathing in the first place, until his final moment of peace was broken and volatile acid finally flooded that numb nothingness in his chest and seared everything in its wake—and only after a week of feeling nothing could such a shock hit him over the head hard enough to nearly knock him unconscious.
COLOSSAL TITAN LIVES
Panic surged through his heart. His nerves stood blaring through his chest, pumping iron straight into his veins as cold sweat dotted his skin. He'd spent so long with a throat so paralysed that he could barely swallow, only for every muscle, every sensation to now tie his oesophagus into a tight knot, and something burst. Grief, sorrow, fear, desolation, anguish, failure—for the first time in a whole week, those emotions that had evaporated in the drought flooded his system and drowned his heart.
COLOSSAL TITAN LIVES
He was wheezing. His lungs were working overtime to keep him from toppling over as all eyes lay on him and what he might do and how he might react to this, how real his response might look when there was nothing that could make him conceal himself from his sins. There was terrible shame, unbearable loss, nothing he could have imagined when this day would come.
COLOSSAL TITAN LIVES
COLOSSAL TITAN LIVES
COLOSSAL TITAN LIVES
…
Bertholdt had used the blade for evil.
They were staring, concerned amid their torturous silence. He had to say at least something.
"Commander, I… I don't know how, why, this could have possibly… I didn't know, it's not… Is…" he stammered with exaggerated hand motions. He lay his hand on his heart and made direct eye contact with his superior as he whispered, "Is this my fault?"
"Armin," Jean sternly said as he grabbed Armin's shoulders with both hands to keep him steady. "It's okay. It's alright, okay? We'll fix this. It's not your fault."
"What happened?" Armin asked. "How do they know, how did they–"
A coughing fit interrupted his question. Jean supported him too much when he couldn't be touched, when it really didn't matter how much guck was mucking up his throat.
How many dead? How many injured? Where was he? What had they done with him once he was done? What had he done? What had he done?
What in the world had he done?
Why break now? What had the point been of all that nothingness if he was going to reveal his hand at the moment of truth?
"It is not your fault, but mine."
Hange's tone was even more stern than Jean's, but Armin couldn't detect any fury in it, not the way there had been when they'd scolded him. Somehow, their stable words managed to break through Armin's lack of control and grounded him enough to wade through the fog and let them be heard.
"You cannot take any blame for this because it was my responsibility. I made a mistake and that is why we're in our current predicament. God knows it will be a headache to solve, but I didn't have you woken up in spite of your sickness because you were in trouble. You needed to be informed."
Armin stared, motionless as he worked against his chest's heaving and panting. Then, as those words seeped into his understanding, he lifted the newspaper still held in one hand.
COLOSSAL TITAN LIVES
Time to defund the Survey Corps?
A mere month removed from the first anniversary of the Colossal Titan's defeat, insiders confess that the Survey Corps and the new Monarchy have in reality secretly kept the Walls' greatest enemy alive and captive in our midst, and it is now that the people question whom our so-called protectors really serve: Humanity of the Walls, or themselves?
"Insiders…?"
"Renée has already been apprehended and will face disciplinary action for leaking sensitive information to the public."
Renée?
Deep within the fog that obfuscated most of Armin, he remembered that conversation the morning he came back from his night in the forest. He'd called it a bad idea. Hange had said they didn't care as they let their anger inhibit their common sense not to speak of a vanquished enemy that was secretly alive in front of a new recruit.
Hitch came to mind. Armin had told her Bertholdt was alive—what if she'd been the leaker?
No, she would never. What did she have to gain from this? And did it really matter? Regardless of who it was that spoke, it had been Armin's fault.
"But I…" he whispered, then looked up at Hange. "I was a part of that conversation. I should carry the blame, it wouldn't have happened had I not left the day before," he reoriented himself.
"No," Hange repeated. "I appreciate that you recognise your part in this, but it was ultimately my carelessness when I spoke to you and my lack of caution during the recruitment process that led to this. I cannot let you think you have anything to do with this when I am to blame."
He bit his lip bloody and nodded, the newspaper crumpled up in his hand.
"Where is Bertholdt?"
"Word has been sent to Tourze about the news, but we do not intend to move him, since this article does not contain his location. Our biggest concern right now is the public image crisis that the Survey Corps will face."
They covered their face with a palm.
"The kind people of the press were nice enough to give us an early copy, but that doesn't give us nearly enough time to deal with it."
Armin was well aware of how violently he was shivering. Now that the threat had been reduced to a mere breach of information, it was hard to deny that to an outsider, his reaction was over the top for what had happened.
His eyes fell upon that headline once again, blurred through his tears.
COLOSSAL TITAN LIVES
No.
No, they didn't understand.
How dare they, today of all days?
They had it all wrong, and they couldn't possibly ever understand what a cruel headline they had written on exactly this day, at this crossroad in Armin's life, when he was the only person in the world who already understood that this statement was no longer true.
Was it?
Cold shock pulsed through his chest as the other side of the revelation occurred to him.
There were night patrols. Bertholdt had told Armin about waking up when they came into his cell. Someone should have noticed already and sent word to the Survey Corps headquarters. The fact that they hadn't meant that either there was no one left to notice, or–
No.
He had to get out of there.
"Okay," he said through the ice cold tingling of his lips. "That's… That's really not good. What do you need us to do?"
"Let Levi and I handle this. If more details leak, it can't be someone in direct and regular contact with him who mitigated the crisis. Do not talk to the press. Don't even tell the recruits anything. Nothing you tell anyone outside this room will make this situation any better, even if they interpret your silence as guilt. We need to coordinate our response to this, but not before we have talked to Historia."
Armin nodded.
Noticing that the room went back to whatever everyone had been doing before his arrival, he turned and crutched out of the lounge. The knot in his viscera pressed on his stomach. He had to make it to the lavatories, but before he could, a hand on his shoulder stopped him and his tear-streaked face stared directly into Jean's.
"Everything alright?" he whispered, out of earshot of the others.
Nodding again, Armin exhaled a shaky breath.
"When you were so grim," he said, "I for a moment feared that he'd gotten out. Somehow, despite everything they did to keep him safely contained. That is why I overreacted. I really thought…"
"Yeah, it's a big mess. The article doesn't mention anything about an escape. As far as they're concerned, his survival is just a rumour. I wonder if Hange will claim it's all a lie and let him live and die in secrecy. Personally, I think that's a terrible idea. Maybe it really is time to get him here and give people answers."
Now he said that. Now that the option had become obsolete.
"It's because of me," Armin muttered. "It's because of that conversation they had with me. If I'd just stayed here and dealt with my emotions in a mature way…"
"And so what if it was? Still their fault for blurting it out like that," Jean said with a steady hand placed on Armin's shoulder. "Even Hange admits it's their own fault. No one blames you. So forgive yourself for maybe happening to have been around when it happened, alright?"
A reassuring smirk pulled at the corners of Jean's lips. Armin sighed out a small laugh of his own, one that hopefully concealed the rising nausea that built within his gut and that screamed out at him to go thrash and yell someplace far away from the others.
"Yes. Okay."
"Great." A set of pats. "Now, we're supposed to stay in until further notice, but we obviously can't."
"Why is that?"
"That police officer who reads Bertholdt the news."
For the third time in much too soon, Armin's heart froze in his chest. That was the last thing he needed on top of everything.
"It's fine," Jean said. "You go prepare to leave, I'll talk to Hange about it and take the blame if they act nasty about it. But whoever it is that reads him the news can't let him know about the leak. If he finds out, he might actually try an escape."
"Hah…" Armin breathed.
His vision blacked out from the delayed overwhelming cocktail of emotions that surged through his veins, but he managed to keep himself upright by the iron grip on his crutches.
"You're right. But, um… I sort of woke up with an upset stomach. I'll be ready in… at the latest three quarters, but I need a moment. And I do want to be there, so don't go instead of me. She doesn't read him the news this early, so we will be fine. Sorry it comes at such a bad time."
"Hey, you go take care of yourself. I'll be here in the lounge when you're ready to go, but please don't take too long, alright?"
"Thank you, I will. See you in a bit."
Jean nodded and let go, turning and returning to the lounge.
Armin stood frozen in place for a moment, still on the verge of falling over, but he possessed enough clarity to make it to his room, grab his backpack, and swing it onto his back under the frightening rumble of a thundercrack that shook his heart into action. There was still something to take care of, a promise he had made that he could not abandon. The liquid dread in his gut over the unknowns, the various possibilities of what he might find in Tourze, pulled him under in its violent waves. Regardless of what had happened with the razor, Armin could not be around when the courier that had inevitably been sent to Tourze came back to report on it.
As he crutched back into the hallway and quietly closed his door, through the extensive rumbling thunder, he heard fragments of Jean making his request to Hange, and with a tinge of regret in his heart, he hurried past that ajar door and took off to leave the elite's quarters.