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Bertholdt had dwelled, on more than one occasion, how death– or rather feeling dead– would feel like. Sometimes, when he’d struggle to fall asleep in their barracks after a draining day of training, and the constant, almost daily struggle of trying to pull through Reiner’s fluctuating states of lucidity, he had found an eerie solace in reminding himself that things will end eventually. His suffering will end and the world will fade to black, and only then he could be at peace. The finality in life, in his life, would lull him to a dreamless sleep.
Alas, when finally facing the moment which he had been longing for the last year at least– and way before that as he’d come to realize– he screamed.
He begged for mercy and cried for his friends’ help before it dawned on him that they weren’t on the same page as he were. He shouted for a rock thousands of miles away and a headless, limbless man before he felt searing pain as a titan’s gaping mouth enclosed around his skull.
Then everything went black as he wished, his last memory being of agony, loneliness and despair.
And then he woke up.
If Bertholdt had to assimilate what those first seconds in which he had first snapped his eyes open, his hand furtively flying upward to paw at his face and sighing in relief when noting the integrity of his own body, he would say it was like waking up from a nightmare. Seized by a crippling fear as his brain still latches on those vivid, haunting sounds of his skull cracking ringing in his ears, gradually alleviated as it’s replaced by the factual reality where he was intact, alive.
Then follows a minute of blissful hope that everything so far, every miserable second, every living person he had to rob of their life, was nothing but a nightmare.
His death too had been nothing but a conjure of his nocturn brain activities. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to live for as many years as he could.
A quick scanning of his surroundings made his heart stop when perceiving the unfamiliar environment which he found himself in. A desert of pale, whitish sand seemed to stretch further than Bertholdt’s gaze could ever follow. And when he looked up, his breath was momentarily taken away by the starry night above him, making him forget for a second that he was in a place he had never been to.
However, his smile faltered when his mind finally registered the dead quiet that seemed to settle in this alien place. And the fact that not one single person seemed to be nearby.
“Hello?” Bertholdt called to no one in particular, trying to ignore the way his voice seemed to wobble. Almost predictably, no one answered his call.
Was this yet another dream, perhaps inside another dream? Even if mildly fascinated by the mechanism, Bertholdt loathed those.
He lied back down, grimacing at the sensation of sand slipping inside his shoes, then closed his eyes before taking in a deep breath.
Sometimes, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, he could trick his mind into waking up from a nightmare when desired. He had tried to look it up on some books but the Paradis’ library’s sources were obsolete, and revolved mostly around the one danger every living being in that island was haunted by and desperate to seek answers behind the unnumerable mysteries of those monsters.
If he tried hard enough, this nightmare can be over and he could finally wake up. He will be back to the sanctuary of his own bed, his home, with his dad, unencumbered by disease now and brewing him his special mix of coffee. Perhaps he could swing by Reiner’s house down the street, so they could bike toward Liberio’s forest or walk by the beach. They could even have ice cream.
He could barely form a half smile at the mental image before he felt his heart drop when playing over the last minutes' events, as scarce as they had been. He could feel panic creep up on him as he took in a deep breath, then another, and another before it eventually dawned on him that he couldn’t actually breathe.
This has got to be a nightmare then, and Bertholdt just needed to keep pushing the invasive idea that this might not be a dream after all to the furthest back of his mind, so he could focus on breathing only lest he went objectively insane. But the more he tried to breathe as steadily as he knew in his heart that he ought to in order to calm down, the more agitated and distressed he was growing. He faintly remembered Reiner telling him about this whenever he’d be jostled back into lucidity after one of his episodes.
Stop telling me to breath, Bertholdt! The more you tell me to, the harder it is to!
He was right– he was absolutely right because Bertholdt felt like he was dying. The irony of his own observation simply fell flat since his brain was a whirlpool of emotions and galloping thoughts; whispers of him being deceased, of having lost the battle at Shiganshina and had been stripped of his titan and his life before he was thrown haphazardly into wherever this place was, were growing stronger by the minute.
Soon he found himself suffocating, gasping for breath he could neither let in nor out, the salt of his tears confusing him as to what emotions he could feel and what he couldn’t in this endless desert. It took him herculean efforts to keep present, resorting to gripping coarse sand between his fingers as one last attempt of remaining sane.
His last lucid thought was of how the sand slipping in the cracks between his digits was no different than the way his consciousness was slowly fading away before everything faded to a pitch black again.
Wishing for things without paying a price is attributed to humans' greed. Bertholdt lived his life by this rule and he always kept straight. If he wanted for his father to be healthy again, he had to sacrifice his life– thirteen years wasn’t much to live but he wasn’t exactly offered options. If he had to betray innocent friends who relied on him and trusted him with their lives then he couldn’t allow himself any comforts in them and needed to keep them at arm’s length. The latter wasn’t supposed to be as excruciating as he had expected it to be. Never has it crossed his mind that signing away most of his living days to the devil would hurt less than deceiving his own friends. But then he supposed it was because, save for Reiner, he hadn’t had friends before. Had never been allowed to play and laugh– had never been allowed to be a child. And he felt like one among his fellow trainees, even if for a borrowed time.
His yearning for companionship and normality collided with his suffocating guilt, and the efforts to reign himself in so he doesn’t lose focus of the mission were growing exhausting each day.
“You’re too hard on yourself.” Reiner had once told him when chided about his nonchalance around their enemies. Bertholdt could only stare blankly then, searching for Reiner’s eyes instinctively, looking for any signs of confusion or forgetfulness before leaving the blond promptly.
Things could have been at least a bit easier if Bertholdt could’ve been able to forget like Reiner could do at times. He knew it was cruel to think such things– Reiner didn’t exactly have the choice to lose himself or keep present, and suffered a great deal from it. But at times, when ignoring his friend’s distress each time he came back to his senses, Bertholdt envied him that he could switch his brain off and forget about what they were doing, their fate, the islanders. He couldn’t even imagine to be blissfully ignorant, the constant reminder of him kicking Wall Maria’s kept him from restful sleep many a night, and filled the scarce hours during which he could drift into slumber with his most dreaded nightmares making him late for the morning roll calls.
Reiner was granted that peace of mind, albeit temporality, at the price of his own sanity. Bertholdt had nothing he could proffer to be granted the same. So, he suffered.
Today, now, was the same– there was no bargaining his way out of the situation he found himself in so, it was no surprise that when his eyes fluttered open, the sky was the same. Black, adorned with pearls of millions of stars, of which thousands were weaved together into long shimmering strokes of fluorescent lights. Nine, he could count, merging together far into the expanding horizon, somewhere his eyes couldn’t reach.
It was truly the most hauntingly beautiful thing he had ever laid his eyes on.
He didn’t know how he's come here and why, so he simply wept in silence.
Bertholdt still didn’t comprehend where he exactly was and he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he must’ve been here once before, perhaps a very long time ago. Still, from what he gathered since his, well, visit (it didn’t escape him how hopeful the chosen term was for what he senses would be a prolonged stay, that and the apparent insinuation that time was a frivolous concept here) this endless desert could be the bridge between the mortal world and the other. He has never been much fond of religious readings given that it only served as a perpetuate reminder of his damnation– he was a sinner, and a killer, he knew that– but from what he had been taught in his childhood was that what came afterwards was either Hell or Heaven.
Bertholdt had found so much solace in the concept of death that he had utterly disregarded either. Death was final. This place wasn’t.
Perhaps he was in a waiting room. Granted it was not as sterile as a doctor’s office or as formal as a courtroom– breathtaking even– but he could see some poignant similarities. Here he was left to meander around, eagerly awaiting for someone to be the judge of his morals, assessing who he had been when he lived before sending him to the other place, to Hell.
The absence of others didn’t deter him from clinging to his simile. Scripture was nothing but the fruit of an author’s vivid imagination, Bertholdt firmly believed, so his guessing game was limited to the individuals’ own experiences. No one could possibly predict these technicalities down to the last detail.
So yes, he was waiting for someone to judge him. It was high time someone did anyway. No matter what awaits him, this aimless wandering around of his– his feet dipping into the same mildly damp sand over and over again, his eyes squinting harshly into a light he could never reach– will eventually end.
He had to remain hopeful. He had to believe that this is only a matter of time, and ignore that voice in his head that keeps nagging at him, laughing at him, berating him for ignoring the glaring signs that it’s simply not what he wishes it to be.
In any case he needs to be moving, no matter how further away the light seemed to be. He needs to keep going forward no matter how much time went by, because he just couldn’t afford to think of his other option.
He will never accept that mayhaps what he prayed for simply didn’t exist, and this is his life now.
In this dimension, Bertholdt didn’t feel exhausted. He didn’t feel hunger or pain either. He had a physical form; of that he was certain and thankful for. When doubtful fo the latter, he'd mirror Reiner’s habit of touching at his arms and face whenever the other warrior would feel himself drifting away into his own world, a last attempt at keeping lucid. The constant reassurance that he at least got to keep some of his human traits was one the few things that kept him from falling apart. He guessed he was alright with not feeling hunger, otherwise he would’ve starved for a terribly long time, and he couldn’t think or operate on an empty stomach. He did miss the comfort and pleasure deriving from eating even if it was simply to chew on stale bread and sip at plain, bitter tea. His first cup of coffee in years (and last) had been before the battle. His mind has been troubled with worry for Reiner and Annie then. The coffee was too strong and scalded his tongue. He could really do with a cup of coffee right now because even if he physically didn’t feel tired, he could feel his patience slowly drying up.
Not being able to get one wink of sleep didn’t help either. The knowledge that he’ll go sleepless for who knows how exactly longer didn’t help assuage a smidge of his anxiety. On the contrary it made him almost feel the need to hyperventilate. A residual instinct engraved still in his memory.
Whenever Bertholdt would feel the stirring up of a panic attack, he’d stop in his tracks and lower himself slowly, trying to force his mind to quiet down. If breathing slowly only managed to remind him that he could no longer breathe indeed, then he’ll have to think of other ways to regain his composure.
One of the peculiar thoughts he found most soothing was, as much as he wished he could feel remotely ashamed about it, being in his titan. Shifting, as an experience, happened too fast for his taste– like thunder, really– but being in his titan was an otherworldly experience that made him feel serene when he wasn’t stomping on innocents. When first broached the subject with Reiner, he had expected him to look at him as if he’d grown a second head.
He had been genuinely surprised when Reiner asked a simple,“yeah?”
“You’re not surprised?” Bertholdt had watched as Reiner busied himself with scrubbing stubbornly at a spot on a sheet– they had been on laundry duties that day– seemingly mulling his words over.
“I mean... maybe a little bit?” He had said after a while, almost uncertain. Bertholdt wished he never approached him about the matter in the first place. He didn’t need Reiner to start looking at him oddly when he was himself too.
“Forg–”
“I mean, I guess maybe it’s just that I hate being in my titan.” Reiner sighed, “I feel heavy unless I get rid of most of my plates. And it can be my just my imagination but at times I feel like I’m... it, you know?” Bertholdt had been taken off-guard when seeing Reiner’s grimace as he mumbles his last words.
Bertholdt’s mind had then flashed to a distant, repressed memory of another way, another rebel country, and the aftermath of the carnage. Bertholdt had been eleven then, and back in their barracks. He was folding his uniform neatly before setting it on the foot of his bed when Reiner’s hunched form caught his eye. He had been running his fingertips slowly over his arm, staring fixedly at it as if it wasn't his own. When asked what had been eating at him, Reiner had simply shrugged off before clambering inside his own bunk.
“But obviously it’s just me.” Reiner had chuckled nervously, snapping Bertholdt out of his reverie.
“Maybe it’s not you,” Bertholdt muttered almost sulkily,“maybe it’s just me.”
“We can’t be sure of that, unless we ask Annie... and the other warriors too.” Reiner then smirked, “we could ask whoever has the Founding titan if you want.” He snorted before clearing his throat awkwardly, muttering a sheepish “sorry”. Bertholdt had fallen silent then, reminiscing on a childhood they were robbed of– no one could ever ill-talk about being a shifter because they had had it hammered in their minds that it was an honour to be one– comrades on the other side of the ocean, and another dead.
Their losses were utterly unnumerable.
“So, what do you like in being The Colossal Titan?”
As Bertholdt gazed upon the stars twinkling above his head for who knows how many times now, mesmerized yet again with the ethereal scenery, Bertholdt tried to recount the reasons he didn’t loathe being The Colossal as he thought he ought to.
“The Colossal is slow as you know, so I see why it could seem like an inconvenience in battle, but I don’t always see it that way. Not being able to do much allows me in appearance to do so much more, because I’m focused. I’m just with my own head, but strangely enough I stop hesitating. I stop doubting myself. I don’t always have that.
“The heat doesn’t bother me in the least; it's comforting even. I know it’s not the same for you.”
“It’s not the heat per se as it’s the obtrusive contrast with being cold at the same time.”
“And there’s certain freedom to not have a skin.”
“There is?”
“I know how it sounds– this skin we have covering our own flesh is perhaps the last scraps of humanity people like us can afford. I feel monstrous for thinking it but, in my own skin, I feel... alien almost. I’m hideous, gangly and I tower over everyone, even you. I know what you think– I'm the Colossal titan for crying out loud, why should matters of heights concern me...”
Bertholdt closed his eyes, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat, heedless of the sand in his hair, and of a stray tear sliding down the side of his face when remembering Reiner’s words from a long time ago. His voice now a mere echo inside his head.
“I just think you’re too hard on yourself, Bertl.” Reiner had smiled at him earnestly, almost melancholic.
“I’m not really.” Bertholdt had started rubbing furiously at sheets that were already scrubbed clean, deliberately ignoring the burning sensation spreading in his knuckles, “I just said I liked being a monster. How can I possibly even call myself human?”
“You are human, Bertholdt. Whether or not you're a titan makes no difference.” Reiner said as if it was as simple as that. As if he truly believed that. Believed in him.
If they hadn’t been talking about titans, Bertholdt wouldn’t even have guessed that Reiner was himself; the warrior he had relied on heavily to make his decisions for him when he should’ve. His dearest friend.
Bertholdt hadn’t uttered another word then, blinking back unshed tears as he took on another dirty blanket to scrub, just so he could steer his mind away from the jarring conversation. He had caught a glimpse of Reiner worryingly staring at him from his peripheral view yet he had refused to meet his gaze.
Bertholdt loved the quiet. Back in Paradis, his favorite leisure time was to go to the library, alone many a times, and rarely with company– mostly Armin and Marco, and the even scarce times Reiner tagged along– who enjoyed reading books in comfortable silence, sometimes having impassioned discussions about some of the objectively inaccurate yet quiet entertaining reading materials the Paradisian library offered. When he couldn’t afford to go the studying building during a heavy downpour, Bertholdt would merely finish his meal quickly before sauntering toward their barracks and retreat to his bed. Sometimes he’d randomly choose between the two books he could own, finding an uncanny comfort in rereading the same story. Other times, he will pick up his meticulously hidden sketchbook and draw anything that comes to his mind, not bothered with the harsh lines his shaky hands would produce out of sheer exhaustion. It was his time, where he felt most at peace, unencumbered by the days’ harsh trainings and agonized thoughts about the mission, the future. He never minded Reiner’s presence; the other had known him for most of his life that he knew when to leave him to his own devices.
Now that Bertholdt had ample time to reflect back on it, he could admit to himself that he loved to have him near him, even if he didn’t breathe a single word. He had a few friends he was very fond of despite their jarring differences, yet Bertholdt could only feel like himself when he was with his closest, childhood friend.
Whenever Reiner would sometimes seat himself next to him and slightly lean his head back on Bertholdt’s shoulder to have better access at the page he was reading, Bertholdt would feel warmth bloom in his chest. During those stolen moments from all the chaos that was his life, he would be no longer haunted with the dreadful game of guessing whether Reiner was a soldier or a warrior, because whoever he’d be in those short minutes before their fellow cadets’ loud roars would jolt them apart, he was just Reiner; his dear, old friend from back home. He’d never remind him solemnly of their mission, of the friends they’ll have to kill and the humanity inside the walls that they’ll have to erase from the face of earth.
Bertholdt wished he had taken a moment longer to appreciate the small blessings he had, since there was no solace to have in this place. Not Reiner, not one person was to be seen anywhere. He was unequivocally alone in this place.
And the silence here was harrowing. It wasn’t the respite from Eren and Jean arguing like a pair of fools, Connie’s dumb remarks and Sasha begging for everyone’s leftovers to be handed to her, that he had been at times desperate for.
Bertholdt had asked to be put out of his misery, yet he never expected any of this.
Perhaps this has been the punishment whoever was at the top of this world saw fit for him.
How long has it been since Bertholdt first woke up, stranded in this unknown desert? Bertholdt frankly couldn’t tell. It could be a day. A month, a year. An eternity, or perhaps just an instant.
He had walked a great deal today, though he knew that amounted to nothing. He had just needed to clear his head and well, trekking around the same patches of sand was all he could really do.
He stopped eventually– the arduous journey toward the millions of miles away light wasn’t so entertaining after all– and absent-mindedly noted how sore his feet would’ve been had he been alive.
A soft grunt escaped him as he laid on the sand, his eyes sliding closed in a half attempt to stop himself from dwelling on everything that has ever went wrong in his life. That and he has grown sick of the scenery overhead.
One of the tricks that he wished helped him quash his thrashing anxiety like it did in the mortal world was to listen in to the sounds around him. The dead silence that reigned upon the place was as disturbing as ever, so Bertholdt tried to rack his brain for any remaining memories of sounds that used to bring him immense comfort.
The sound of the ocean’s waves by Liberio’s port.
The kind old lady back in their hometown telling them how proud she was, that they were brave little warriors who will save Eldia before handing them the specially flavored candy for free.
The rustling of paper as he turned the page of his worn out favorite book.
The screeching sound of the quill against the rough sandy paper.
The howling wind outside as he drifts into slumber.
Reiner’s soft snore next to him, growing louder when his head is resting at an odd angle.
The last memory elicited a snort from Bertholdt, followed by a soft chuckle when remembering the other trainees' sour expressions whenever Reiner will keep them up the entire night with his obnoxiously loud snoring.
A ghost of a smile played at Bertholdt’s lips. So, he let his mind drift further, to a warmer, sunnier place.
Perhaps it was because he was now feeling calmer, and less burdened with his doomed future. Perhaps because he was feeling homesick, or lonely; missing another person’s company.
Perhaps it was because he was dead so he was bestowed a clarity of mind he wished he had before.
Whatever it was, Bertholdt wasn’t even surprised when it finally dawned on him why he had always gravitated toward Reiner. Why even now, after an eternity here, his thoughts keep circling back to him most.
Bertholdt was done with arguing that the only reason he felt so attached to him was because he had been dependent on him for five whole years, clung him like a helpline. Or that he was his sole reminder of what home was, because so was Annie, even in her own distant, detached way.
Why did he have to fight his way out of the feelings he knew in his heart to be genuine? There was no mission to be mindful for and be cautious of any deviation in its course if feelings were ever involved.
And he was dead.
So, instead of moping about what couldn’t be changed, Bertholdt opted for filtering through his memories of Reiner’s beaming, charming smile, and his heartfelt laughter. Bertholdt felt himself overwhelmed by a strong emotion he no longer tried to repress as he remembered Reiner’s strong arm around his shoulders while Bertholdt rested his forehead against his temple, his breathing shallow and his mind hectic. Reiner’s touch was firm and grounding, yet gentle all the same. It had baffled Bertholdt at first, considering what he’d witnessed from the other’s behavior around the other cadets. Rough housing was like a second nature between them– the boys’ cadets at least– save for a few exceptions. Yet Reiner never treated him in the same startling manner. His tender touches only ever made Bertholdt want to sink in further.
Now following his train of thought, and in the light of the realizations that were slowly dawning on him, Bertholdt marvelled at the fact that he didn’t even doubt that Reiner felt the same for him.
The other never told him anything about any feelings he harboured for him, and in all frankness, neither did Bertholdt. Strange how now, where self-doubt no longer gnawed at him, he felt like he didn’t need a single word from the other to know that he loved him too.
In a lapse of judgment, and in his selfishness, Bertholdt wished he could see him again, even when knowing what that would entail.
He shook off his head, trying not to dwell much on it and focused instead on the memory of Reiner’s warmth radiating off him when laying next to him, even when they were atop the wall, a chilling air similar to this place slipping through the gaps between the tent and the steely floor. The gratefulness Bertholdt felt when one night he was feeling petrified to his core so he slid past the invisible line dividing their sides on the makeshift bed. Reiner has been awake– Bertholdt could always tell when he was– yet didn’t stir. Didn't even flinch when Bertholdt, with a newfound bravery and bashful neediness reached for his arm first before pressing himself against his broad back.
Reiner’s headless form, and Bertholdt’s heart pounding in his mouth as he checks for a heartbeat, whispering to him that he might have to kill him in order to end it all.
A choked sob escaped him at the intrusive recollection, before Bertholdt’s hands flew to his eyes. His face crumbled before bursting into hysterical tears.
Bertholdt was never one to rise quickly to anger. In groups of people, he was usually the one to placate others and when Reiner wasn’t around, he’d do his best to calm the fuming parties when needing to break up a quarrel, racking his brain for a compromise.
But he was only human; he did get mad too, furious even at times, even if he was best at hiding it.
Today was one of the first times he felt livid.
Walking on sand was a tenuous task that was seeping away his patience every passing second. It wasn’t very long before Bertholdt stopped abruptly in his steps, heaving his shoulders and pressing his fingers against his palms, his nails leaving crescent-like indentations. The alarming absence of any searing pain the actions would’ve provided had he been alive unnerved him even further.
When losing his last ounce of self-restraint, he screamed until his throat was raw and his jaw ached. Until his eardrums were ringing at the shrill in his voice the longer he screamed out his fury.
The silence was all he received in response again.
Bertholdt lowered his forehead against the knees he hugged to his chest, the words 'somebody find me’ etched on the sand to his right.