Chapter Text
Bertholdt's life was relatively better than most of those of Eldian descent. He was fortunate enough to have two able bodied parents, who were both employed, a luxury few Eldian children possess. This was due to the harsh oppression exerted by the Marleyans - Everyone who didn't display absolute loyalty to the Marleyan people was mercilessly eliminated. All it takes is a slight suspicion of disloyal thoughts coupled with a report to the government, and your life will either end or become an even more hellish nightmare.
Bertholdt knew all too well what they used to kill. It was those long pipes with a handle, that Marleyan patrols would always carry. Those fire weapons were responsible for massive amounts of unwarranted death and misery. Everyone who was branded a "traitor" to Marley would be publicly executed by firing squad, often along with their families, so he had witnessed the horrible sight of the life in a person's eyes extinguishing, leaving nothing but a crimson husk in it's wake. No matter how long the boy thought about it, he couldn't grasp how was someone capable of such diabolical actions and at the same time believe that was the right thing to do. His parents had praised his empathy in the past, but he just couldn't understand this heartless mindset.
By some strange trick of fate, one of these tools of violence, that his father called a "rifle", was being held in his hands.
"Remember, put the rifle butt firmly in the pocket of your right shoulder." his father instructed.
He readjusted his riffle position once again. However, he still missed the majority of his targets, that mostly consisted of glass bottles.
"What the hell is wrong with you?! Your accuracy is improving way too slowly! Are you even paying attention to my instructions? You haven't shown any significant progress in days!" his father yelled.
" I'm sorry! I'm trying!" he whined with tears threatening to fall.
"All right, that's enough. The sun will set soon, we'll continue tomorrow." the taller man said with a sigh.
Bertholdt's father put him under a rigorous training, forcing him to hone his marksman skills to, what his father hoped would become extreme levels. They would practice everyday after the sun rises and during the entire afternoon, with no breaks, in a meadow far away from anyone's earshot.
After they arrived home, Bertholdt's mother immediately approached them, curious about his progress.
"How did he fare?" she asked.
"Badly. He missed roughly 60% of the targets from a distance of 55 meters. Not too shabby for a 6 year old, but that's nowhere near good enough to be accepted as a Warrior by the Marleyan government." the older male grumbled with a sigh.
The boy could only look at the floor in shame. There was nothing he could say or do to please them.
"What?! Son, don't you understand that if you become good enough, the Marleyans might give you one of the titans? Can't you see how good that would be for us? For you? You would be able to live a life of wealth and escape the misery your parents had to endure throughout their lives. We would no longer be viewed as scum and be loved by everyone!" his mother said with her usual worried expression.
"I'm sorry. I'm doing the best I can, but I just..." Bertholdt couldn't convey what he was feeling. His athletic prowess extremely good in comparison with other boys his age. He also displayed a good degree of intelligence and motor coordination, when he showed he could quickly dismantle, build and repair machinery from his father's gun shop, by his orders of course.
"This is all your fault!" the adult male roared to his wife. "I know he has great potential. Deep inside him there's ruthless warrior, but you 'pussified' him to the point of acting like a sissy all the time! You go too easy on him, he should spend time with real men to learn how to act properly, like I did!"
"Stop blaming me for our misfortunes. Maybe you don't teach him well enough!" the woman countered.
"P-Pointing fingers won't fix anything. I-I don't mind working with guns, but... They're used to... h-hurt people... and... d-destroy their families. And... I don't want to do something so awful to anyone, especially to innocent people...!" Bertholdt stuttered, fearing his parents' reaction.
"So? They're gonna die anyway. If killing who you're ordered to kill means you'll gain respect and money, then fuck them. You have a huge advantage over the other Eldian kids, since I can provide you with guns from my shop and teach you how to use them in secret, so don't let the lemons that life gives you rot and make lemonade! And if you're lucky, the lemons will be some random wastes of oxygen and the lemonade will be that sweet, sweet honorary Marleyan status" his father prodded with a cruel chuckle as he mentioned the horrible acts.
"I understand you feel bad for others. I'm happy to know that my son has a good heart, but never forget that your family is more important than anything. Besides, you'll most likely never lay a finger on anyone that lives here, if you're successful, you'll only hurt those filthy island devils!" exclaimed the female with discuss upon referring the island dwellers.
"That's right. Your mother and I had to swallow a shit-ton of bitter pills to ensure a happy life for you, winning the Marleyan government program is the least you could do to pay us back." his dad blackmailed.
Granted their life wasn't exactly good. Even though the poverty they faced wasn't quite as harsh as most Eldians, Bertholdt's mother worked almost constantly as a nurse, in exchange of puny amounts of money, while his father woke up very early for another shooting lesson, before going to work, then another at noon, and finally going back to work at night. Since he supported Marleyans with weaponry, his salary was a little more generous. While not learning how to wield fire weapons, Bertholdt would spend all of his time alone, working in their farms where he learns how to shoot, fantasising about playing with friends.
"Father is always so cranky. Mother is always so tired. I'm sick of seeing their dead eyes, they deserve better. I guess it wouldn't hurt if I tried harder..." he thought before falling asleep on a miserable, frigid bed that his parents could barely afford.
He was taught time and time again that the island dwellers were inherently evil and that they were a threat to the great people of Marley. His father often said 'those fuckers should all die of gonorrhoea in front of their weeping mothers', but the image of him holding a weapon with a human being as his target would often haunt his dreams. They can't be that bad, right? If they really are evil, then we could just educate them and teach them how to be good, that would be good for everyone. Why does he have to hurt them when there are far healthier solutions?
Okay, I'll... I'll try and focus more... for mom and dad's sake... They do so much for me... and I'm so useless. But... killing? I-I just can't...! What am I gonna do?