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There was a certain foolishness in continuing to come here.
As he sat on the cool floor of the cellar, his hands fiddled with the seashell between them. He felt for every crease and bump with the tips of his fingers, as if looking for some sort of answer along its weathered surface, even the faintest instruction.
He turned the object around until his thumb met with a particularly sharp whorl that he perhaps pressed too forcefully. Pain stung his skin, and he hissed and brought the hand up before his face. A single drop of blood swelled right at the center of his thumb before sliding all the way down to his wrist.
He did nothing to clean it. Instead, he looked past his hovering hand at the crystal before him; it was tied up and shackled to the earth like would keep humanity’s biggest threat from escaping this cellar. It was almost silly.
“What would you do, Annie?” He asked her as if she would answer him this time, as if he didn’t fully know she hadn’t moved at all for years.
He finally brought his wounded thumb up to his lips and sucked. The metallic taste stung his tongue, and Annie remained quiet.
-
He tried, but he could not remember a time he had felt this exhausted. As if each bone and each muscle in his body had been drained of any supply of energy. As if his eyelids had been loaded with lead. As if dark smoke had seeped into every corner of his mind. He did not go with the rest of the Corps as they once again led Eren into a cell underground. He barely heard what Hange said to him as they walked in opposite directions.
He was unconscious the moment his head hit the pillow. A fortunate thing, since it didn’t allow the things that they (that he) had done truly sink in. He had no time to think about land burning at his feet, about an expanse of corpses and rubble before him. He had no time to imagine a bullet going through a beating, living heart, or about a pair of vacant, green eyes.
Exhaustion took him, leaving thoughts of death, and horror, and defeat behind. Even from the void of sleep, Armin knew they would be waiting for him as soon as he woke up.
-
The ceremony was small and quick, like one more thing to get over with. One less item off a checklist.
It went by him like a blur or a foggy dream; he could not remember any of the words that were said. He couldn’t even be sure of who exactly had attended. His recollections were sliced through and interspersed with images of what had happened in Marley. More than once, he had to blink to make sure he was actually standing on solid ground and not hundreds of feet above it. To make sure he was surrounded by living, breathing, people, and not crushed corpses below him. To make sure it was a light, cool drizzle that was peppering his face, and not the steam and heat of what he had done, threatening to burn him.
He brought his fingers up to his face to search for the remnants of his titan form carved onto his skin, but instead found his cheek to be just smooth and wet. He caught a drop sliding down his cheekbone that felt much too warm to be rain and suddenly felt like he had just woken up from a dream. His eyes had been fixed on the S engraved on the headstone for he wasn’t sure how long, and he was now realizing it was too angular, too hard for Sasha.
For some reason, he felt like sharing this nonsensical thought. It was then that Mikasa’s presence solidified by his side, but when he opened his mouth to speak his voice seemed to be trapped in some sort of void he could not drag it out from. He heard Connie sobbing close by, and his lips closed.
He turned toward Mikasa, whose face, although impassive, seemed to be keeping something from unleashing into the air. But he could see it, whatever it was, seeping quietly through the crease between her eyebrows. He also caught it escaping in a teardrop at the corner of her eye that she was too quick to wipe away.
He brought a hand to her shoulder and held it firmly there for a moment. He thought she leaned against it, just for a fraction.
“I have to go.” He finally found his voice, and the words felt raw and hoarse as he dragged them out of his throat.
She turned to him, and behind her questioning look he noticed unshed tears brimming along her eyelids. He wondered how she managed to keep them there, like some powerful floodgate.
He did not say anything but instead held her gaze until her confusion slowly turned into realization across her face. She always knew, after all. She nodded and managed to catch another tear after it had barely touched her cheek.
“I’ll stay here,” she said evenly, quickly, turning back to the headstone. Armin glanced one last time at the carved S before walking away.
-
-
He wanted to make sense of things. That’s what initially brought him down here.
He hadn’t been able to properly get hold of Bertolt’s memories, or at least of anything truly useful. Images would flash through his mind sometimes, like sudden discharges that shocked his brain. Some would be almost imperceivable, and he would merely blink to make them go away. Some would make him space out so thoroughly that people around him would notice and tap his shoulder, shake him softly, make sure he was fine. Some others would leave him gasping for air and holding on to anything around him, just to make sure it was solid, and real, and his.
They came to him like shards that used to belong to something bigger and alien (Bertolt’s life, to be precise). They ricocheted like shattered glass and sunk into his mind almost painfully. Images of Reiner and Annie, and of people he didn’t even recognize, of places he didn’t even know could exist. Images of Eren, and Mikasa, and the rest of the 104th Cadet Corps. Images of Armin himself, younger and simpler, and there was something uncanny about having his own memories thrown at him from a different perspective. He guessed it all belonged to him now, but he could not piece it together. He could not make any sense of it.
Armin was not sure for how long he stood before the crystal and stared at the girl within it, as if trying to solve some sort of puzzle. Almost hesitantly, he raised his hand and placed it against its surface, expecting at least something, however insignificant, to happen. He waited, the crystal sturdy and cool against his palm, Annie motionless and unaware behind it.
Instead of some enlightening revelation coming to him, he only got the ridiculous idea of his hand somehow going through the crystal, reaching for Annie herself, being able to actually touch her. He shook his head and his arm dropped to his side. She remained inert, and he wondered if she could even know he was there, if she perhaps sensed him in some way.
“Any luck?” Hitch’s voice came from behind him and he winced as it resounded against the walls of the cellar. He looked over his shoulder and found her standing in the middle of the staircase, one hand on her hip while a set of keys jangled from her other one. He shook his head at her and hoped the lighting was dim enough to hide the color he felt creeping up his neck.
“You could try talking to her,” she said, almost uninterestedly, and gave the keys in her hand a flip that made them clink. She shrugged and started walking back up the stairs before she added, “I find it helps, sometimes.”
The sound of the jingling keys receded and he heard the door close behind her. He turned back to Annie, and although absolutely nothing had changed, he could almost imagine her rolling her eyes.
“Perhaps it could help,” he said, not sure who he was talking to.
-
The rifle felt warm and foreign on his hands, and the smell of gunpowder prickled his nose. He thought of his vertical maneuvering gear, and how he never really got used to holding the blades meant to slice a titan’s neck. Of how that hadn’t been the case with Eren, or Mikasa, or any of the others. Of how it would probably continue to be this way, no matter the weapon.
He set the rifle against a pile of sandbags and wiped his hands against his thighs, as if it would erase the feel of the weapon from his palms. He finally leaned back next to the rifle, folded his arms over his chest, and watched as Mikasa and Sasha settled at the firing points and then took turns to shoot their targets. To no one’s surprise, they were both absurdly good at it.
Eren sidled up to him just as they started firing their fourth round. He set his own rifle next to Armin’s and mirrored his stance against the sandbags. It was around Sasha’s fifth round when he spoke to him.
“You went down to see Annie again, didn’t you?” He did not sound accusing at all, and yet Armin felt something tighten inside his stomach. He could not, for the life of him, recall when he had started feeling so unsettled around Eren.
“Yeah,” he said after clearing his throat, seeming as casual as possible over the sounds of gunfire. “I’ve been trying to figure out if it could help me understand Bertolt’s memories better. Perhaps unlock something.”
“Have you found out anything useful?” Armin glanced sideways at Eren and realized he was not looking at him, but instead right ahead at the firing points. The gunshots had stopped as Mikasa and Sasha listened to Jean’s suggestions about their techniques.
“Not much, actually. Not yet, at least.” He looked back at the firing points, too, and tried to ignore the tension swelling at his gut. “I keep getting these flashing images, mostly. Faces. Places. Small conversations. I haven’t been able to make much sense of it, yet.”
“You’ve spent a lot of time there.” They both watched as Jean crouched between Mikasa and Sasha and mimicked holding an invisible rifle. “You should’ve at least found something, already.”
“I think I’ve got to give it more time.”
“You’re probably blocking them out,” Eren said simply as Jean’s voice seemed to become more and more distant, even though none of them had moved at all. “Bertolt’s memories.”
“What do you mean?”
“Perhaps you’re afraid of what you will find in them,” he explained with a composure that was almost unnerving. “You shouldn’t be.”
“I'm not.” The gunshots resumed, but their sounds seemed muffled, somehow. He turned toward Eren, but his gaze was still steadfast on the firing points. “I just dont think it works for me the same way it works for you.”
Armin realized his own arms had, at some point, uncrossed from over his chest and dropped to his sides, his hands now gripping the sandbag under him, the burlap starting to scrape his skin. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Mikasa had stopped firing her round as she glanced over at them.
“Then why keep going down there?” Eren finally looked back at him, and Armin found himself wishing he hadn’t. As he spoke, he still didn’t sound chiding at all; in fact, he sounded too calm, too collected, too unlike him. But there was something unfamiliar in his eyes that Armin couldn’t pinpoint; whatever it was seemed to reach out for his insides and hold them in a fierce grip, tighter with each of Eren’s words. “If it's so pointless, then why are you wasting your time with an enemy soldier?”
“I–”
“Eren, it's your turn,” Mikasa’s voice was high, and clear, and closer than he expected. It seemed to dissipate a fog that Armin now realized had been engulfing him like a spell. He hadn’t noticed the gunshots ceasing, nor her walking up to them. He merely blinked as she reached for Eren’s rifle and then firmly handed it to him.
He appeared to consider the object before taking it from her and sauntering toward the firing points. Sasha and Jean did not say a single word as he settled on what had been Mikasa’s spot.
Armin exchanged a look with her. He tried to thank her, but the gunfire had resumed and the noise was too loud. She seemed to understand.
-
He started finding her in his dreams. In truth, that’s what kept him coming back.
She appeared in flashing images at first, while he was still awake. He started seeing her more and more frequently, as if he had been granted a special access into these particular memories. He found them to be less painful, for some reason, so he welcomed them more easily.
Sometimes he would blink and she would be there, right behind his eyelids, just like a small child he couldn’t have known; and there would already be too much steel behind her eyes for someone so young. Sometimes she would appear in the empty space between each of his thoughts, like a warrior, or a cadet, or a soldier, or even like a titan; and he would imagine he could feel her rage, and her pain, and her sorrow. Sometimes he would space out and see her training; silent, and committed, and just like the Annie he had known. And these were the memories he had more trouble differentiating from his own, to the point that he frequently forgot to do so.
But then, occasionally, he would find her when he slept. She would walk into his dreams, free from her crystal, from the wires binding her to the ground, and from the cellar and its constant surveillance. She would stand very close to him, and say his name, and reach for him, and he could almost feel her skin against his, warm and alive. He would wake up just as he was about to touch her, just as she was about to finally answer his questions; he would then lie on his bed, knowing that this was not a titan memory. Realizing this was not a memory at all, but some kind of wish, and the yearning would spill from his dreams and spike his reality.
“Maybe Hitch was right, after all. Talking to you has helped, although not in the way Eren would want,” he confided one day. He sat on the floor before her, and realized he had almost memorized every flat face and every sharp angle along the crystal’s surface. “I just wish you could answer me, Annie.”
She remained quiet, of course. But he was sure that at least this feeling belonged to himself.
-
Hitch seemed genuinely surprised to see him as he approached the entrance to the cellar. She ran her eyes from the top of his head, down to his boots, and back, as if making sure it was actually him and not someone else with no clearance into the room.
“It’s been a while, lover-boy.” Armin ignored her quip and greeted her with a small wave of his hand. She was already fumbling with her keys and turning to the door when he reached her. “Are things too hectic at the Survey Corps?”
“Well, you know,” but of course she didn’t. He was not even sure if he completely understood how hectic things had gotten himself, which was why he was here in the first place. “When are they not.”
“That’s the Corps for you.”
Her hands moved automatically over the multiple locks until she finally got to the last one. It made a clicking sound that was almost too familiar to him now, and she pushed the heavy door for him.
“She’ll be glad to see you. Or well, hear you, or something,” she said as she held it open with an extended arm. “I don’t think she likes listening to me talk about my love life that much. She seems gloomier than usual.”
Armin nodded and swallowed the faintest twinge of guilt that had, for some reason, appeared at the back of his throat. He stared at the topmost step of the staircase that led down to the cellar, but did not move.
“What’s wrong?” Hitch asked, her voice considerably less blithe than before.
He thought about many things that were, in fact, wrong, and wished he could know at what point exactly they had turned out like this. He thought of Eren’s multiple letters, laid out neatly on top of Commander Hange’s desk. He thought of the seashell hidden inside one of his pockets, its edges rough even through the fabric of his pants. He thought of the book about the outside world he used to love as a child, now gathering dust inside some dark drawer.
He thought of the things that would be wrong, once they left for Marley. He thought of every single thing that could go wrong, even though everything was so carefully calculated.
“Armin?” Hitch’s voice seemed to dissolve, only momentarily, the whirlwind that had formed inside his brain.
He cleared his throat. “Everything is fine,” he said as he finally walked through the door. “Thank you, Hitch.”
-
There was a certain sense of finality as he sat in front of Annie this time. It started at his chest, and had spread throughout his body as his time to leave edged closer. Of course, if everything went according to plan then he would be back in Paradis Island soon enough.
“But I don’t know what will happen,” he admitted to her, even though he had a hunch. “Everything has been so carefully calculated, and yet I’m not sure what we’ll find there. I’m not sure who... ”
He trailed off, his words dissipating like a small cloud of steam. He looked down at his hands, and at the seashell resting innocently against his crossed legs. He pressed his index finger against the small cut in the middle of his thumb, smearing a new drop of blood over it. He thought of how a silly wound like this one would be enough to cause a disaster.
“I try not to, and I know it’s pointless, but I often wonder what he would’ve done.” The dark red path the first drop of blood had left after sliding down to his wrist was already dry and flaky against his skin. He had apparently lost track of time. “I keep thinking it should’ve been him. Not me.”
Annie remained unperturbed, which was exactly what was allowing him to be so frank. He stood up and stared at her Military Police uniform, completely intact for the past four years. From a certain angle, between the crystal’s sharp edges, he could catch a glimpse of the ring that she used to transform on one of her fingers. He thought, stupidly, of the way she had lifted the hood of his Survey Corps cloak during the 57th expedition, on what now seemed like someone else’s life. He remembered staring at her gigantic, blue eye as panic took hold of every muscle in his body. He remembered wondering if that was what the ocean looked like. He remembered realization crashing on him like a wave.
“Back then, I wanted so badly to be wrong,” he said softly, as if confiding a secret, as if it hadn’t been obvious enough. He stared at a spot around her neck, finding himself unable to look directly into her eyes even though they hadn’t opened for years. Even though he couldn’t be sure if she even knew he was there. “I kept quiet for weeks, hoping to find some fault in my logic. When I didn’t, I believed that if I could only talk to you, if we could somehow understand each other…”
He finally looked at her face, more serene than he had ever seen it before she enclosed herself inside this crystallized cage, right after she chose to spend her counted days trapped before having to talk. Before having to answer.
“I still believe it.” He stuffed the seashell back into his pocket, feeling it poke his thigh through the fabric. “But I’ve been wrong about a lot of things, after all.”
He placed an uninjured hand against the crystal, closer to her face, and he thought it felt colder than usual against his skin.
“See you later, Annie.”
-
-
-
He’s helping Falco push one of the barrels onto the wagon when she approaches. There’s a perplexity that’s almost automatic when he sees her and that he can’t help feeling. After having spent so much time with her encased inside the crystal, he still has to blink to make sure she’s actually there; moving, and talking, and alive. To make sure this is not a memory that doesn’t belong to him, or a dream he’s concocting in his mind.
She locks eyes with him as she walks toward the wagon; it’s still too soon to be used to finally see them open after all these years. He’s thinking of his time in the cellar again, and feels a ridiculous blush creeping to his face. There is no time for this; he finishes loading the barrel and wipes the palms of his hands against each other.
“I’m ready to go,” she tells him as she sidles up to him, and he can’t believe he’s really hearing her speak. He doesn’t let his enthrallment show, but there’s something about her gaze that makes him feel as if she’s reading each of his thoughts.
“Did you find Hitch?” he asks her, making the conscious effort to look at her directly in the eyes and push any embarrassment out of his mind.
“I didn’t. I wrote her a letter.” Armin simply nods at this, to which she adds, “she’ll understand.”
She starts climbing onto the wagon, and he notices her falter as one of her arms gives out, almost making her slip. Her lips purse into a tight line, and he can almost hear her suppress a groan. He steps closer and grabs her by the elbow, helping her up the rest of the way. She moves to sit against the corner of the wagon, and he thinks he catches a tint of color along her pale cheeks.
“I think I haven’t fully recovered yet,” she says as she fixes a strand of hair behind her ear and looks toward the ground.
“Four years is a long time.”
“I guess it is.” Her eyes dart to his hand, which he now notices has slid down from her elbow and now lingers around her wrist. He’s about to let go, as if he’s suddenly realized he’s touching a lit furnace; but she shifts her arm before he has a chance to and their fingers end up purposefully touching. He feels oddly exhilarated, bewildered; something spurs the blood inside his veins and for a moment he forgets the turmoil that is currently surrounding them.
“I want to talk to you.” Her eyes are still on his hand, now over her own.
He barely manages to nod before Gabi and Falco appear next to them, carrying another barrel between the two. He feels like a bubble has burst around him, and he can now hear Connie calling out something to the rest of them from behind. He can see Mikasa already settling on the front seat of the other wagon from the corner of his eye. He can faintly hear people screaming from above as the horses start to become restless, and he is reminded of where he actually is.
He looks back at Annie and tightens his grip around her hand for only a fraction.
“We’ll talk,” he tells her before he lets go. She simply nods as he moves to help Gabi and Falco.
Once he’s seated at the front of the wagon, he glances over his shoulder at Annie, huddled against the opposite corner, legs drawn against her chest, hands resting on her knees. She looks back at him and one of her hands gives him the tiniest of waves, a feeble shake of her fingers against her knee.
He feels the corner of his lips tug into a small smile just before four consecutive gunshots echo through the air. It’s time to go.