Archive of Our Own

All he could see was this unearthly glowing light, stretching out across the sky in long, unending tendrils. His head was fuzzy - he couldn't remember why he was here, lying flat-out on the soft, sandy ground, or even think to try to remember anything, but for some reason, the lack of understanding didn’t bother him. It felt just like a dream, and those endless tendrils of light with countless stars dotted between struck him as being the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He was in no rush to get up, enamoured by the sight before him, and instead found his vision start to once more sleepily fade to black.

Marco awoke in Trost, but it was so quiet, not like the last time he saw it. No more of the constant hissing of titan's steam, their stomping footsteps that shook the ground, or the sounds of people's shouts and screams that had, inconceivably, all but become background noise during the battle. As far as he could make out, everything was peaceful.

The lighting was different, too; it was only a little past dawn, the sun just rising over the walls, the light so far only reaching the top storeys of the buildings on this road, and reflecting off whatever shards of glass still remained in the frames of their windows. The bottom of the street where he was lying remained under shadow.

He was splayed out awkwardly on the ground, his head propped up against the wall of the building he was leaning against at seemingly an almost perfect 90° angle. Every inch of him was sore in varying degrees, but oh good christ his head. It felt like.. Although this was a number of times worse, it reminded him of when he'd been climbing a monstrous tree in the surrounding fields of his village as a boy, and lost his footing and landed headfirst on the hard ground, after falling for what felt like forever. His siblings told him that he bounced.

He was seeing double, just like then, too. It was so hard to make sense of anything. Why was he here? What happened? Where was everyone else? There was such a rancid smell of rot in the air, and through the still-lingering shadows and his dodgy vision as he tried to readjust himself, physically and mentally, he could just about make out the source (not that it was hard to guess); a number of bodies, some in just parts, scattered up and down the road, or flung onto the roofs of the surrounding buildings. 

With a grimace, he realised the part of the wooden wall his head was resting into was broken and bowed inwards, as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it.

Ah, right, Marco thought to himself, that explains the headache. 

He couldn’t fathom how he could possibly have ended up with his head partly embedded in a wall, but he thought, through his scrambled mind, that it must be the reason why he couldn't remember how he got here. The last thing he remembered was… The mission to have Eren's titan block the breach in the gate (which he thought was insane from the outset, given he had only just learned titan shifting was a thing), and Armin running from him as the red signal flare that signalled the plan had failed burst into the sky. Everything was blank after that. 

And I'm here now, like this, after it failed… He must've been here a while, surely? Given the intensity of the smell, and how quiet it was… Oh god where is everyone what happened what happened

In a panic, the blood pounding in his ears, Marco struggled awkwardly to his feet as quickly as he could manage, trying to shake the cobwebs from his mind. 

As he took a few shaky steps, one hand supporting himself along the wall of the building beside him and the other holding the side of his head, he glanced back down towards where he had just been uncomfortably lying, and saw the remains of his own disfigured corpse.

---

Before he had even opened his eyes, Bertholdt was blinded by sunlight. He hissed in pain at the brightness and at the throbbing in his head, and instinctively shielded his eyes with his arm, trying to figure out his situation. The obvious questions - where was he? What happened? He couldn't remember a thing after… After he parted ways with Reiner? Wait, no, he could remember being thrown by Zeke. There was something blurry, to do with Reiner being hurt. He couldn’t make out the injury, his memory was so clouded… God, why was it so hard to think?

The one thing Bertholdt was sure about was that he was definitely dead. Almost certain. Sort of. He obviously couldn't remember why he might be dead, and he was still too confused to even comprehend the gravity of that, but surely he was. He'd been prepared for such an outcome, and he thought if he just accepted it now, he wouldn't have to freak out about it later.

He heard footsteps approaching, and from behind the meagre amount of shade his forearm offered, he could make out that someone had offered their hand to him. He took it without much thought, not that he could think in this state, and heard a familiar voice say “Up we go” as they started to help pull him off the ground.

With his arm now occupied, the light that shone into his face again made it hard to focus on the person's features. Squinting hard, the one recognisable thing he could make out was short, dark hair.

“Marcel?” Bertholdt asked, his voice hoarse. 

“Close,” The voice said with a huff, as they pulled Bertholdt fully to his feet. 

Standing helped him to realise that not only did his head hurt; his entire body ached like he’d ran a hundred marathons, but his vision finally began to unblur and adjust to the light as he stood up (mostly) straight. He was on top of Wall Maria; the, for some reason, quite badly torn up inner landscape stretching out to his left (probably something to do with Zeke) and Shiganshina to his right. Great. The position of the sun told him it was sometime in the afternoon. A pleasantly light breeze blew as he managed to focus on who was now looking up at him.

Bertholdt's eyes widened in alarm. “Marco?”

He hadn’t even meant to speak, the name just fell out in his stupor. 

Oh, no. Oh no oh no oh no no no no no no no...

He looked away the second he realised who it was, looked at his feet, to the sides, anywhere but Marco's face. Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god I’m in hell I’m in hell oh god oh god oh god oh g

The pain in his skull surged; he recoiled, clapping the hand he'd been pulled up by to the side of his forehead, as if it would offer any kind of relief. What should he do? Run? Fight? It didn't matter; the pain, the fear and the confusion kept him rooted to the spot.

This was not someone he wanted to see. Not at all. He could, at least, confirm he was definitely dead now, if he was seeing a walking corpse in front of him. Or he was just insane, which he wouldn’t fully rule out, but he decided to stick with the former theory. The only reasons Bertholdt could feasibly think of for why Marco would possibly be here, completely alone, the only person around for as far as the eye could see… None of them were good.

At the same time as Bertholdt had jerked away, Marco quickly brought his hands up in some shaky attempt at reassurance. “I'm not here to start anything, don't freak out, please…” He must’ve been expecting Bertholdt's apprehension, and even if not, it was clear to tell Bertholdt was seemingly trying to will at least one of them out of existence.

He wasn't convinced, but Marco's efforts were at least enough encouragement for Bertholdt to stop (for the time being) considering taking a swing at him. He gripped his, for some reason, slightly sandy fringe in his fingers as he let his hand slowly run down his face, and tried to work his way up from his current staring spot on the ground to properly look at Marco.

It’s not that he expected to see that mauled face, the indescribable gaping hole of gore that ran from his right eye down to just below his ribcage, but the horrible feeling of guilt that rose like bile in his throat when he saw how… Unharmed he looked, was almost unbearable. In the back of his mind, Bertholdt was relieved, happy to see him radiating the same warmth from his wonky smile he'd always done when he was alive, even from under his currently anxious and slightly tired looking exterior - but those feelings remained buried under the sheer panic taking over his body. 

Marco was wearing what he often used to wear while they were trainees - black trousers and a black waistcoat over a white shirt. This stirred Bertholdt to take a quick look down at himself - he was wearing the same jumper that’d been slashed by Commander Erwin three months ago. If that meant anything, he didn’t bother to dwell on it.

As Bertholdt finally met Marco's eyes, he realised they were slightly red - this time, Marco looked away, sheepishly. 

Marco cleared his throat and began talking quickly. “Your head's gonna be all over the place for a while, and your memories will come back in fragments over time, so you should probably uhh… Sit down.” He let out a weak, awkward laugh, turning away to head towards the crates, but he stopped a few steps away from them when he looked back and saw that Bertholdt appeared to have no intention of going anywhere.

Which he didn’t. Bertholdt was completely motionless. What the hell is this?...

The only possible reason Marco would be here is to get back at him. To deliver his divine punishment, or something of that sort. Whatever he said about ‘not being here to start anything’, acting like nothing was wrong, it was just a distraction. Bertholdt just gaped at him indignantly. This was all just making his headache worse. It felt like his skull was going to explode. He couldn't focus on any of this, on anything at all.

He felt angry. Angry at himself for whatever he did wrong, whatever stupid mistake he must've made to end up in this place. Angry at Marco for being here. Angry at the universe for throwing more things at him to deal with, more punishment at him when he thought it was over. It just never ends, does it? I thought I was supposed to be free of this shit when I died. 

There was nothing he wanted more than to wash his hands of everything and sleep forever, to be done with it all, to be left alone. He thought death was going to be a big nothing. That was what he was banking on happening before he died. It just seemed absolutely typical. It was almost funny. No rest for the wicked.

Marco seemed aware that this wasn’t going to be completely easy, seeing Bertholdt’s utterly bewildered, seething expression. He took a cursory step forward before stopping himself, leaving one foot half off the ground when he spoke much quieter, much softer than before.

“Bertholdt… I'm not here to cause any trouble. I just want to help.”

Oh, come off it. His words made Bertholdt feel sick.

“Why?” Bertholdt snapped. Something in the back of his mind felt remorse at how Marco shrunk back from him. 

“Because… Because I want to?” Marco stumbled, worriedly fidgeting with his hands. “I’m sorry, I know this is a lot to take in and it’s probably hard to focus now, but… I don't know what you expect of me, but I couldn't do anything even if I wanted to, 'cus we're dead. I know it’s confusing, it took me a little while to figure out even that much... But getting yourself worked up will just make it worse. You need to try to relax and get your memories of your last day back - and to know I really have no bad intentions.”

It didn’t make sense. There was no way Marco wasn’t messing with him. ‘Because I want to’ wasn’t a real reason to be completely and utterly alone with someone who left you to die horrifically four months ago, unless you had an aim in mind.

“You want something,” Bertholdt rasped through clenched teeth. “You’re here to get something out of me.” He wasn’t sure if he even believed his own words.

Marco watched him nervously, and forced himself to stop fidgeting with his hands, deliberately putting them down at his sides. “No… I promise, all I want to do is talk.”

Why did you agree to talk? A flash of white hot pain coursed through Bertholdt’s skull. Reiner hanging half-dead out of his titan, Armin stopping him, wanting to talk, absolutely petrified of him… It’s a distraction so they can kill Reiner… You’re all precious comrades, but you all have to die… It’s no one's fault… Hange’s squad vaporised out of existence…

Bertholdt shouted out in pain, wincing sharply and desperately clutching at his temple. He started to sink to his knees, but Marco was quick on his feet, by his side and holding him up before Bertholdt even saw him move. He tried to shove him away with his free hand, but his head was in such agony that he couldn’t put much effort into the motion. If Marco let go now, he’d drop like a stone.

“Shit, I’m sorry… You really need to sit down,” Marco’s tone was a mixture of worry, and contradictingly, a slight air of sternness as he added, “I know I’m not the most comforting face to see right now, but you’ll have to trust me. I really just want to help. We don’t have to talk straight away, just sit and gather yourself… Please.”

Why is he like this I hate it I hate it. Marco could've been a master manipulator if only he'd had the (lack of) heart for it. Something about his words and the way he spoke were always so calming, so convincing. Speaking so kindly to someone like him, knowing exactly what he’s done. Knowing in painful detail what kind of a person he was.

Whether he wanted to or not, he couldn’t fight back against him. Not in this state. When he made a quick glance at Marco’s face, and saw the look of utter concern he carried, the will to fight began to ebb away, settling in the pit of his stomach as pure, nauseous exhaustion.

“I brought you up here so we’d be away from everyone, but they all took off already anyway…” Marco explained as he helped Bertholdt slowly trudge towards the nearest crate to sit, as independently as he could manage with Marco still supporting him. “There’s no one around but us, and I only want to help. You don’t need to worry about anything. Take as long as you need, we have all the time in the world.” 

Away from everyone? He supposed it only made sense that there’d be more… Spirits around than just them.

Marco made sure Bertholdt was as alright and as steady in his seat as he could get for the time being, and moved on to take his own seat a foot or three away from him.

As he watched him, Bertholdt muttered, “Marco… What do you want me to say to you?” 

Marco snapped his head around to look back at Bertholdt, before lowering his gaze and half-whispering, “Don’t… Not right now...”

Lifting himself up onto the crate with his hands and folding his legs under him, he continued, “Don’t worry about anything else. Focus on yourself… Ask me whatever you want when you’re ready, but let your head clear a bit first. Like I said, we have time.”

How in the name of fuck am I meant to focus on anything else? Bertholdt closed his eyes and let out some mixture of a groan and a sigh, sitting back and hugging his knees to his chest. He let his head fall back to rest against the extra crates stacked up behind him with a dull thunk.

Despite what he said, Bertholdt could tell as Marco kept his gaze fixed across Shiganshina that he was itching to talk more, but he was restrained enough and had the sense not to try. It’d be a useless endeavour with the state Bertholdt’s mind was in right now, anyways. Marco was most likely aware of that. He just left him to start to pull himself together. Left him to his thoughts.

The problem there was that, although the weight being taken off his feet did give him a chance to focus on anything other than not falling over, it didn’t do anything to alleviate the burning pain in his head. Bertholdt had so many thoughts to try to put together in his already scrambled mind that they all seemed to just get lost in the onslaught of sludge. How do you come to terms with the fact that you’re dead, especially when you still can’t remember how exactly it happened?

What are you even meant to think about when you die? Trying to think of family just hurt. His father probably wouldn't get news of his death for days, if not longer, depending on the circumstances. He’d been here for years with nobody back home having any knowledge of his status, until Zeke found them and was able to get some information back to Marley and to their families, that two warriors were lost but congratulations Mr. Hoover, your son is still alive - then suddenly his father would hear his son was taken out in what was probably the very last leg of their mission before he could’ve gone back to him. Would he be disappointed in him? Distraught? Bertholdt grimaced and scrunched his eyes tighter closed, feeling sick. Better not to think about home right now at all.

There was the matter of still not remembering how he died. The debilitatingly painful flashback he’d gotten in the middle of trying to accuse Marco of being the deliverer of his eternal punishment brought him up to speed as far as when he transformed. Marco had said his memories would come back in fragments, which implied that was only one fragment of many… He hoped they wouldn’t all be as agonising as that one, but expected they would be.

Of course, Reiner was the first thought, the first real worry he had when he woke up. He still didn’t know if he was dead or alive. He wasn't here, but then again, no one else was either, besides Marco. Had Reiner still been just barely conscious enough to hear him? To be able to turn over? Even if he had, if Bertholdt himself had gotten killed by the Corps, could they have gotten Reiner, too?

If he's still alive imagine how he's gonna react to finding out you're dead haha oh god shut up shut up

He could just ask Marco, who seemed to be aware of what happened. Did he see everything? Even if he had… Bertholdt wasn’t sure how willing he was to start talking to him. It felt wrong to try start up a conversation about his own problems, ignoring the elephant in the room and just using him for answers. There were things he’d wanted to say to Marco, sure… But what good would it do? What good can a ‘sorry’ do when the damage was already done long ago? When you know, if you could redo it, you could only do the same thing again, because there was no other option? Although, now, with the benefit of hindsight, what was the point in any of that, really? He only wound up failing his mission anyway. All the good that did was just put that same fate off for four months.

So why was Marco here in the first place, waiting for him? Bertholdt still clung to the idea that he must be here for some kind of revenge, because there was no other feasible reasoning for someone to wait for one of their murderers like this, but as he briefly glanced over at Marco (trying his best not to have him notice), he couldn't find any kind of malice in his face. He didn't look so nervous or fidgety anymore. He just looked forlorn.

It didn't make sense. There was no fucking way that Marco was just that positive and naive that he'd say ‘oh nevermind that, what's a bit of betrayal and murdering between friends, we're all still comrades!’. He'd had a temper when he wanted to. Not the shouty, loud type like Jean or Eren, but Bertholdt had seen him seethe and snap at people before. It was a rare occurrence that only happened when he was incredibly stressed, and he'd usually apologise for it later (unless he felt he was absolutely in the right; he could be surprisingly headstrong), but he was more than capable of it. There was no way a little thing like killing him would just be forgiven like that. The thought of such a thing made him want to be sick.

‘We haven’t even had a chance to talk this over.’ ‘I promise, all I want to do is talk.’ Is that really all it boiled down to? Armin had asked the same; he wanted to try to talk it out, and Bertholdt couldn’t help but remember Marco then, either - just like he’d been remembering him in the lead up to the battle, never wanting anyone to have to go through that kind of pain again.

Not that him or Reiner ever went very long without having the horrific memories resurface in the first place, still being fresh in their minds, and although he didn't get to talk to her much again after that day, he was sure Annie was the same. 

They would never ever talk about it - since Marco’s death, Reiner and him had not mentioned Marco in private conversation once - but when you knew someone as well as he and Reiner knew each other, you could always tell when the other was dwelling on something, agonising over something in their mind. Reiner was especially easy to read - his body language, the way he'd either start talking a mile a minute, as if trying to distract himself, or go completely silent altogether, shrinking into himself and becoming unresponsive, almost catatonic.

He couldn’t give anything, reasons or otherwise, to Armin, only the reassurance that none of this was their fault. But he had nothing left to lose now, as far as he was aware. Still, though, the idea of talking to Marco… Bertholdt didn't want to relive it. Unless Marco was mental, he was sure he didn't necessarily want to, either. But, he deserved the truth; if all Marco wanted was to know why, he could give that, he owed him that at the very least, but what if he didn't like the answers? What if they weren’t enough? Of course they won’t be.

Bertholdt let out a lengthy sigh, dropping his head down to rest on his arms, and ever so slightly startled Marco with the sudden noise, who had almost begun to doze off. He looked to Bertholdt for the first time since they sat down, his eyes tired and head cocked to one side, but didn't say anything.

Bertholdt's skull still throbbed with pain, but it had subsided enough to try keep up a conversation now, at least. He still didn't particularly want to, well, no… He did want Marco to understand. But the thought of having to explain to someone he truly cared about, as much as he knew he was never supposed to, why he absolutely had to die and there was definitely no other options made his throat tighten, and it made his stomach go in knots to think that there’s a chance Marco might actually be stupidly compassionate enough to accept it.

He would talk to him about it. But not now. He didn’t think he was capable of talking about something that arduous right now, even if he wanted to. There were other things he wanted to know before anything else.

Bertholdt’s voice came out slightly muffled from behind his sleeves. “Where's Reiner?”

Marco rubbed his eyes. “He’s alive. In really bad shape, he’d definitely be dead ten times over if he wasn’t a shifter, but he’s alive. He got taken by the uh… Zeke?” Bertholdt offered a small nod, and Marco continued, “He was in a state as well, something to do with Levi, but Zeke and the other titan shifter took Reiner and ran back over the Walls.” 

Bertholdt wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, to say oh thank god, Reiner’s alive, he’s okay, everything’s alright, but almost immediately, all he could think of was what horrible things still lay in store for him - if Marley would even let him live after their mission presumably failed, and if he isn’t stripped of his titan, how he’d cope with going back home on his own...

While Bertholdt was dwelling on this, Marco’s eyes widened as he let out a quick “Oh!” of realisation. “Do you want to know about Annie?”

Annie. Maybe she’s okay? Maybe she made it back to Liberio at some point without any of them knowing, and Reiner wouldn’t be going home alone? He couldn’t figure out how that’d be possible, but maybe -

“Armin’s full of shit,” Marco elected to go ahead before any response from Bertholdt. “She got captured in Stohess and she put herself in a crystal. No one can do anything to her. She’s being guarded in a basement by the Military Police, but she’s completely safe.”

Oh. He wanted to hit himself for daring to get his hopes up. He should know better. Of course, hearing she hadn’t been hurt and that she was safe was a huge relief, but still, she was stuck within the walls indefinitely, and in isolation… And Reiner would be returning home alone to an uncertain fate, whether he gets executed for the failure of the mission or not…

There was already a lot for Bertholdt to think about from this small exchange. Marco knew Zeke’s name, something none of the other wall dwellers knew. Plus, he seemed knowledgeable about shifter healing abilities, even though titan shifting was something he only ever so briefly became acquainted with before his death.

What else did he know? Did he know about the outside world? About the history of Eldians? How did he know? Bertholdt could just ask, but the answer would probably be long and complicated, and he was still just having difficulty coming to terms with the fact that he’s dead.

Oh wow, yeah. He’s dead. Not coming back. What even were the rules of being dead? He could - obviously - still feel pain. He wasn’t slightly translucent, like the ghosts in stories, and he wasn’t incorporeal (to other spirits and the landscape, at least), since Marco was able to basically carry him along to the crates to sit down, plus the fact he was able to sit down on them without falling through them.

And then there was the fact that he was still on this fucking island. Weren’t you meant to move on somewhere? Or just stop existing? Maybe this was hell, forced to be tormented by the man you murdered while overlooking the place you first killed thousands in and later met your own demise in for eternity. But, again, Marco really didn’t seem like he had any intention of delivering any kind of punishment. As much as Bertholdt was still trying to convince himself he’s just getting my guard lowered so he can get me later, he just couldn’t see it. Trying to decipher his intentions was just bringing him around in circles.

He was more than aware that he still needed to talk to Marco about him, but Bertholdt was already putting off asking something else he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to. Steadying himself, he asked, “Does Reiner know I’m dead, yet?”

Hesitating for a moment, Marco quietly said, “Yes, I think so… I’m sorry.”

Nothing to be sorry about. Not your fault. Bertholdt sighed. He dreaded to think what must be going through Reiner’s mind. He didn’t know what happened, but no matter what, he knew Reiner would find some way to blame himself for it all. He knew in great detail how much guilt Reiner already had on his conscience, how he would dwell on it nearly every hour of every day...

Marco interrupted his thoughts. “As soon as you’ve gotten your head together, you can go see him.”

Bertholdt didn’t look up. “He probably won’t be awake yet. After an ordeal like that he could be asleep for days -”

“It’s been two.”

“- Wait, how can I see him?” He blinked. “...What?”

Marco sat up a little straighter, seeing as this was the most emotion beyond fear, anger or unreadable silence that Bertholdt had shown so far. “It’s been two days since the battle. Sometimes it takes a while to wake up after you die. I was the same... I think how long it takes depends on how you die and your mental state at the time or something like that, ‘cus everyone else who died during the battle woke up before the Survey Corps left.”

Oh, great. Bertholdt’s head was spinning again. Where was he for those two days? He should probably ask how he died, now that Marco mentioned it. He made a mental note to ask, which promptly got lost in the spinning of all the other questions in his brain. It’s fine. He’d remember it himself later.

‘It depends on how you die and your mental state at the time’. Marco said he took a long time to wake up, as well. Mine must’ve been bad. Bertholdt nearly laughed at the thought.

Marco continued with the answer to the other part of Bertholdt’s confusion. “You can go to Reiner, or anyone else, whenever you want. I mean, not right this second, since you’re still recovering from the ordeal of… Dying… But you just go through the Paths. I presume you already know about Paths…”

Bertholdt just stared at him in confusion. Marco smiled weakly in response at his expression, as if to say I know it’s weird, you’ll figure it out. He knew of Paths, but only just the bare minimum of its existence. He didn’t know it worked like that. He didn’t know how it worked at all. From the looks of it, Marco wasn’t really sure, either.

Bertholdt shook his head, as if trying to shake away the confusion. “You said everyone else who died in the battle already took off… Where?” After a brief pause, he added, “Who?” 

As soon as he said the last bit, he bit his tongue, knowing it was stupid to ask who. He didn’t want to listen to a list of people he’d indirectly or directly killed, and if he had been able to go through with his transformation, there would most certainly be direct deaths he caused from that alone. He didn’t want to hear if they were names he knew well. It felt especially stupid to be thinking like that, considering an earlier one of those cases was sitting beside him.

“They either went into Paths to go elsewhere or followed the Survey Corps back to Wall Rose. The Corps have an almost constant little band of ghosts following them around, there to cheer them on and be there for anyone killed in battle.” Marco dwelled for a few seconds on the second half of the question, and Bertholdt hoped he’d just forget about it. 

“I don’t know everyone. There’s a lot. It’d probably be easier to just say the Survey Corps were nearly wiped out entirely. There’s only a handful left - nine, to be exact...” Marco paused again, before adding, “… All the top ten of the 104th survived. Bar you.”

Wow. For a moment, Bertholdt was secretly impressed that the four of them nearly took out an entire army without the other titan shifters or any help from Marley. 

He did find it funny to imagine that those deceased members of the Survey Corps who woke up wherever you’d call this would've woken up surrounded by friends, comrades, given nothing but congratulations and support for their service and friendship, while he woke up with no one around whatsoever except the person he left to die four months earlier. He thought to himself that it was more than he deserved. By all rights, there should've been no one there to greet him at all.

Imagine if they found out Bertholdt was here, too, and that they could have another crack at him, without any danger of him transforming? He probably couldn’t die again, but the perpetual ache in his body and mind let him know he could definitely feel pain.

If they all woke up earlier than him, they could’ve easily had that opportunity. Why didn't they take it? He looked to Marco, whose expression was unreadable. It baffled him when he realised that instead of going back to Wall Rose with the rest, Marco had been waiting here on his own for two days for him to wake up. Why? Why bother? 

He remembered how tired Marco looked. How his eyes were red when he pulled him up. 

‘I brought you up here so we’d be away from everyone, but they all took off already anyway…’

...Huh.

At least the quiet, somewhat awkward periods of respite between chunks of information gave Bertholdt a bit of time to digest them. But much of it was things he really didn’t really want to dwell on for a long time. Good thing he probably had forever to think about them. He still put them off, anyway.

He tried to focus instead on regaining the rest of his memories - the quicker he got his head in order, the quicker he could figure out how to get to Reiner, how to get home, and leave this Fucking Island. And… Then what? It didn’t change the fact he was dead. He wouldn’t be able to interact with anyone. Just wander around, listening, not being able to join in… Although, he thought, that wasn’t too different to how he spent a lot of his time in life. But still.

In regards to trying to focus on regaining his memories, Marco must’ve been thinking something similar, because he broke the silence by asking, “What have you remembered so far?”

Bertholdt closed his eyes for a moment. He’d meant to be trying to focus on his memories, and ended up trailing off into thinking about Reiner and his home again.

“I remember Reiner with half his head blown off -”

“Wow.” 

“- And then Armin trying to talk to me, and then I remember transforming. Nothing after that.” 

He felt like Marco might pick up on him being purposefully vague about the events, not wanting to go into details about just what he said to Armin, or the fact that he already had a body count in this specific battle thanks to his transformation - and not just strangers, either; people he had worked with in the Survey Corps and who had welcomed him, had conversations with him, had trusted him, once… But, he thought, there was no need to repeat it if, presumably, Marco had watched it all happen anyway. Whatever Marco thought about it… Well, there was no need to dwell on it now. It would surely come up later.

“Alright… Hopefully anything more you get won’t be as painful as the last one. They aren’t always like that, I think that was my fault…” Marco could tell that was a memory resurfacing just by looking? Well, he’s been through this before, so… 

“They aren’t always physically painful, at least. Certain memories are always going to be distressing just to think about.” Marco seemed to wince at himself, as if thinking ‘why the fuck did I say that’, but Bertholdt either didn’t notice, or just didn’t care enough about trying to sugar-coat anything about this situation. “Anyways… All you can do is sit back and try to remember.”

“And you can’t just tell me what happened after? How I died?”

“No, sorry. If the process is interfered with, it'll mess with your head, and… Uh…” Marco made some vague motion with his hands. “You know. It’s just better for you to remember for yourself.”

Riiight. Bertholdt figured Marco just didn't want to have to tell him.

He leaned back and sighed through his nose, finally letting go of the stranglehold he had around his knees. He was so tired, and his head still felt like it’d been kicked repeatedly. How long was this going to take? Marco watched him, and shifted awkwardly in his seat.

“I’m sorry about this,” Marco said quietly, staring intently at his own hands, “Like, not just about everything else, but I’m sorry if I came on too strong. I guess I thought if I just acted casual it’d make it easier somehow. It probably just made everything worse, more confusing.”

Bertholdt just blinked at him. What? Why is he apologising? Fuck’s he even on about? There was absolutely no way he was going to be able to focus on regaining his memories like this. He couldn’t figure out Marco for the life of him, and trying to figure out his intentions on his own just wasn’t happening. He leaned forward and looked straight at the side of Marco’s face.

“Marco. Why are you here?”

Marco glanced at him before quickly looking away again. “I… I said I just want to talk. But we don’t have to right now. Your memories -”

“Forget my memories for a second. They're gonna come back in their own time, so unless you want to just sit here and tell me what it’s like to walk through walls, I think we should talk now.”

“I really don’t think we should… You’re not in the right mindset for it, you’re still trying to remember your own death.”

“Marco.” Why was he the one trying to put it off now?

Marco let out a tense sigh, closing his eyes and nervously scratching the side of his face. “I'm here, 'cus… I knew I wouldn’t be the most welcome face to see. I knew I’d freak you out. But…” He sighed again, and rested his chin on his palms. “I just couldn’t leave you there. I couldn’t bear the thought of you waking up on your own. But it was also just selfishness on my part, ‘cus I wanted to talk to you anyway…”

Selfishness. Bertholdt was used to Marco downplaying both his own achievements and experiences, but he still couldn't comprehend his line of thinking right now, seemingly feeling guilty for wanting to know why he was killed. He presumed that was what he wanted, anyway, since Marco was being frustratingly vague, and wasn't giving Bertholdt much to work with.

“Just say what you want to say. We’re going nowhere like this.” Bertholdt immediately felt bad at how blunt his tone came off. He didn’t mean it, it was just so difficult to control when he was in this state - plus, he still absolutely dreaded the thought of having to talk about this, and the way Marco was acting about it just made that tight knot in his stomach worse. It’d make so much more sense if Marco had just kicked him while he was down and demanded answers in pure rage the second he woke up.

“I just... I… Ugh...” Marco somehow managed a grimace so powerful that it scrunched up his entire body until he was almost in a ball. 

“I don’t know how to start. I just… I don’t believe you’re a bad person, Bertholdt.”

Bertholdt winced. Don't believe, or don't want to believe? He wanted to simply tell Marco that he believed wrongly, but his regret at seeing him floundering this much over something he should, by all rights, be absolutely enraged over, stopped him.

“…How much do you know about us?” he asked, tentatively.

Marco still clearly struggled with getting the words out, as if each one he said could spring forward and bite him, but having a direct question he could answer did work to make it slightly easier. “I know enough, I think. Although some of what I know might be a little outdated… I know that Marley is a place that exists, and that we - the Walls, that is - are just a little island in a huge world, and that world is against us, because we’re the only race that can turn into Titans, and because of a violent and bloody history caused by our ancestors. I know that you were sent by Marley to retrieve the Founding Titan… And I know that to escape even just a bit of that oppression, you, Reiner and Annie have been soldiers - no, warriors, since you were kids.” 

Marco took a few moments, before adding, quietly, “You were just kids when Wall Maria fell.”

The way Marco chose his words was not lost on Bertholdt. ‘When Wall Maria fell.’ Not ‘when Bertholdt Hoover and Reiner Braun knocked it down.’

“We’re the same age… The same day it fell, I was doing stupid kid stuff, falling out of a tree and nearly cracking my skull. Meanwhile, a few hundred kilometres to the south, you…”

Bertholdt knew he was stupid to expect any kind of scorn from this fool for having been a cog in Marley’s machine of murder and oppression since he was a child, and yet he was still dumbfounded by him. He wasn’t sure how he should reply, if he should at all. Marco hadn’t even mentioned Trost yet.

“Just… When I think about that… What am I supposed to think? What horrible things must you have been through, even before you were sent here? To force kids to do something like that?” Marco’s voice was almost a whisper, and he looked at his feet in some kind of poignant melancholy.

Bertholdt felt the bile rise in his throat.

This is not how you’re supposed to react to knowing that the Titans who made the Paradisians lose Wall Maria and sent thousands of people to gruesome deaths were children. Anyone should be even more enraged at hearing that news. Just how evil do you have to be at what, 11, 12, to do such a thing? To kill tens of thousands in just a few hours, and countless more in the coming years to famine and thinly veiled acts of population culling? And, knowing this, having lived among these people for five years, become their friends, and having seen up-close and personal the effects of their sins, to only go and do the same thing again?

“Does that matter?...” Bertholdt asked. Marco seemed surprised to hear him speak.

“Just because we were kids doesn’t mean fuck all. We weren’t kids when we - when I did Trost in. That was only a few months ago. We were willing to let it all happen again - and you haven’t even mentioned what exactly happened in Trost.”

“I don’t believe you were willing. I don’t believe for a second that you wanted any of this. And...” Marco’s face had changed. He was looking at Bertholdt almost sternly. “Considering I happened to be at my own death… I’d say I have a fairly good witness account of just how unwilling all of you were to go through with any of it.”

In utter bewilderment, Bertholdt gaped at him for a moment before responding. “What difference does it make? We still did it. We made those choices on our own. If you’re seriously going to try -”

“I’m sorry,” Marco said. It was a quiet, simple statement, but it still stopped Bertholdt in his tracks. “I don’t mean to be sharp. I know this situation is still really awful for you. S’why I wanted to leave talking about it for a while…”

Again, Marco had him dumbfounded. It was true, admittedly, that Bertholdt’s incessant migraine and aching bones hadn’t improved any since his last flashback. It was definitely somewhat impairing his ability to think calmly - though he would’ve felt just as disturbed by what Marco was saying no matter what state he was in.

“Just… I’ll get my thoughts out there, and you can make of them what you will. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m just stupid, naive… I know a lot of people saw me that way, and maybe they were right… But I refuse to believe you’re a bad person.”

Marco stared down at his hands, anxiously fiddling with his fingers. “I’ve just had a lot of time to think about what happened, about how it happened, and about what I learned about your background. You can stop me anytime you want.”

Bertholdt nodded hesitantly. He suddenly felt so small, so weak. He wished he could be anywhere else; but, despite it all, he did want to hear what Marco had to say - even if he was afraid of what that may be - so he put his head down and stayed quiet.

Marco inhaled sharply, nose scrunched as he tried to find the words to say whatever he'd spent these last few months stewing over. “There’s no point in trying to be evasive about it. I’ll just say first, I think it’s obvious that what you did - it was the last thing any of you wanted to do. None of you wanted to- to k- to let me die.”

“No,” Bertholdt said, almost compulsively. “No - christ, no, of course not… If there was any other way…” 

In the back of his mind, he wanted to repeat but we still did it, but he held back.

“That brings me to the next bit I was thinking about… Before I say anything, just know that I’m not condemning Reiner either, I know he wasn’t - himself. And Annie, too. I’d never seen her like that before. They were both like strangers to me, but you were still… You.”

Bertholdt kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, jaw tight, and Marco elaborated. “You still seemed like the same person I knew all throughout training, just in a horrible situation - forced into a horrible situation. And I mean… You didn't actually do anything. Reiner was the one who… Reiner was the one who jumped on me, who held me down, and although I know she was forced into it as well, Annie was the one to take my gear... But besides hearing you from behind me, I barely even saw you, until you all... Left... You might as well have not been there at all.”

You might as well have not been there at all. Intentional or not, Marco had always been good at backhanded compliments. If this was his idea of some kind of compliment, of trying to partly absolve Bertholdt of responsibility.

“Again, maybe I'm just being naive, looking too much into things, seeing things that aren’t there,” Marco continued, “But, from the way you shouted Reiner’s name… You sounded so horrified, like this was a complete surprise to you, that you hadn’t agreed to what he was doing. Don't take this weirdly, but I remember then, when the three of you ran - you were the only one who looked back at me, and your expression…” He exhaled sharply through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. 

“I just. I don’t know. You can tell me if I’m wrong, but I just think… You were forced into it, too. I don’t believe you could've made that call.”

This was absolutely not what Bertholdt was expecting to hear. Marco was wrong, in every possible way. Bertholdt was not a good person. He was not the same person Marco knew in training. He was not forced into it. Looking back at someone you’re leaving to die with some form of pity and regret does not make the act of murder any more excusable. As far as he was concerned, the crime of complicity was just as bad as doing the crime yourself.

His mind went completely blank and his mouth hung agape as he stared at Marco, who cleared his throat and began speaking again while Bertholdt hadn’t even begun thinking about what he could possibly reply. 

“Again, I don’t blame Reiner either. I know that that wasn’t the ‘real him’, which I was afraid of at first - I realised he wasn’t in his right mind, that he doesn’t even have one mind, which is unsurprising, considering what you’ve all been forced to do - so I’m not condemning anyone, but since it was him, no matter the version of him, that as far as I could see was taking the lead... I just always thought that, if Reiner hadn't been there, you mightn't have made the same decision he did.”

With each word Marco said, Bertholdt only wanted to curl up further and further into a ball and disappear entirely. Why does he always have to be like this?

Truthfully, when they first joined the trainees, Marco's near constant over-the-top kindness and caring for others made Bertholdt wary of him; see him as untrustworthy, even a little annoying. He couldn’t believe anyone could be that genuinely interested in the welfare of others without having some ulterior motive, without being out to get something.

(In quiet moments, people had told Bertholdt they believed him to be warm-hearted, gentle and kind too, like a quieter, less out-there Marco, but he didn’t see it. Those were some of the last things he’d describe himself as being.)

Once he quickly learned that Marco really was genuine, that he really did care about other people that much, Bertholdt grew to really, truly like and respect him. He liked him for his intelligence and his personality, and that he seemed to be one of the very few non-mad, down to earth people not just in the 104th, but out of the majority of people Bertholdt had interacted with throughout his life. Someone you could have a normal, enjoyable conversation with, or to put the world to rights with while staying up late at night together. Someone who could put up with you and support you no matter what mood you were in.

He still would never have believed that Marco'd go so far in his constant fucking understanding and kindness that he'd seemingly have spent the entire time after he died trying to come up with reasons to forgive his murderers.

‘I just always thought that, if Reiner hadn't been there, you mightn't have made the same decision he did.’

Would he have? It was hard to tell.

Nevermind the fact that if Reiner hadn't been there, Marco never would've heard us talking at all… But say it had been me and Annie he heard talking instead, what then? What would we have done? Would we have been able to do that on our own terms, back then?

When Marco came up to him and Reiner, Bertholdt’s mind had gone completely blank. He'd felt like a deer in the headlights. Of course, the phrase we have to kill him flashed through the back of his rational, warrior mind - it was the obvious, easiest, cleanest option, if you completely ignore the mental toll - but the other part of him started frantically searching for alternatives. It was useless, though; Reiner had already taken off after Marco without so much as a word to Bertholdt, and he had no choice but to follow him.

Bertholdt didn't have time to think for himself. He didn’t have a choice.

No, that’s a lie - I could’ve spoken up. I could’ve done something. But I didn’t. He didn’t know what he could’ve done, but… Surely there was something… 

He let out a hard, lengthy sigh. It may have only been four months ago, but it felt like years, and Bertholdt didn't feel at all like the same person he was then… Although, looking at himself now, hugging his knees to his chest, half his face buried in them, he wondered just how true that was.

Would the same Bertholdt who told his precious comrades two days ago that it was his own decision to kill them all have been quicker to decide what to do with Marco in Trost? Would the same Bertholdt who coldly disintegrated a number of Survey Corps soldiers in an instant two days ago be able to listen to Marco now? Would he even care enough to try?

Bertholdt nearly laughed when he realised that, for all the times he got annoyed and upset with Reiner for his switching personalities, he wasn't much better himself in the end. He wished he could apologise to him.

He realised Marco had been watching him out of the corner of his eye expectantly, and when he looked back at him, it made his stomach churn to see that Marco didn't look angry, or scared, or disgusted. He looked concerned.

For him. 

Taking in Bertholdt’s baffled, almost disturbed expression, Marco looked back at his feet, and started talking again.

“I’m sorry, I know this must be so much to take in on top of everything else, I’m just making everything harder and more confusing by spewing out all this shite I’ve been sitting on for months, which is why I wanted to leave it ‘til later, but you said…”

He paused to think for a few moments, and prattled on quietly, almost as if only talking to himself. “Maybe I’m doing the wrong thing, not just unloading this on you now, but just being here. I mean, I uh… I didn’t meet anyone for ages after I died, so I had some time to get my head a bit more in order, and I can’t imagine what it would’ve been like, on top of everything else, to immediately be greeted by someone in my position - in your position? I don’t know. But again, I was selfish… And I said it before, but I couldn’t bear to just leave you there, to wake up on your own, ‘cus it’s a horrible experience, I, uh - I’m sorry, I already really fucked this up, didn’t I?”

Oh good christ would he stop apologising.

The fact that Marco was talking so much didn’t bother him; it’s not that he couldn’t get a word in, Marco had given him plenty of opportunities to speak up, and only continued when all Bertholdt gave him in return was dead air and either a clenched or uselessly hanging jaw. He'd always enjoyed listening to people, letting them lead the conversation, but what he was saying… Every word he said just made the pit in Bertholdt’s stomach grow bigger, more poisonous. 

Marco’s attempts at not guilt tripping him were just making him feel even worse guilt than if he’d just done what Bertholdt expected, what he almost wanted. He'd rather if Marco just did as would be both accepted and expected of anyone in his situation and left Bertholdt to wake alone; to wander around aimlessly either on this Fucking Island or losts in Paths trying to figure out for himself what happened and what was happening.

Or, better yet - beat him to a pulp the second he woke up, while he was still weak and confused. And, to make it even better, Marco could go as far as he wanted, because there was no danger of transforming into the Colossal Titan anymore. It would live on without him, in the control of some Eldian newborn - the thought of being unlucky enough to be born at just the wrong time to be gifted with such a curse made a chill run up his spine, knowing that unless it was born within the walls, it’d more than likely be handed to the next in line straight away. That’s your fault too. If you hadn’t gotten yourself killed, that child wouldn’t have to suffer. He grimaced, physically shaking the thought away.

It’d make sense for Marco to want any form of revenge . It’d be the normal thing to do, the deserved thing, the expected thing. But still, Marco only served to deceive Bertholdt’s expectations, without even realising he was doing it.

In the trainee barracks, Bertholdt hadn’t expected that Marco would be such a genuinely nice person. In Trost, he hadn’t expected that Marco would be so stupidly trusting that he’d walk up from a near-perfect hiding spot to repeat two murderers’ plan back to them, condemning dozens of others to an early grave in the process of condemning himself to one, dying with that knowledge of traitors that could’ve saved lives. In the afterlife, he hadn’t expected that Marco, despite being smart enough to definitely be aware of those added factors of his death, would still want to fucking talk it out regardless.

Not only to want to talk it out, but to at least partly blame himself for what Bertholdt was going through. From how it sounds, things would’ve been shit regardless of whether he woke up alone or not. Marco was acting, paradoxically, like this was his fault somehow. 

There’s absolutely no way Marco isn’t repressing something. There’s no way he isn’t secretly sitting on some silent, deeply buried rage. He's definitely holding something back, what he's said so far can't be the only reason he's here. 

I’ll give him a chance to come to his senses.

“You woke up on your own?” Bertholdt finally asked, gaze fixed straight ahead.

“Uh, yeah…” Marco said, looking up in slight surprise that Bertholdt had finally said anything at all. 

Bertholdt could tell Marco was planning on just leaving it at that, so he looked at him expectantly.

Marco cleared his throat and continued, seeing that Bertholdt obviously wanted him to elaborate. “I didn’t wake up for two days, same as you, and even though there were lots of other bodies around, I was the only one - the only spirit - there. It was so hard to figure out what was going on, ah, I mean, it didn’t take too long to figure out I was clearly not alive at least, since I saw my uh… Myself…” He swallowed hard.

“When I was trying to get my bearings, the soldiers doing cleanup started to arrive…”

Aha. Bertholdt had heard this from Jean. In fact, he'd seen Jean start getting dangerously close to where he knew Marco's body was and scurried off, wanting to shoot himself for being such a stupid coward. “You saw Jean find your body?” Wait, if Marco woke up with his body, where the hell is mine?

“Yeah.” 

Marco said he brought me up here, so on the ground somewhere?... Whatever. He'd find out later. For now, he needed to push Marco just a little further. 

“Were you at the funeral pyre?” 

Marco looked at his feet pitifully and nodded, mm-ing in confirmation. Bertholdt was still bubbling with a remorseful impatience and anger about everything that was happening, but still he felt absolutely horrible seeing Marco shrink into himself and look so miserable, so anguished at having to think of these things in detail again. He knew how harrowing that night was, he’d seen firsthand what a state Jean was in, but he needed Marco to realise.

“So why the fuck are you apologising to me?”

“What?” Marco recoiled.

Bertholdt knew Marco was smart. How he was being this thick right now was beyond him. “That wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been for me and Reiner. You wouldn’t have had to see any of that. It wouldn’t have happened in the first place. You’d still be alive. You wouldn’t have burned up into nothing on that fucking pyre-”

Before he could get another word out, Bertholdt suddenly yelped out in pain and hunched over in his seat, clutching his skull with such intensity his fingernails surely left indents in his skin. It felt like someone had just stabbed a dozen hot pokers straight through his brain. The agony was so real, he almost expected to feel them, to see these red hot pokers sticking out of his head like a sea mine. He barely picked up Marco’s “Bertholdt?!” over the sound of his own cries of pain as he was bombarded with more memories.

The images cut through him like knives; Eren’s titan uselessly splayed out on top of the wall, they have no plan, new recruits mercilessly bludgeoned and massacred by Zeke’s projectiles on the other side of the wall…

He didn’t even hear Marco jumping out of his seat to his left, didn’t feel his hands on his shoulders. 

Armin really just wants to die right here? Put him down quickly - push down your emotions… Armin burnt to a crisp, boiled beyond recognition, falling uselessly back down towards the ground… The sheer panic of realising Eren wasn’t in his titan anymore - the excruciating pain of being torn from his titan… 

“I killed Armin,” Bertholdt choked out between gasps, “I burnt him alive.”

Marco said something, but Bertholdt didn’t hear it. He’d been more than aware that the version of himself during the battle was not his usual self, that it was his new self that he created so he could get through the task of having to kill old friends, so he could finish this for once and for all. The personality that had still just about lingered on after he woke up on the wall, digging its nails in, ready to fight if Marco was going to try hurt him.

He knew that he was ready to murder to bring an end to it all. He’d prepared himself for the inevitable of having to end the lives of friends, comrades, of people he lived and worked with. So why did he feel so horrified, so physically sick that he’d actually done it?

Everything he had wanted to say to Marco had been forgotten in the physical and mental pain of the barrage of memories. Knowing that he’d instantly completely erased Hange’s squad had already hurt beyond belief, but he could at least tell himself that their deaths were quick, painless. But Armin had been his friend. Out of all the Paradisians, Armin was one of, if not the closest person he’d been to in the trainee barracks. Armin was someone he really loved and respected. One of his closest friends, and he’d scalded him to death.

No matter how quick he tried to make it, that was going to be horrifically painful, a death no one deserves. He kept trying to tell himself it’s just another unfortunate sacrifice for the fate of the world, it was him or me, he was trying to kill me - but he wasn’t, was he? He was just trying to make time, to cause a diversion for Eren. A diversion that cost him his life, when it didn’t need to.

He suddenly became painfully aware of Marco’s feeble attempts to calm him down from beside him; of the unnaturally, unbearably heavy weight of his arm around his shoulders. Another victim of their mission, another person he’d known personally and killed to complete their goal. Someone who’d just gone on about how he thought Bertholdt was a good person, that he wasn’t to blame for his death, when Bertholdt only went on to ruthlessly kill again and again.

Marco thought he was still a good person just because Bertholdt didn’t want to kill him, supposedly had no choice, just let someone else make that decision and followed them blindly - but killing Armin in such a grisly way was no one’s decision but his own. Marco surely knew that. He’d watched it all happen. But still, he was here. It wasn’t right. He wasn’t right in the head. Neither of them were. It was all so wrong… 

If Marco had said anything more, Bertholdt wasn’t aware of it, blocked out by the blood pounding in his ears. It had only just barely subsided enough after the initial torture to tell him that at least right now, Marco wasn’t saying anything. He wanted to shrug him off, to push him and his attempts at comfort away - what you’re doing IS wrong I don’t deserve it it’s not right you shouldn’t be trying to help me - but selfishly, self loathingly, he couldn’t bring himself to.

Armin was dead. Bertholdt had murdered him. It rang through his head in huge, flashing letters that hurt more with each flash, each pulse of pain. And then Eren, in return, had ripped him from his titan and murdered him in an uncontrollable, justified act of revenge. 

“Is that… That’s it, then,” Bertholdt croaked through a stiff jaw. “That's how I died.”

Marco stopped rubbing his hand up and down Bertholdt’s right shoulder for a second, hesitating. “How… How far did you remember up to?” 

“Eren cut open my titan… I saw the rage in his eyes…” Bertholdt was curled into a ball, barely looking out from behind his knees. It was a deserved death. 

“That's all?” 

That's all? 

Marco drooped slightly and said in a soft voice, “There's more after that…”

Are you joking me. 

“I’m sorry,” Marco started, “I think this is my fault again -”

“Stop,” Bertholdt cut him off, “You'll just make it worse.”

He ignored Marco’s much quieter repetition of ‘sorry’ and tried to untense his muscles, to release his fingers from the deathgrip they had on his skull, though he left his hands resting on the sides of his head - they acted not only as form of comfort, tricking him into thinking they might do something against the pulsing pain, but also as a shield against Marco’s gaze, and against having to see him out of the corner of his eye.

How could it be Marco’s fucking fault? He’d be trying to tell him it’s his own fault for getting killed in Trost next. It’d been Bertholdt’s own words, this time at least, that’d sparked the flashback. Marco had been trying to show him kindness, and Bertholdt had thrown it back at him, and just gotten his instant karma in return for it. It all worked out. It made sense.

Closing his eyes, Bertholdt dwelled on those words - There’s more after that. How could there be? What else could possibly be in store? He was more than used to the notion that things can always, always get worse, but he couldn’t imagine how, and he didn’t really want to have to think through all the possibilities. Of course, that didn’t mean he could stop them racing through his mind, but they muddled together into one overwhelming wave of muck he couldn’t make sense of.

The whereabouts of his body still bothered him. He had thought, in the moment of the flashback, that Eren tearing him from his titan, cutting off his limbs - it was right in this spot, wasn’t it? Right over there… - that must’ve meant Eren had killed him there and then, and that’s why he was here now, but if Marco had said earlier that he brought him up here, that implied he must’ve died somewhere on the ground, and his corpse was elsewhere.

Didn’t matter right now, he supposed. Marco wouldn’t tell him how he died, so he probably wouldn’t tell him where his body was either, especially if he was nervous about bringing on another flashback again.

“Was it like this for you?” Bertholdt asked hoarsely. “Remembering what happened?”

Marco bit his lip. “Yeah,” he replied, “More or less…”

Even being modest about that. Bertholdt felt the irritation start to bubble up in him again. “So stop apologising to me. Please. None of this is your fault. You’ve been through the same before, and there’s one of us here we can blame for that. You're far from the only person I killed, too. I burnt Armin to death. Thousands upon thousands of other innocent people had horrible deaths because of me. How can you still say you think I’m a good person?”

Marco remained unmoved, looking at him gently. “Because I know not everything is black and white. I’m not stupid, I’m not saying that because you didn’t want to do any of the things you did then that makes it all okay… But I know, in my case, there’s more to it than I just heard too much of some horrible plot, some horrible truth, and I had to die for it. Plus…” Marco sniffed.

“I could’ve just. Not walked up to both of you then. If I’d just stayed where I was, you wouldn’t have had to go through with that…”

Oh my fucking god.

“But regardless, as far as everyone else goes…” Marco continued, “I know it’s horrible, to say the least, but from what little I know about Marley, if you hadn’t done it, someone else would’ve just been sent in your place. The same thing would’ve happened either way.” 

Bertholdt almost snorted. If only Marley had sent a more competent group, maybe, as outlandish an idea it may be, not literal children, the mission wouldn’t have failed as miserably as it did. They probably would’ve been done years ago.

“Doesn’t change the fact that it was us who did it. Whether someone else would’ve ended up doing the same regardless, we were still the ones who agreed to do it.”

“And what would’ve happened to you if you refused to? To you, and your families? Would Marley have just sent you home with a goody bag and a participation award while they rounded up the next batch of recruits?”

Bertholdt knew Marco was right. Marley would’ve had him devoured and his family turned into titans without a moment’s thought. But he didn’t want to acknowledge it. Instead, he just doubled down.

“We still did it. It was our choice. …I told Armin it was my choice,” Bertholdt added. “I said everyone in the Walls had to die, and I had decided that myself.”

“And I didn’t believe you then, either. I can tell by you, you’re not even convinced of your own words now.” Marco chewed his lip. “I don’t know what exactly led you to become warriors at such a young age, but I won’t believe that three - no, four - children would agree on their own terms to be sent to an island, far away from home, on some mission that very quickly proved itself to be life threatening, to kill complete strangers.”

“But we did agree to it on our own terms.” Again, Bertholdt knew he wasn’t exactly telling the truth - would I have still decided to become a warrior candidate if my father wasn’t sick?... - but he still wasn’t about to start shovelling any amount of fuel into Marco’s forgiveness fire.

Marco huffed in sudden vexation. “What’s ‘your own terms’ to a brainwashed child?... Maybe you were able to hide your background from all of us for 3 years, but I did know you, and you were always a shit liar.” He frowned and scratched his head idly. “And you were a hoor for always blaming yourself for anything that went wrong.”

“Marco, I just listened to you trying to make up reasons to try forgive us for killing you.” Bertholdt stared him down, and kept going before Marco had a chance to argue. “Who cares that we were kids when we first came here? Who cares that of course we didn’t want to do any of it? That doesn’t change the fact that hundreds of thousands of people are dead because of us, and at least they had the privilege of not knowing us, not having to see the faces of people they thought they could trust, people they thought were their friends, running away like cowards and leaving them behind to die!”

Marco gaped at him in silence, simultaneously hurt, frustrated, but somehow still carrying that stupid sympathetic expression.

“I’m just saying the facts of what actually happened,” Bertholdt continued, “You’ve been beating around the bush this whole time, trying to avoid saying what we actually did. You couldn’t even say that it was me who kicked down -” He stretched his arm straight out from where they were sitting, pointing directly across Shiganshina, “- that gate, right there. And I did it again in Trost. You can’t try to downplay that. You can’t try to downplay your own murder.”

“I'm not trying to downplay it, I'm just -” 

“If you think you know me, then I definitely know you, Marco. I know what you're like. I remember you broke your ankle while leading a days-long training expedition and kept telling everyone you were fine until you weren’t able to walk anymore.”

Marco scoffed at this, but didn't try to interrupt Bertholdt. “I don’t want you to fucking forgive me. I need you to stop avoiding being honest about what actually happened and how you actually feel just because you're afraid of making me uncomfortable. I don’t get to have feelings. My feelings don’t matter.”

“Of course your feelings matter!” Marco retorted. “You're being hypocritical, giving out to me for this when you can’t accept that it’s not your fault you were forced into this life by evil adults who obviously didn’t care about what they were doing to a group of kids who couldn’t possibly comprehend what they were being asked- being forced to do!”

AAAAGH if you don't stop trying to absolve me of my sins I'm going to put you through this bastarding wall.

Bertholdt was aware they were going in circles, and he wondered if Marco knew it, too. He wished he could just get his final memory of, as far as he could guess, probably being tortured for information and executed so he can be done with this and fuck off somewhere else. He wondered, given the opportunity, would the military have made a big show of his execution, for all the citizens to see the so-called Greatest Threat to Humanity taken down.

Maybe a public hanging. That’d make him laugh.

He sighed angrily, full of pure exasperation. “Forget whatever we were told to do as kids. No one told us to fucking murder you. We decided that ourselves! There were no instructions from Marley saying to have Marco Bodt killed! You really don’t care that we decided our identities, that we revealed ourselves a few weeks later, were more important than your life? If it wasn't for us, you'd be away from all this shit, you’d be safe and sound in the Military Police-”

Surging forwards out of his seat, Marco turned on his heel to face Bertholdt and barked, “Fuck the Military Police! I changed my mind during training! I was going to join the Survey Corps after Trost, so I probably would've gotten myself killed either fucking way!”

Bertholdt was taken entirely off guard by the outburst, shocked into silence.

Marco let out an unnerving laugh, and sharply spun back around, balling his hands into fists and visibly shaking with anger. “And I'd have been glad if I did, 'cus I never would've been able to go along with the barbaric shit they just did!”

Even throughout his arguing, Marco hadn’t come close to being this irate - and he now had Bertholdt deeply unsettled, to say the least. He had seen some of those rare occasions Marco would snap at people when they were trainees, but he’d never seen him this genuinely livid. Especially not directed at him.

...Was it directed at him? Marco's back was to him now, and Bertholdt couldn't see his face. What barbaric shit?...

He silently rose to his feet, and took a few tentative steps towards Marco, who was completely unaware of his approach, too preoccupied with trying to steady his breathing. He wasn’t looking at Bertholdt; he was stood at the very edge of the wall, the tips of his shoes peeking out over the edge, looking down at Shiganshina. Bertholdt quietly came to a stop beside him, and followed Marco’s line of sight straight down below them, straight down at the broken roof where -

Marco snapped out of the state he was in and whipped around in horror, immediately realising what he’d done. He tried, both gently and firmly, to grab Bertholdt’s shoulders and push him backwards, to physically shield him with his body from looking over the edge, spilling out words so fast that they probably wouldn’t have made sense even if they were being listened to, but Bertholdt stood rooted firmly to the spot.

He towered over Marco, and could see just fine despite his efforts - of course, there wasn’t actually much to see. Not from this high up. Just a half-destroyed building, timber and rubble scattered all around. But… 

His thoughts wouldn’t come together. He just stared down, eyebrows creased, mouth hung slightly open. Marco’s attempts to turn him back went all but ignored, completely useless, like trying to move a concrete wall.

What?...

Despite this being the shortest memory he had to regain, it wasn’t coming back in a flash like the others. It was bubbling up inside him, like a volcano shaking the earth, ready to burst open at any moment. He couldn’t take any of it in, couldn’t comprehend it, just saw fragments and shards that made no sense to him… 

Marco only seemed to grow more and more frantic. “Bertholdt, please go back…” 

Without moving his body, he slowly turned his head to look at Marco with the same dazed, disturbed expression, who slipped into silence as he stared back at him, agape.

Bertholdt saw the faces of his precious comrades staring at him, wide eyed, transfixed, tearful. He saw - 

Before Marco could get another word out, Bertholdt let out the most animalistic, blood curdling cry.

He dropped like a stone, fingers grasping and uncontrollably digging into the sides of his skull in an intense fervour. It hurt so unnaturally, inhumanly bad, he thought surely he’d die a second time.

this IS hell this is hell this is hell this is hell this is hell teeth teeth teeth teeth teeth TEETH TEETH TEETH TEETH TEETH TEETH TEETH TEETH TE

There was nothing around him anymore. Not the wall, not Marco, not the landscape or sky - there was nothing but Bertholdt, hunched over on his knees, not even aware of the yells erupting from him, completely alone… Except for that titan. Towering over him, reaching out like a grotesque, terrifying toddler, grasping and tearing at the roof with its giant, childishly destructive hands.

He could see every horrible detail of it; the stretched out, leathery skin over its skeletal features. Long, straw-like hair. Those dark, deeply sunken, hollow eyes. Skinny limbs and bony fingers, holding him like a limbless ragdoll. 

… And the teeth. Completely immoblile, helpless, being drawn in towards them. Screaming out for Annie and Reiner, knowing they weren't coming. Nestled neatly into the crevices of its molars, the sight of the top row racing down to meet him -

Bertholdt could feel it. Every bit of it, he could see, he could feel, in such agonising detail. The titan’s clammy hands, its hot breath as it pulled him in closer. But this time, the pain wouldn’t even let go, for it all to be over the second he was crushed. The excruciating pain held on, and only continued to get worse by the second.

it’s happening over and over again it keeps happening it keeps happening it keeps happening it won’t stop when will it stop it won’t stop it won’t stop it won’t stop it won’t ever stop it keeps happening it keeps HAPPENING

His howls of both physical and mental torture were muffled into himself while he hunched over, pulling at his hair with stiff, panicked hands, shoes sliding against the ground as he seemed to try and force himself down into the earth, or to just disappear within himself.

As far as he was concerned, the outside world no longer existed. It was just him, curled into an unstable ball in a void of static, high pitched ringing in his ears. There was nothing, this was just hell, he was here forever, his eternal, deserved punishment…

That static void closed in around him, enveloping him in its cold embrace. If he was still screaming, he wasn’t aware of it. There was nothing. He was nothing. All there was was agony.

Bertholdt didn’t know how long he stayed like that for. In his mind, he was there forever, floating in this abyss. It started so slowly he didn’t even notice it, especially compared to the overwhelming pain he was experiencing, but over time he became more and more aware of this increasing burning in his skull. Different to the grinding, pounding pain that engulfed him everywhere else; it seemed to focus on one point, like an ant being slowly burned by a magnifying glass.

When it became too much to be overshadowed by all other sources of pain, he tentatively unhooked his fingers’ death grip from his scalp and shakily dragged his face up from the ground to look straight ahead.

Them. He saw their faces, again. Wide eyed. Faces streaked with tears. Gaping at him, gazes boring holes into him like children ogling the exotic animals at a zoo. He hadn’t yet fully comprehended the situation - he’d been eaten and his old friends watched it happen, but the exact logistics of that weren’t something he’d had the stability to begin thinking about thinking about. But, now, as he stared back at that vision of Connie, Eren, Mikasa and Jean standing there, unmoving, it started to click into place.

That titan. He hadn’t thought about where it possibly could’ve come from, when there’d been no titans in Shiganshina during the battle. Just before Eren had ripped him from the Colossal, he’d seen a hardened titan - Eren’s hardened titan blocking the inner gate, so he must’ve blocked the outer one beforehand, too. There was no way a titan could get in.

Long, straw-like hair. It had to be Armin. 

I didn’t kill him. I didn't kill him, I didn’t kill him, I didn't kill him… 

… He killed me.

How… How did they get their hands on titan serum? How did they know how to pass on a titan? The only people he knew of with that knowledge in the Walls were the royal family. Did Historia know? Did she tell them? Or…

His mind flashed back to the conversation he’d had with Ymir, the last time he’d seen Eren before this battle, when he asked her if she remembered who she ate before gaining the power of the Jaws. He’d kept it vague, and he didn’t think Eren had been listening then, but if he had, could he have figured it out from that…?

Oh… 

It’s my fault.

Every bit of this is my own stupid fault. 

Revealing how titan powers are passed down to Eren was his fault. Not keeping an eye on Eren’s titan was his fault. Letting his guard down was his fault. Not finishing off Armin was his fault. Being unreliable was his fault. 

He’d not only payed the ultimate price for his own mistakes, but brought everyone else down with him - Reiner will most likely be eaten by the next in line for the mission being a failure, and if Eren learns how to control the Founder, the entire world will probably be flattened as a result of their constant fucking up of every single plan they ever had.

All those years they’d spent within the Walls… And for what? The world was still in danger. In fact, they’d just made everything even worse. If he hadn’t broken the gate that day, that boulder never would’ve landed on Eren’s house. His mother wouldn’t have been eaten by a titan. He wouldn’t have sworn his vengeance on all his enemies, which, if he surely by now had reached that basement and it really did contain the truth, he knew would be the entire outside world. Someone who considers the whole world his enemy is in the possession of the power that can bring that world to an end, and it was all their fault.

Bertholdt screwed his eyes shut and buried his face back in the ground, choking back sobs. They’d fucked it up so bad. He’d fucked it up so bad. Reiner had put his trust in him, had just started to think of him as reliable, and by letting his guard down for just a few moments, he’d ruined everything. He'd let Reiner down, he'd let his father down, Annie, the world… 

Still, that burning in his skull lingered on. Those stares. He'd been avoiding thinking about it, but he had to dwell on it sooner or later. They'd really made that decision, hadn't they? They left him there, defenceless, to be eaten alive so they could bring Armin back instead. Just his luck that he happened to wake up in time to live through that. It's not that he wasn't prepared to die, but…

Not in a million years did he think it'd be like that. He thought - well, there were a few possibilities; tortured for information, executed on the spot, tortured then executed, or maybe if they could figure out how to keep him from transforming, they would leave him indefinitely in some kind of prison. He'd thought that if he was captured any of those outcomes would be fair, would be deserved. But knowing that his old friends, people he'd spent years with, had made the decision to feed him to a titan… 

Bertholdt wanted to gag and retch, but there was nothing that could come up; only more tears spilled out. He grasped feebly at the ground, trying to steady himself somehow, and felt it come apart between his fingers. 

Sand?... 

He opened his eyes, taking a moment to focus through the blur of tears, and found himself standing high above the wall. All around him was still completely dark; only some kind of spotlight lit up the tiny figure that lay sitting up on the wall below him, gazing up at him with wide eyes. Although he hadn’t said anything, he heard his own voice.

Hurts… It hurts… 

He didn't feel the tears falling down his face until the image of Armin below him began to fade away, and he gaped expressionlessly out at nothing. A cursory feel of the ground told him he was back on something solid. 

What the hell was that?... It couldn't be the present. Armin was likely back within Wall Rose by now. A dream? Do you dream when you're dead? A memory?... But what memory? He'd gotten the last one already. He was dead. It should be finished.

Bertholdt tightly closed his mouth and slowly brought himself to a hunched kneel, giving a quick, futile wipe to the still-falling tears from his eyes, and a running of his fingers through his hair. Sandy. It’d been there when he first woke up. It hadn't been a dream.

“Bertholdt…?” 

He snapped his head to the left as he was forced out of his mind, and found that he was back at the edge of the wall, kneeling a foot or two back from the spot he’d fallen in. The horizon was a dull orange now; the sky overcast except for a few generous gaps between the greying clouds where the sun still poked through, and the wind had stopped, leaving an eerie quiet. Marco gently took away an arm that Bertholdt hadn't been aware was wrapped around his shoulders.

“Are you back with me?” Marco softly asked, kneeling next to Bertholdt.

Looking at Marco - those sad eyes gazing up at him, once again red and full of concern, it just set Bertholdt off again. His throat caught before he could get anything out, not that he could even think of one comprehensible thing to say in the first place, and all that emerged was a fresh onslaught of sobs.

As he uselessly tried to disguise his tears by hanging his head and turning his face to the side, he heard Marco murmur “Oh, Bertl…” and felt his arm wrap back around him, a cool hand placed on top of his clammy, shaking ones.

“I'm so sorry,” Marco whispered, his voice strained. 

Don't… Don’t start… Bertholdt didn’t need Marco apologising to him again on top of everything else, but he was unable to get any words out from the choking tightness that wrapped around his throat. 

Marco sat with him in silence, doing no more than occasionally lightly squeezing his hand or rubbing his shoulder anytime another sob shook his body.

The small act of comfort made Bertholdt spiral further, disgusted that someone like himself would ever be given such treatment when he didn’t deserve it, disgusted that it was coming from someone who was a victim of all the reasons he deserved to be in hell right now, and even more disgusted at himself that he knew he needed it so badly, that he wanted to fall into that warmth and smother himself in it.

He wanted to get away, to run as far as possible from any prying eyes and suffer and agonise over every possible thing in the private confines of his own mind, the way he always used to. But he couldn’t bear to be on his own. But he deserved to be on his own. But he just couldn't bear…

“Do you want me to go?...” Marco gingerly asked, slightly lifting his hands from the contact they made with Bertholdt. “I can if you want, if you want to be on your own, I -”

“Stay,” Bertholdt choked out between ragged breaths, interrupting him. He kept his head down, and clung to Marco's shirt with one hand. “I know I shouldn’t- I don’t deserve- you shouldn’t… I- just don’t go, please…”

He was leaning into Marco before the latter had a chance to react, hiding his face by burying it into his shoulder, but despite being taken aback for just a moment, Marco was quick to reciprocate it. He gently pulled him in, and used his other hand to unlatch Bertholdt's from his shirt and hold it tight between them.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay as long as you want.”

Bertholdt was relieved that Marco didn't patronise him with any there there's or it's okay's, because those were just filler, just making noise for the sake of it, and they both knew it'd be a lie to say everything was okay. All he needed to know was that someone was there, and Marco tenderly keeping his hands from shaking, rubbing his thumb along them, his nose buried in Bertholdt's hair, was enough. It couldn't stop the screaming agony in his head or the constant replaying in his mind of those teeth, those stares, but it was better than being alone. Even if it still made him feel so sick, so wrong… 

He didn’t know how much time passed with them like that, but as Bertholdt’s uncontrollable sobs slowed to a steady, sniffling weep, he felt Marco shift slightly with a few sniffles of his own, and clear his throat with a cough.

“I know y-” Marco's voice caught, and he had to clear his throat again. “I know you don't want me to apologise, but I really, truly am sorry about all of this, I… Do you want to talk about- do you… Is there anything I can do for you?”

Marco craned his neck forward slightly, trying in vain to get a better look at Bertholdt's face, whose head still remained buried into Marco's shoulder. Bertholdt didn't say anything, just shook his head slightly with a mumble that made no attempts to be actual words. What could Marco possibly do for him? They were both dead, everything that happened was over and done with, and there was nothing either of them could do. Just live with it. Well, not live, but… Cope with it. 

Marco closed his eyes and sighed a cold breath back into Bertholdt's hair, squeezing his shoulder once more. A minute or two passed with him deep in thought about something, before he straightened up slightly.

“Is it okay if I get something? I'll just be a second, it's only over there.” Marco cocked his head in the direction of the crates they'd been sitting on earlier, although whether Bertholdt even saw or not was questionable. 

Bertholdt nodded stiffly with a sniff, wiping his eyes in the back of his jumper sleeve after Marco let him go with a lingering pat of his back, brought himself clumsily to his feet, and disappeared behind him. 

He hugged his knees to his chest, feeling pathetically vulnerable as the sound of Marco's shoes against the hard surface of the wall receded. Was this really what'd become of him? Well, he'd been like this as long as he could remember – Reiner once told him he'd changed after they came to Paradis, became more anxious and reserved than before, but he felt like he'd always been like that. It was hard to remember what he was like as a child.

'Course, he knew he obviously would've changed since then, since having to come here, being made to carry out this mission and all it entailed… He'd seen Reiner change (that was an understatement), even Annie. Even Marcel, after only being on the island for one day.

It'd be stupid to think he'd somehow avoided that, especially considering how he was during the last battle. If he had never become a warrior, never been sent here, would he ever have been forced to become that cold in a normal life? 

He sighed through his nose and tangled a hand in his hair. It was a fitting end, he supposed. Terrified and helpless, like he'd felt almost constantly for the last 5 years. The only times he felt truly at ease were during quiet moments with Reiner, and… The camaraderie of the close friends they'd made in the cadet corps…

A clink of glass from behind was a needed distraction. Bertholdt turned, and saw that Marco hadn’t ventured very far. His top half was entirely hidden within one of the crates they'd been sitting on earlier. The crate wasn't opened. He was gone through the timber. 

“There we go!” 

He popped back up out of the crate, a large, brown bottle in hand, flicking a bit of straw that was used as cushioning inside the crate from his hair. “I knew there had to be some in there. The Garrison have these burrowed into any gap they can find like ticks,” Marco said, seemingly talking more to himself than anyone else. 

Bertholdt knew he must've looked completely gormless, twisted around to gawp at Marco with his red, stinging eyes and tear stains still on his cheeks, a look of utter bewilderment on his face.

“Brandy,” Marco explained as he plopped back down beside Bertholdt, close enough that they touched. “I thought it might help soothe your nerves.”

He only then seemed to notice Bertholdt's expression, which hadn't changed since he first emerged from the crates. “Oh, the uh - we're incorporeal, we can go through stuff,” Marco said.

Bertholdt's throat was too sore and his mind still too frazzled from everything to bother asking.

“When we want to, that is. You'll get used to it, it’s easy to control. S’not relevant right now, anyways… Gorry ghere's no glash,” Marco spoke through using his teeth to pull the cork out of the bottle with a pop, and passed it to Bertholdt, who took it in his hand apprehensively. “The Garrison don’t believe in that sort of thing.”

Bertholdt stared down at the bottle for a moment before taking a hearty gulp, more than he should so quickly, he knew, and passed it back to Marco. It burned his throat and he couldn't hold back the handful of coughs it caused, and he just hoped it wouldn't make him feel any sicker or make his head hurt more than it already did.

He cleared his throat, but it didn’t do much to help the rawness and shakiness that was obvious in his voice. “Am I really done now? Definitely no more?” he croaked. 

“That’s it, I promise.” Marco took a similar amount of the brandy and set the bottle down between them. “How are you feeling?...” 

It was, of course, in Bertholdt's nature to answer any question of how he was with 'fine, grand, alright,' no matter how much of a state he might actually be in, but he knew there was no point in being modest in front of Marco. Especially not when he was still struggling to wipe the tear stains from his cheeks.

“Horrible,” he wheezed. It was still an understatement. 

“I’d be even more worried about you if you didn’t,” Marco sighed, crossing his arms. “I know it’s not my place, but I’m just - I’m so angry. Since you, Reiner and Ymir left, the Survey Corps have started doing some really horrific things… I don’t know, maybe they were always like that, but I never, ever expected anything like this.” 

The mention of Ymir made Bertholdt completely tense up, almost entirely disregarding the rest of what Marco said. Thank god they were both facing straight ahead at the scenery, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to make eye contact.

“Do… Do you know about Ymir?” Bertholdt asked, his jaw stiff. Marco was seemingly hell-bent on being understanding about his own death, but what would he feel if he knew that he wasn’t the only friend Reiner and Bertholdt allowed to die so they could extend their own time, long before this battle happened?

It occurred to him as well that he was sitting on the same wall that he, Reiner and Ymir all recovered on after Ymir made the decision to sacrifice herself to save them, overlooking Shiganshina. Why does it always have to come back to this one town?

“Ah, yes…” Marco bit his lip, lowering his head. “She’s who I got most of my information on the outside world on, but as I mentioned before, since it was so long ago since she was there, it might be outdated, and she said she didn’t get a chance to learn anything new for the short time she was there again. She spends most of her time watching over Historia now, although we catch up from time to time.”

“And still - still,” Bertholdt stumbled over his words, “Knowing that we allowed Ymir to sacrifice herself for us, you-”

“She explained it to me, Bertholdt,” Marco cut across him before he could start all but begging to be condemned again. “You never asked her for that, she decided it herself. Chances are, if she hadn’t helped you, the two of you would be already dead now, by titans or Marley or otherwise. You need to stop doing this to yourself. I’m not in any position to make a judgment on you and Reiner for that, because I’m lucky enough to have never been forced to make choices like ye have. I have no idea what I would have done if I was in your situation.”

Bertholdt grimaced, and although he couldn’t see the exact spot from the position himself and Marco were sitting, he found his gaze lowering in the direction of the roof Jean, Eren, Mikasa, Connie and an unconscious Sasha watched him be devoured from. You’re not lucky. You just didn’t live long enough to be forced to make choices like that.

An audible slap sounded as Bertholdt clapped his hand to his forehead, another wave of pain washing over him. He saw Marco open his mouth, for a second thinking he was going to apologise again, but he shut it again just as quick, instead electing to wordlessly hold the brandy bottle back in front of Bertholdt.

Bertholdt took it with his free hand, and Marco watched as he took another few tentative sips. “Reiner gave Ymir’s letter for Historia to Hange, so you don’t need to worry about that either. She probably already has it by now.”

That was something, at least. Plus the fact Hange apparently survived his explosion, when he thought he'd vaporised them. Him and Reiner had held up their end of the deal, although it didn’t do anything to alleviate the writhing ball of guilt that still lay in the pit of his stomach.

“How did he give it to them?” Bertholdt asked, face still obscured from Marco’s view by the hand still clamped to his forehead. “When did he get the chance?”

“Oh, I- shit… I only just realised, so much happened while you were out, there’s so much I need to fill you in on - before you were even thrown over the wall, as well…” Marco had been idly picking at a hangnail, which now started to bleed slightly. “Are you ready to hear it, do you think? All of it is really, really bad. It just gets worse.”

Oh, goodie. “Go on. Can’t be worse than I’ve already seen,” Bertholdt muttered, to which Marco only swallowed, but started recounting the events regardless. 

Marco tried to relay it all completely factually, but Bertholdt could see him wincing out of the corner of his eye anytime he had to describe something less than savoury (not that any of it really was). 

Nothing was left out - Reiner’s defeat before Bertholdt was thrown over the wall, Reiner’s defeat again after Bertholdt had transformed, how Hange was ready to kill him after he gave them Ymir’s letter and before Zeke and Pieck grabbed him, and how those two couldn’t save him as well (though Marco sarcastically spat out the words couldn’t, muttering something about how Zeke could’ve tried.)

He covered the massacre of the rest of the Scouts on the far side of the wall as well, something which Bertholdt had only witnessed the start of and was mostly too preoccupied to keep an eye on.

It didn’t make for good listening whatsoever. Not that Bertholdt expected any of it would make him feel better, but christ. He didn’t notice just how fraught he was until Marco asked if he could have another drink before he had to recount what happened on the roof, and found that his knuckles were completely white from their clamp around the bottle’s neck, not even having realised he’d still been holding it all this time.

Bertholdt sunk into himself again as soon as he’d stiffly released his grasp on the bottle and passed it to Marco, hunching over and wrapping his arms around himself once more as Marco took a gulp and struggled to get through all that happened in the minutes up until Bertholdt regained consciousness.

… Huh.

He wanted to be sick so, so bad. He'd never even thought to ask just how Armin had come to be injected in titan serum, especially after he thought he had murdered him, the constant reeling in his mind clouding what should've been obvious questions. The second Erwin was mentioned, he nearly jumped out of his skin, immediately realising just what his addition into the equation meant.

He thought Erwin had been killed in the onslaught brought by Zeke's Beast Titan. Something that, although he was complicit in, was out of his control. It's not that he'd ever been close to the man, but he respected him; knew he was a rare, brilliant kind of person that you only saw once in a lifetime, or in lifetimes. Of course, it was technically still Zeke who killed Erwin, but even knowing that fact wasn’t going to stop a person like Bertholdt from his desire for mental self-flagellation. If he hadn’t decided to (try to) kill Armin, both Armin and Erwin could’ve lived, since there’d be no dispute over who got the titan serum. To Bertholdt, Erwin’s blood was on his hands just as much as everyone else’s was.

Something that was making him feel even worse again was Marco - he spat out his retelling like each word was acid, not hiding the disgust on his face. Bertholdt didn’t want anyone to feel angry on his behalf, especially not someone who still refused to feel angry about his own murder. It’s not fair, it’s not right, I don’t deserve it… 

As far as he was concerned, all that happened on the ground was what he did deserve. Every bit of it clicked together so cleanly in his mind, it was almost satisfying. He still wanted to throw up every organ he had, if he even had insides anymore, but he could accept that this was how it should be, that this just worked so perfectly as karma, as revenge for his immeasurable sins, almost as if written in stone a long, long time ago.

That is, of course, what he kept repeating to himself in his mind, clenching his teeth and trying to block out the words when Marco stopped biting back altogether on his desire to be a neutral party and couldn't resist making clear just how diabolical he found the whole thing. ‘It was like you weren’t even there’ ‘I get that they wanted to save someone, but they just dragged you around like meat’ ‘They were so upset when they thought they killed Reiner, but they never said a word about killing you’ ‘It was like you weren’t even there’

Bertholdt felt the ever increasing anguish pulling him in like the monstrous machinery in the mills where less fortunate children worked back in Marley, machinery that would catch your clothes, dragging you in helplessly as it maimed you, churned you up until there was nothing recognisable left. 

“Marco,” Bertholdt croaked, interrupting him, “Stop. Just stop… I get it. I don't need to hear anymore.”

Marco turned to face him almost in surprise, before looking down at his hands again, not having realised how carried away he’d gotten. “Sorry, fuck…”

Bertholdt ignored his guilty expression and continued, voice still hoarse, “I don't get it - I've given up trying to understand why you're like this, but can you not understand that this is just perfect karma? It all works out completely fair. It couldn't get any better.”

“What?” Marco stiffened slightly, looking at Bertholdt out of the corner of his eye. “What do you mean?...”

Bertholdt almost felt the urge crack his knuckles. “Think about it. I get left defenceless on a roof to be eaten by a titan, while my old friends just watch it happen from a safe distance. Where have you seen that before?”

Marco furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to make a retort, but Bertholdt spoke again before he could get the words out.

“The only difference,” Bertholdt said matter-of-factly, “Is that you never deserved it. You never killed anyone.”

Marco shut his mouth at that, and Bertholdt was relieved for a second that finally Marco didn’t have a reply to something he’d said, until Marco quietly murmured, “But you didn't want to. You didn't have a choice.”

Bertholdt wanted to slam his head against a wall. 

“Just… Don’t say that,” Marco continued. “Regardless of what you did before, you didn’t deserve that. No one does. Not from people you were close friends with for years. You didn’t have a choice, but they did. And, despite everything, you three at least treated me like a human being. You actually cared about me.”

He's cracked. He's insane. 

“We cared about you because you were innocent. You never killed anyone - and I don’t think feeling a bit bad about murdering someone can be considered caring. My death was beneficial; it brought Armin back to life, someone on their side who they still cared about, after, need I remind you, I tried to scald him to death. All your murder achieved was, like I mentioned before, the benefit of our identities not getting found out for less than a month.”

He continued staring straight ahead, and added after a moment, “It’s the least I should’ve gotten. If only Armin and Erwin weren’t already so close to death, they could’ve done an awful lot more.”

He lolled his head to the side to make eye contact with Marco, expecting an argument, but Marco's face showed no signs of one brewing inside him. 

“I’m not doing this again, Bertholdt. I’m too tired.” Marco squeezed his eyes shut, and Bertholdt couldn’t tell if he was vexed, or just weary. “We’re not going to come to an agreement. You’re insistent on blaming yourself for all these things that were out of your control, and as much as I want you to stop, I can't convince you not to. You're not going to convince me that you’re right to blame yourself, and you can’t convince me that them feeding you to a titan was just some kind of righting of the universe, and not a horrible, despicable act.”

“I get why they did it,” Marco continued, “I understand their position. They didn't even know about the outside world yet, and if the sacrifice of an enemy, even an enemy who was once a friend, could bring one person they care about back… Of course they'd take that opportunity. But that doesn't mean it was good, or the right thing to do. It doesn't mean I have to agree with it.”

Bertholdt felt like what little wind he had in his sails had been knocked out of them. He really didn't have the energy to argue with Marco, either. Wordlessly, he took a drink from the brandy that Marco had set back down between them some time ago. After a short while passed without even a glance passed between the two, Bertholdt cleared his burning throat.

“Can I just ask you one thing, and have you answer me completely honestly?”

“Of course. I haven’t been unhonest at any point yet, I’m not gonna start now.”

“Tell me you’re angry. And I don't mean at the Survey Corps.”

“That’s not a question, Bertl.”

“Marco.” Bertholdt shot him a look. “You just said me being fed to a titan was a horrible, despicable act. Do you not extend that to yourself?”

Marco simply looked at the ground, grimacing.

“Just please be honest with me,” Bertholdt pleaded, leaning forward to get a better look at Marco’s face. “For your own sake more than mine. Tell me you’re not completely fine with what we did. You may think me a shit liar, but you’re just as much of one.”

If the request hadn’t been so difficult for him, Marco would have laughed at Bertholdt’s amiable insult. Instead, he let out a lengthy sigh, burrowing his eyes into his palms. 

After what was only a few moments, but what felt to both of them like so much longer, he whispered, barely audible, “Of course I’m angry.”

It was what Bertholdt wanted to hear. It was what he knew was right. And yet, it still sent an icy bullet through his gut.

Marco’s head hung low, his fringe falling over his eyes like a curtain, covering them from Bertholdt’s view and masking his expressions even when Marco finally took his hands away from his face and folded them together in his lap instead. 

“Of course I’m angry,” Marco repeated, even lower this time. “I’m only human… I know there’s a million things I’ll never get to do. I never got to join a faction - if I even would’ve lasted in any of them, the way things ended up going,” he muttered. “I’ll never get to grow old or have a family or be remembered as anything more than a name on a plaque up in Trost. Of course I’m angry that I’ll never get to do anything with my life. I’ll never get to have a life.”

He breathed out a shaky sigh, running a stiff hand through his hair, and continued, “Of course I still think about that moment over and over again, how terrifying it was - how terrifying it still is. I still wake up in the middle of the night… I still wonder, no matter how much I try not to think about it, if there was another way… But, whether it was just destiny or something else, it’s done now, and it doesn’t bring me any feelings of satisfaction to see you come to the same fate. It just makes me feel sick.”

Bertholdt’s jaw was shut tight, and all he could do was stare at the side of Marco's face. Although it was still light out, the sky was getting ever darker, and Bertholdt realised with an extra pang of guilt that despite how long they’d been there now, there was still something he hadn’t said yet, no matter how much he’d felt it - not just today, but something that’d been gnawing at him constantly for months, repeating it over and over again in his mind.

“Marco… I’m so sorry,” he whispered. 

“It’s alright,” Marco said softly. “I forgive you. I forgave you ages ago.”

“No, I am - I really, really am,” Bertholdt stumbled, “I’m sorry I didn’t say it before, it should’ve been the first thing out of my mouth when I saw you, it’s what I thought straight away, but I -”

“Bertholdt. It’s okay,” Marco cut across, smiling at the ground. “I knew you were. You didn’t have to say anything. Please don’t dwell on whatever I said, the last thing I’d want to do is guilt you, but I didn’t want to lie to you when - well, you asked for it.”

The slightest hint of a breathy laugh left Bertholdt. “I asked for it,” he repeated.

“Always a sucker for punishment,” Marco tutted affably.

Bertholdt let out a weak, hoarse, but genuine chuckle despite himself, not knowing what else he could say. He rested the side of his face on his knees, watching the deep orange of the sun stretch out across the clouds as it got lower and lower in the sky. Closing his eyes, his mind started to drift again.

“Can I ask you something else?” Bertholdt asked, quietly.

“Anything,” Marco replied.

Although he had the words ready in his head, it took Bertholdt a few moments to compose himself enough to ask the question he inexplicably felt was incredibly selfish. “If Reiner was here now, instead of me - if Reiner had died instead. Would you have waited for him the same way you did for me?”

Marco opened his mouth to speak, but Bertholdt almost immediately cut over him without even realising. “You wouldn't have to worry about him. I think the first thing he'd do is cry into your arms and beg for forgiveness, and then say he doesn't deserve it and not accept it.”

“Not that much of a difference, then,” Marco said, fighting back a grin when Bertholdt gave him a miffed look. 

He straightened himself out, and added more seriously, “Of course I’d wait for him. I care about him just as much as I do you, so of course I’d want to help in whatever way I could. I’m not gonna lie and say what he did was… wasn’t…” He swallowed and shook his head, knowing he wasn’t getting anywhere with that train of thought. 

“But I know that that Reiner…” Marco continued, “It wasn’t exactly the real him. The version of him I knew mightn’t have been the real him either, but I know that he wasn’t a cruel person. I can’t imagine how horrific it must be to try deal with all of that, while barely having a hold on who you even are…”

Bertholdt nodded, his jaw clenched. It still felt so wrong, Marco being like this. Himself, Reiner and Annie all had the same thought - why did it have to be him? - but truthfully, they really lucked out. Out of everyone, only Marco could be so disgustingly sweet and understanding that he’d want to do everything within his power to go out of his way to help and care for the people who murdered him.

In a bad attempt to distract himself from the agonising guilt churning in his gut, Bertholdt blurted out, “Reiner always really liked you. Looked up to you, wanted to be like you, even. He's always latched onto people he sees as being loved and reliable, and tried to model himself after them…”

Marco caught Bertholdt off guard with a sudden laugh, though he could tell his throat was catching. “I remember when we were trainees, on some training exercise up the mountains, I said the same thing to him… I told him how I looked up to him, how I wished I could be more like him, and he went all quiet. I asked him if he was alright, and after he was zoned out for a bit, he just snapped back into himself, with some affirmation about being a soldier… Makes a lot more sense why he reacted like that now.” Marco let out another smaller laugh, though it was closer to a shaky sigh, and he rubbed his eyes.

Bertholdt squeezed his eyes shut and made a noise of recognition, his throat too tight to attempt a proper response. It just hurt to think about. He should be so, so angry at us. 

“Speaking of… Do you want to go see Reiner now?” Marco asked softly. “And Annie, though she’s not up to much, and your family… You should be fit to travel now. I didn’t expect you to stay any longer than you had to.”

Bertholdt had almost forgotten - this was what he’d been waiting for this entire time; to finally have his freedom, to leave this Fucking Island for once and for all and never come back again. He still wanted it, of course, more than anything else. He wanted to be sure that Annie was alright, and that no more harm could come to her, as much as it’d pain him to see her encased in crystal indefinitely. He wanted to see Reiner; to see with his own eyes that he was okay, so badly that it made his chest hurt. But the thought of heading there now, to be alone and stuck forever in silence as an invisible fly on the wall while everyone he loved went on with their lives, made him feel incredibly lonely.

From the corner of his eye, Marco watched Bertholdt apprehensively fiddling with the sleeves of his jumper. “You don’t need to worry about it. Just think about going to them and you’ll be there. Paths is easy enough to navigate once you do it, but for the love of god don’t make me try to explain it. I haven’t a clue.”

“Where will you go?” Bertholdt asked.

“Oh, uhh… Back to what I usually do, I suppose. See my family, follow the Survey Corps around…” Marco scrunched up his nose, pausing to think of anything else. “One of the new recruits who died, Marlowe, promised me a drink before he left ‘cus he said he’d heard about me from Jean and wanted to get to know me…”

Bertholdt turned a little to look at him. Marco caught his eye for just a moment. “I mean, of course I’d like to see you again, but I don’t expect you to want to come back here. It’s alright, I understand.”

“Would you like to come with me?” Bertholdt asked.

“What?” Marco stared at him in surprise.

“To Liberio. Reiner, Annie and I's home.”

“Why?... Why would you want me to come?” 

“Well… You sound like you want a break, and… Wouldn't you like to see life outside the walls?” 

“I… I would, but - wouldn't you rather be on your own?...”

Bertholdt looked to the ground. “Not really.”

“If you really, honestly want me to come, I'd be more than glad to. I would love to see… But I don't wanna get in the way…” 

“You won't get in the way. But if you'd rather stay here, then I understand…”

“No, I - I'd be glad to go with you, so long as you're not asking just for my sake.”

“For both of our sakes,” Bertholdt stated. “I'd like the company… If you're okay with that.”

“We're circling around each other again,” Marco laughed self-consciously. “I would. I'd really love to come with you. I've missed you.”

Bertholdt buried his face into his knees for a moment with an embarrassed groan. Though the guilt gnawed at him again, though it still felt so wrong, he managed to force out, “You, too…” before he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Well, up you get, then, if you’re ready,” Marco smiled his wonky grin down at him. 

Bertholdt hadn’t noticed him stand up, and took his hand to be pulled to his feet.

While he stretched his aching bones, Marco spilled out what was left of the brandy over the edge of the wall.

“Are you ready to go?” Marco asked over his shoulder, shaking out the last few drops. “I'll help you. Once we get into Paths, we just have to follow the specific path of whoever you want to find first. It won't take long - we can try to find your other friends, too, like Marcel. Don't think I forgot that slip-up.”

Bertholdt laughed a little, still mid-stretch. “You and him would get along well.” He rubbed his face with his jumper, trying to get rid of the remnants of grime and tears he was sure were still smeared there. “Yeah, I think I'm ready.” 

“Right so,” Marco said, just before reeling back and throwing the empty bottle with all his strength over the side of the wall. “Just don't let me get in the way. If you want me to leave you alone at any point, I'll be gone like -” smash “- That.”

“Thank you, Marco,” Bertholdt replied sheepishly. “I appreciate it… I really, really don't deserve your help. Or any of this.”

“Don't start that shite or I might change my mind,” Marco joked, taking one of Bertholdt's hands in his.

“Let's go,” he beamed.

Bertholdt smiled weakly back down at him. That screaming pain in his head just felt like any old headache now. He was still wracked with anxiety, and he knew Marco could most likely feel his hands still tremoring, both from what he'd already been through and from thinking about what was coming - about what state Reiner would be in, and if he could cope with seeing him like that… But, at the very least, he wouldn't be alone. 

Just as he took a final glance from Marco and towards what little light was left dissipating on the far horizon, they were gone.