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While Annie’s yelling and the sound of her kicking keep getting louder, the only indication that Reiner hasn’t passed out already are his weaker and weaker choked moans.
Bertolt can’t bring himself to lift a muscle, and besides, even if he did, he wouldn’t know what to do afterwards. There’s no point in stopping Annie now that she’s finally saying something, and Reiner’s face is already swollen anyway. He should’ve done something earlier, probably.
They’re in a foreign land, in a whole different universe—in a way, even a different time—, and yet he’s standing still just as he would back home.
He will be there to offer a smile and his hand to Reiner and help him stand up after a fight with Porco, but he won’t try to get in the way as they’re beating each other up. Unlike Marcel, he’s not cut out for the role of proactive peacekeeper. Marcel never thinks—thought—twice before stepping in between Reiner and his brother, even if that meant he could get hit. If he were there, he would most likely stop this fight between Annie and Reiner, too. He would know how to deal with this Annie who acts like a feral animal and this Reiner who was so quick to surrender to the role of prey.
It's not Bertolt’s case. He’s more likely to wait for the storm to quiet down before resolving to action, only deal with its aftermath. Sometimes he thinks he’s bound to be a mere witness of life as it carries out almost on its own, as if untied from his will and actions. Most of those were already chosen from someone else, after all. It’s already decided how long he will live, too—if he manages to get to the thirteenth year, that is.
The kicking and moaning stop, and for a moment there are only Annie’s exhausted breaths. It doesn’t last long. Roles are suddenly reversed, with Annie’s breathing turned into a desperate gasping for air while Reiner chokes her and promises that he’ll be Marcel, if they need him to be.
Bertolt had wondered why they gave him the Colossal, of all Titans. Why, of all of them, they chose to entrust him with something that could be compared to a god. He thinks he gets it now. They must have given him all the power because they had to know that he wouldn’t know what to do with it. They had to know he wouldn’t dare to unleash it unless he was told by someone else to do so. He can never do anything on his own.
He can’t tell Annie how he feels about her.
He can’t take Reiner’s side before he crashes defeated to the ground.
He can barely let the words out, a useless, “Stop it already” that neither of them hears. He can’t even say he’s watching, because his eyes are glazed and dull, filled with tears that finally stream down his cheeks.
Bertolt can’t stop the storm. He can only stand in the eye of it, hoping that it will end soon.