Chapter 37

Menstruating and miserable, I convince myself to take it easy today as a little treat. I've earned it, I reason. Even the Reaper has days where she feels like shit.

It's outrageously sunny today. Even the curtains, lathered thick over the windows, can't seem to belay the onset of the dawn. I'm awake whether I want to be or not. Succumbing to my fate, I lurch out of bed and hobble off to shower. The water feels nice; I linger longer than I ought simply for the sake of feeling clean. Chin tucked to my sternum, I watched rivulets of ruby red blood and uterine lining trickle out from between my thighs and cascade down the drain. This is probably the only time when I see bodily fluid shed in moments of peace. The only time when people don't bleed because of war. I imagine a titan's gaping maw leering above me, smarting crimson as it savors the taste of my spine. I imagine my bones gnashing together, splintering like shafts of frail wood, cracking at the slightest bend. The titan grinds its teeth together, mincing bone to procure marrow, shredding muscle and tissue like sawed blades of grass. My cranium caves in on itself like a boil, leaking brain matter like puss, like viscous, yellow-green fluid festering underneath an infected blister.

A fresh wave of cramps spasm their way across my abdomen. A particularly large clot splats onto the shower floor. I stare at it, letting the image of being eaten alive fade away, replacing it instead with vaguely fascinated disgust at the lump I've ejected from my uterus. Then I'm annoyed. How irritating it is to know that I must rip the walls of my organ out, crumble it and toss it like a dirty rag. How stupid it is that only I, only the girls in this cabin, have to deal with this. The boys don't have to worry about their bodies physically deterring them from performing optimally. I rub an apologetic hand over my gut, as if I can appease the creature within by petting back its fury.

In any case, I'm in a piss-poor mood by the time I sever the flow of water overhead and drag my feet out to dress. I dry off quickly so as to arm myself before the steady thread of biological warfare kicks up again. Throwing a thick lining into my underwear, I hunch the fabric up over my hips and heave a relieved sigh. Then continue dressing.

The mess hall pulls me in affectionately when I make my early morning appearance. Spiced oats, thick creams, toasty bread and ripe fruit smile up at me from the buffet line. I snatch a tray from the stack and adorn it with everything that appeases my visual appetite, ignoring that which doesn't. All that matters to me in this life is shoveling every inch of my custom spread into my mouth. Very Sasha of me, in that regard.

I spy a cozy seat away from virtually everyone. It's the only table that, at a glance, looks empty. Striding forward without an ounce of hesitation in my gait, I turn around the center pole splicing through the ranks of tables only to find that there was, in fact, a man occupying a spot at my target table. I'm far too late to double back without rousing his attention—not to mention make it blatantly apparent that I'm avoiding interacting with this person—so I accept defeat and slide into the spot across from Bertholdt.

The lanky warrior looks up sharply, clearly surprised by my boldness after months of drawing near enough to interact. "Good morning," he says, with the kind of tone that sounds like he's ending his sentence with an ellipsis rather than a period.

"Morning." Equipping my hand with a spoon, I start digging into my breakfast, scooping oats in earnest. Bertholdt's long, spindle-fingered hand wavers as he watches mine work up a frenzy. Whatever thoughts are rushing up to the front of his head stay locked behind his lips. I, however, am not obligated to stay silent. Maybe I'm not thinking all that clearly, what with the cramps snarling little howls of pain up from my core. Maybe it's just too damn bright of a day. Or, maybe, if I'm really just being honest with myself–which I'm not–I think I'm just curious. "I had a chat with Annie before I left," I say, one hand helping my spoon stir and the other now propping up my chin. Head tilted at an angle, Bertholdt is skewed in my field of view, as if he's every bit as curious as I am. Instead, his lips smear into a thinner line as they press more closely together. He doesn't egg me on, doesn't acknowledge my words. He's not outright hostile–it's more like he's braced. Like I've well and truly become the Reaper, and he can't quite decide if Dear Lady Death is here to brush up against his shoulder or claim the last breath from his flowering lungs.

Spoon now cast aside, I opt for something sharper to spear an orange slice. The juice slips out, dribbles over my fork as I puncture the fruit. I see the warmth, the hollow heat, and think of sunsets and amber malts and crinkling candlelight. How long has it been since we leaned over the same flame, trying to exchange words, tutor and pupil?

"She told me about your father." Sort of. Not really. Everything Annie told me was a half-taunt, an admission of the truths we could have exchanged were we ever close enough to do so. Were I ever vulnerable enough to draw the warriors in, to convince them to confide in me. Instead I confounded them, spoke of identities I had no right knowing, threatening the path they fought–they fight–to run down, barefoot dirty devilish children scrabbling over pointed roots and upturned rocks to keep their loved ones safe. To be worthy of love.

I've snared Bertholdt, my silence itself a lure. "And?"

"I wanted to know if it was true." Unsatisfied, the lanky man holds his tongue, an eyebrow rising to tell me that if I want an answer, I ought to elaborate. "About him being…like me."

At that, he exhales sharply. The edge cuts the table and dulls before it draws up to face me. "I'm not sure what part of yourself you fancy seeing in him."

It's my turn to frown. Forcing myself to take another forkful of food to dismantle my irritation and instinctual defensiveness feels impossible. I do it anyway. The orange in my mouth tastes like paper. Like watered down barrel bottom, pulped and sun-strained. "The part about him being sick. Or was she just pulling a fast one on me?"

"Annie's not like that," Bertholdt protests, in a way that makes me think he's really saying, Annie's not like you. But whatever fire fueled him there for a second fizzles out just as fast. He slumps a little, hunching his size down incrementally. It would be laughable if there was any humor between us anymore. If there was humor between us at all. "If she told you, I'm sure she had her reasons."

"So he is," I confirm, sounding out the declaration, watching Bertholdt fail to refute it. I'm not sure how I feel. Hell, I'm not sure why I even feel the need to pry this information out of him: am I straining for empathy? For closure?

…Both?

"He's always been frail. But a few years ago, he stopped getting out of bed. I tried what I could with the treatments available to the Eldians. The doctors said if he stayed down any longer, he'd be at risk of having the muscles in his legs atrophy. Of being swallowed whole by bed sores and malnutrition." The sound of my utensil knocking against my tray pulls him out of his story. I set the fork down apologetically, opting to pick at my bread with my fingers. Bertholdt watches a trainee walk by our table, tray in hand, only to sit elsewhere. He clears his throat. "So I enlisted. I worked hard. My status as a warrior candidate didn't help him in the slightest, but when I became a warrior–when I earned my status as an honorary Marleyan–I was able to help him. As long as I live–as long as I fight, as long as I serve Marley–he lives. He gets treated. He gets better."

I nod; I get it. I do. And there's really not much more to say. I consider my thoughts as I work to finish eating, finally starting to feel like I've eaten more than I ought to. The thought displeases me, but doesn't stop me from adding an extra bite of bread to the mix. "Is the medicine…back home…that good?"

I've caught Bertholdt's interest. For a moment I regret failing to keep the question inside fo me, but when I see his face shift into the kindness I recognize from when he helped me develop my literacy, I relax a bit. "Yes," he says, and there's a smile and a secret in it. It's like I'm being offered a prize. A temptation. It dangles across the table from me, begging me to ask more, to give Bertholdt the context to my inquiry.

What better way to respond than with a distraction? "What if you guys don't return? What happens to your father then?"

I watch the warrior's entire disposition morph back into that gangly, composed wall I saw when I first sat down. "Guess."

"But–"

"We made a pact. To watch over each other's families, if one of us doesn't return." Bertholdt's voice does a funny, strangled thing when he says that last part. He swallows his way around it; I watch his Adam's apple duck down like he's actually swallowing the emotions that rise to the surface. "As long as even one of us returns, they'll take care of the rest. Make sure people don't forget."

My voice falls silent. I'm fighting to remember much of anything now that I've lost my concrete recollections. All I can think, all I can focus on, is the purple-blue tone to the skin under Bertholdt's eyes. He looks as tired as I feel. He's homesick, probably. Scared stiff for his father. Terrified to make a call that gets the warriors–and by extension, his dad–killed. Terrified to do nothing, to assimilate and forget his real life waiting for him somewhere beyond where the birds fly.

Terrified to return entirely too late.

"Your status changed your life," I say, softly, like I'm speaking to a dove. "Will they strip it even in death?"

I've touched a nerve. The wall sets up in full. Bertholdt's not looking at me: he's frozen, eyes cast off to look at Reiner. He's got Connie's head trapped in the crook of his elbow, the pair laughing loud enough to be heard through the mess hall yet somehow inaudible from where I sit. Agony swarms to life in Bertholdt's gaze. Agony, indecision. His eyes drift to Annie.

She's next to Hitch in line, somehow holding trays for the both of them, letting Hitch divvy out portions enough for each. Reiner looks swept up in the moment, entirely apart, but Annie's eyes are still her own. Her gaze is still ice-cold when it finds its way over to us. The narrowing of her eyes is enough to jumpstart Bertholdt's heart again.

"Don't," he warns me, with a voice low enough to suggest he's convincing himself just as much as he's cautioning me. "Don't turn traitor."

The day, much to my chagrin, only seems to be getting brighter. The leftover winter sludge is all but gone, leaving us with crusty, dead grass. Fresh sprouts have started to flock to the ground, peppering the decay with a vibrancy that would be much appreciated on a normal day. Today, the world feels like its been casted in full, headache-inducing saturation. The trainees are off to practice. We waddle towards the training grounds in shabby flocks, in swarmed frenzy. The line between southern division and eastern division trainees continues to blur further, with members of each integrating with the other. Shadis and Becker ought to be proud of the cohabitation they've coordinated into existence. I don't spy many of the girls out and about–I only got up to shower because the pain woke me up earlier than I'd like–so instead I look for familiar faces I haven't mingled with in awhile. The perfect head pops into view not a minute later, bobbing about the sea of migrants thanks to the lanky height he's spurted into.

Falling into step next to Jean, I look up and nearly trip when I see Armin on his other side. "Hey," I say, the word I'd been prepared to nudge in Jean's direction somehow misfiring into Armin's face thanks to being caught off guard. He, at least, doesn't seem like he anticipated my appearance either: his eyes do a quick widening before they focus, his cheeks tenting up an easy, amiable smile onto his face.

"Good morning, Aliva," he replies. There isn't a single trace of anything in his expression to make me wary. Not a single thing. And somehow that's far scarier to me. "Did you get your cables replaced yet?"

I shake my head, half in response and half to get my wary thoughts off my mind. The paranoid part of me wonders if he can sense my unease. "Not yet."

Jean scoffs disapprovingly. "Figures. The officers are probably taking their sweet time, to punish you for making them do their jobs."

Armin's brows bend upwards with empathetic concern. "I'm sure it's not that. Replacements probably just take awhile for such extensive damage." To that, Jean has no immediate retort. He just shrugs, even as he takes note of the way I don't have a single facet of my ODM gear equipped today. Just the belts–and only because, privately, I've come to appreciate their constant pressure on my person. Like a security blanket. A reassurance to steady myself.

"It can't be helped," I say, nearly mimicking Jean's shrug. "It was either my cables or Eren's."

Jean stays pointedly silent, failing to say much of anything about the way Mikasa decided to resolve the mess Eren and I got into last week. It's Armin that leans forward a bit to see me better, voice lighter than it was before now that interest has lifted his tongue into motion. "Was it really that bad?"

I can't help but chuckle. "Probably not. But there was no way for either of us to check. I couldn't even move my head."

Jean looks down at me, a bit surprised. "Really?"

I nod so I don't have to fib. Which is still kind of a lie. I very vividly remember turning and finding my mouth smack-dab against Eren's sweat-stained neck. In any case, I couldn't move in any of the ways that mattered. I guess I'm relieved, too. If we'd stayed stuck there for much longer, Eren and I might have actually started to treat each other civilly.

I snort at the thought. Eren and I will see eye to eye only when the world tilts upside down. Only when we've both been chopped off our high horses, faces pressed into the dirt, pupils sliced by blades of grass, with weeds threading through our eyelashes to force our lids wide open. Only when I'm as pathetic as Eren thinks I am–only when he's as small as I fear him to be–will we understand each other. Which is to say, it's not happening anytime soon.

"It's a shame about your points," Armin laments. "Both of you. I hope they didn't grade too harshly."

Jean nods emphatically. "They better not. Especially since you're missing out on more points because they won't fix your gear. I'd be pissed as fuck if I were you."

I am, but then again, I'm not. Not today, at least. I'm relieved that I don't have to practice taking down titans while I'm on my period. It's one of the few perks of being kicked out of the 107th division that I actually miss: being able to treat these days as actual rest days. Granted, I was stuck in that apartment whenever resting…thinking of Betham and Adelheid only serves to sour my mood all over again. Jean reaches over and drapes an arm over my shoulders, smushing his head against mine.

"On the bright side," he murmurs, "there's going to a get-together during the next full moon. One last chance to fuck around before we have to get serious for the final trainee exam." Ah. Yes. That. The final exam looms over me like a bad omen, daunting if I dwell on it for too long. I'm not exactly doing a good job of racking up side points to help cushion my exam score, but until I actually hear the grades being read, there's a chance I can still salvage my numbers. No one's kicking me out yet, at least. And unlike some of the people here, I'm not aspiring–nor am I even physically capable of–seizing one of the top ten spots for myself. I have no business being in the military police. All I care about is passing. Even if only by a fraction of a percent.

I feel Jean's breath ghost over my cheek and ear, ruffling the baby hairs that escaped the confines of today's sloppy ponytail. "Where at?"

I can feel his cheek dig into mine as he grins. "I'll tell you later. Can't have this goody two-shoes over here tattling on us." I watch him jerk a thumb over at Armin and laugh. The blonde, at least, has enough good humor to shake off Jean's remark.

"Later when?"

"Later," he promises, and it's not really the get-together that I care about but the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he looks at me. I can't place the unease, the guilt, the anxious spiral beginning to churn within me. It feels like a warning I heeded and forgot. Like a premonition I've neglected: dressing for sun when the sky calls for rain. Overhead, the world is a swatch of clear blue, the color almost a genuine rival to the vibrancy of Armin's irises. What could a day like this possibly need to advise me against?

Unless…

Deep down inside of me there is a pit. It is starting to shake, to bend and wobble with every step I take. It is ripe, green, and secretive in color. It is bitter and it is beautiful. I've no name for it. I see it as clear as I see Jean and Armin now; as clear as any old seed would be as it sits in my palm. This pit feels like a tether, like an interconnected weave, a marker trying to show me the way. When I prod it, dig a nail into its flesh, I feel almost as if I can trace the pit down to its roots. That I can find the soil it ought to be embedded in, that I can plant and feed it, sustain it until it springs forth and shoots timber out of its shell.

I think that curious little fruit contains my memories. And I think my memories are trying to warn me, trying to caution me against what's to come.

I steep in my thoughts as the three of us find a spot on the grounds to claim as our own. I offer to supervise their spar in the name of fairness. Whether or not the fight upholds its honor is beyond me. For all that I do to keep my eyes open, my mind is lightyears away from focusing on where I stand. Only when Armin approaches me do I lurch back to the present. "Want to go?"

My fingers twitch. "Sure, let's."

Armin nods, acknowledging the way I rise to the occasion. I swap out with Jean. I'd congratulate one of the two, except I didn't pay enough attention to see who won. "I hope you're okay with going to first hit," the blond says. His shaggy hair sways as he moves his head to confirm that Jean heard the terms of our match. "I'm not as eager to fight as Floch."

"Good." Privately, I'm glad that I decided this morning that I would take it easy. It gives me validation to sit back in this exchange, to observe my opponent and see if I can get a better read on him. That, and assuages my pride like a balm, reassuring me that even if he surprises me enough to beat me, it'll be largely of my own design.

We square off. Armin, I learn, is the kind of fighter that rarely makes the first move. He's got light feet, but they're weighed down by the thousands of calculations that're visibly running through his head. It's kind of amusing. Kind of off putting. I keep a high guard, because Armin doesn't strike me as someone who'd opt for a kick rather than a punch. He's surrounded by too much of Eren and Mikasa for that: Eren uses his legs like he forgets they exist, opting always for a right hook. Mikasa uses her legs like pointed blades, piercing the ground and propelling her forward, but her strikes come definitively from her arms, from the sharp way she shreds her way through her foe. Armin is still every bit their third that he's always been.

When he works his shoulder forward for his first swing, I move immediately and snatch up the opportunity to connect my own knuckles against his unguarded side. I'm halfway through the motion before he twists his torso and cuts his leg up to strike. The impact is hardly anything concerning, but it is stunning. I've overestimated my ability to read people. The person who bestowed upon me my literacy stands victorious. Jean holds up a hand in Armin's favor. "Match to Armin," he crows. The winner gives me a competitor's smile.

"Didn't see the kick coming," I confess. Honesty soothes the shock. "Where'd you pick that up?"

I notice a weird, subtle sheepishness to him just then. "I've been watching Annie's. I thought it might be worth a try."

Jean, clueless, comes up to the two of us. One hand clamps down on Armin's shoulder. The other finds its way onto mine. "You looked ridiculous doing it," he teases. "I'm surprised it even worked."

"So am I," Armin laughs. "I think I'll leave the legwork to someone else."

Jean nods sagely. "Good call."

I spend my afternoon reviewing the training simulation manual with Christa. She reads aloud while Ymir and I make good use of the comfiest spots on the ground, reclining and staring up at the ever-changing clouds in the sky. "Okay, okay," Christa says, finally heaving a sigh as she adjusts her hold on her textbook copy and straightens up. "The drill has three guards, front, middle, and rear. Each has different functions."

Ymir cracks open an eye. "Which are…?"

"Give me a second. I'm still reading." Ymir does a fantastic job of shrugging her shoulders while somehow staying perfectly still and unperturbed. Christa's gaze lingers on the brunette before returning to the task at hand. After some further skimming, she nods to herself and continues. "The overall goal of the three-part formation is to enhance the supply train, optimize the flow of information, and neutralize threats like titans effectively."

Overhead, a cloud shaped vaguely like a flower twirls its petals. "Which group does what?"

"Good question. I think the front…no, I guess that'd be the rear guard…it looks like they're the ones to hold down the fort. Guard whatever's most valuable, escort, stuff like that." Christa delicately taps the pad of her finger to her tongue and flips the page. It's such a dainty gesture for someone so down to earth. "The middle guard seems like the support group. They've got a lot of flexibility to communicate, transfer supplies, and pass information between the two other groups. And the vanguard–the front, I mean–is the primary physical force. They're used for clearing out obstacles, neutralizing threats…"

"Killing titans," I venture, and Christa nods. I let the information set in my skull, contemplating the layout, analyzing the strengths and weaknesses of each part.

Ymir scratches the side of her head. "Well, it's all common sense," she dismisses, in a tone that clearly says she's no taste for studying any further today. For once I find myself inclined to agree; it'd be way nicer to lie down and hibernate, to wait for my body to calm down. A velvetine frog hunkered down in a marsh.

Christa's lower lip juts out just a little bit, in a cute, subtle pout. "Aliva and I aren't done yet. You can just tune us out."

Ymir stretches, drowsy and catlike. "No thanks. I'll keep myself busy elsewhere."

We wave Ymir off as she prowls away in search of her next victim to torment. I watch her go with a touch of dismay and regret; it would've been nice if I'd called it a day and left, too. But I need the extra practice. What I lack in strength I have to make up in mental prowess. "Where did you get assigned for the drill?"

Christa tilts her head. "They put me in the rear guard. But the officer made it pretty clear that it's not a position we'll get often in practice until we become adept and proficient. What about you, though?"

"Middle," I tell her, and Christa hums thoughtfully.

"It suits you."

"You think so?"

She shuts her book closed gently. "I do. The middle needs the least strength, I think. They just need to carry information and to keep a good head about them."

I can't help but feel somewhat relieved that I got such a suitable placement. I can perform well on the drill, cash in easy points, and cushion my final exam score further. "Where's Ymir going? Did she say?"

"She's vanguard," Christa answers, "but she didn't really seem to care one way or another when she told me about it."

"How Ymir of her."

When my friend laughs, watching the retreating silhouette of her companion, its easy to see the compassion that crinkles the corners of her eyes, that softens the pitch of her laughter. Christa and Ymir are far closer than they were when we separated; far closer now than I'd ever expected them to be. Something glues them to each other's hip. Something pulls their hands apart. Invisible stitches to bind them to one another. Invisible scissors to sever them. "How Ymir indeed," she murmurs warmly, smile still stuck on her skin. Finally, Christa shakes her head and cracks the book open again. "Let's keep reading."

A/N: I'm back! I was busy galivanting off on the East Coast for a research workshop, and I've been so deeply sleep deprived both during and after it that I haven't had a chance to crack open AO3. Here's a quick apology chapter while I'm in between work.

Also, it's kinktober once again...so there will be a special, smutty chapter hitting this fic at some point during the month. You're welcome in advance. I am open to suggestions/things you guys would be eager to read if you have any.
Alright, bye bye!