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When did you start looking at me like that?
Was it from the beginning? We looked at each other back then, but we never saw anything. You saw orphaned children, broken bodies, shattered dreams. I saw island devils.
(How do you see us as equals today?)
The first time I saw you, I heard your voice and it was that adolescent break that had me glancing your way.
I remember scowling.
Weak…
Pathetic…
Ignorant… how you hate that word today, but Founder, was it true then. You all were ignorant of the outside world.
But then again, so was I.
Warriors… soldiers… we were all just children in costumes yet as I look at the children we saved – and think of those that have yet to breathe life – I realize we never really were permitted to just be young. This new generation will get to be young and so much more.
I'm sure there will still be hardships for them.
I think of my father's abuse, the physical and emotional harm that I am still recovering from. I may have forgiven him – I know you have tried – and he has found a new place both in my life and my heart, but I still flinch when he moves too quickly or when his booming laugh makes me think of all the aggressive comments shouted in my direction.
It was to shape me to be a warrior, but I still don't think I would have had a happy childhood even in the absence of warriors and devils, honorary citizens and the internment zone.
I think of your parents. Their lives ended because of dreams and flights of fancy. The reason behind their deaths was born in a world surrounded by walls, but I think that even in this "peaceful" world we have created together, the dreamers may still struggle to find their peace.
I think of your grandfather. Sent to his death because of overpopulation… sent to his death because of me although you refuse to acknowledge this. Sometimes it pains me when you won't put any of the blame on me. You think you're doing it to protect me, but sometimes…sometimes I just wish that I can be the villain in your story, in their story.
Instead, you cast me as a heroine opposite you. You share the word "hero" not only with me, but with all of us. Instead of being the savior who united those from different births and experiences against a common enemy, you were just one of us… we were one of you.
Will future children have it easier?
Yes and no, I believe.
They will (hopefully) not be raised in a world of Titans, of devils, of warriors and child soldiers. They will (hopefully) never learn how to hold a rifle and watch as the light extinguishes from an alleged foe's eyes. They will (hopefully) get to love and be loved in return.
(That is a lesson I am still learning.)
These future children, both real and hypothetical, will (hopefully) be raised in a world with compassion and understanding. Where we can celebrate our differences instead of using them to create walls between us. They will (hopefully) learn how to extend a hand, not a fist, to those in need and even in a world as broken as this, I hope that they will find love.
I hope they will learn the lessons I never got to learn. I-
I had to stop writing and get more ink and now I forgot what I was going to tell you just now. This was supposed to just be a letter I wrote to you while you slept beside me, putting down the words I struggled to say out loud, but it's becoming so much more than that.
A confession of sins already well known… a diary meant to be shared and read by others… it has become many things and still is not what I had originally planned it to be.
(I am sorry for adding more to the list of treaties and letters you must read.)
When did you start looking at me like that?
It couldn't have been during adolescence even if that was when I first started looking at you.
After the first time, you were quarantined to the part of my brain that remembered the weak, the pathetic, the ones whose only successes came from blind loyalty to a larger governing force.
By the Founder, I hated you back then.
But it wasn't you. It was what you represented.
You dreamt of the sea. I had nightmares of crossing the blue waters, both to the island and back home. To the island, full of devils, full of my sins. To home, to my father with his harsh words and demanding spirit, to hatred and bigotry.
There were other nightmares, of course. Some not mine, but leftover memories and dreams of those that came before me. But the nightmares I hated the most during that chapter of my life are the nightmares that have become dreams today.
I had nightmares of spending time with the rest of the 104 th . Panic would grip my chest each morning when I would wake up, remembering that I had dreamt of smiling with everyone, of laughing, of wanting to grow closer to you and the others.
Especially you.
I thought I was a failure.
But it could have been worse, I suppose, considering the mental stability of the rest of the warriors turned soldiers, soldiers turned warriors. At least, I always knew which I was.
What I was.
A traitor…
A monster…
I am – was – yet I know future you, the one not sleeping beside me, will shake his head as I describe myself in such a way. You are kind. Kinder than I deserve. Kinder than I thought possible. Which is why I'm writing these words down instead of saying them to you, that way you can't interrupt me when I call myself all these true things.
I started looking at you in adolescence, from the beginning of training.
You couldn't have started looking at me then.
I would have caught you.
I think.
If you were looking at me back then, it couldn't have been from the beginning.
Why would you?
Reading this, you are probably listing dozens of reasons that would have drawn you to me, but I think you're far too busy remembering those days with rose colored eyes. You will comment on my strength, my self-imposed isolation, my beauty.
(Does it amuse you to know I rolled my eyes as I wrote that word? Two years since your boat confession and I still don't believe you. Or rather, I believe that you believe, but that doesn't make it real. I never considered writing one of my strong suits, it's why the others help you with speeches, but here I am and doing a horrid job at it.)
What was the point again?
For me to talk about how I watched you? How I watched as you talked about the sea and its never-ending salt, lakes of fire and fields of ice, the world beyond the walls? The world I knew and how even though I knew the reality of the world, I still found myself caught up in your dreams.
I would never see lakes of fire or fields of ice nor would you, or so I thought back then. Even if you had been born outside of the walls of your island, the walls of the internment camp would have greeted you instead. You were born to exist within walls, within cages.
But you were also born to bring those walls down.
You were born to open cage doors, both the doors that trapped you and those that trapped others. You were the first to reach out a hand in hopes of finding common ground.
To the people of your nation…
To the people of the world…
To prisoners of war…
To me.
We still have not seen the lakes of fire or fields of ice, but we have seen the sea. The first time, you saw it without me, but you came back and told me all about it. Seeing it through your eyes during my crystallization was more beautiful than seeing it with my own eyes years before.
We have travelled across the sea multiple times, together and apart. I choose to remember the times we were together the most for even when we were approaching the end of the world, they were happier times. Those journeys were, at the very least, my own decisions.
You confessed to me on a boat as it glided across the sea.
I confessed to you three months later as we sat alongside the edge of the water. It was our first trip as the "ambassadors of peace." I hated the title then and I still do now. I know none of us are fond of it. Our hands are too stained with blood for any of us to be comfortable with the word "peace." But alas such is our fate.
When we were ready to board the boat to our next destination, you asked me if I would answer a question of yours – when you were ready to ask it.
I said, "yes."
You blushed, smiled, and said, "good."
And that was that.
You asked me the question a week ago.
I didn't have an answer then.
I do now.
I'll tell you it later. In person. In a way where if this letter falls into other hands, I won't desire a return to a crystalized prison. The words I have to say are for you alone.
So, when was it that you started looking at me like that? How you did a week ago and every moment leading up to that?
We (I) decided it couldn't have been during our training years.
Was it at the end of that chapter of our lives? When we had stood together, our gear in front of us, all of us under suspicion for treason?
Back when I was the guilty warrior amongst the innocent, naïve soldiers.
I hope that it wasn't then even as I still hold onto your words from that day.
"Nice" – that was what you called me and I held onto it dearly – it was my lifeline as I planned the attacks that would lead to my self-imprisonment. It was the first time that word had ever been used to describe me. It still feels like a word that shouldn't be used to apply to me – even today I feel like I am nice adjacent – but remembering it back then still warms me today.
Which is why I hope that wasn't the start of your affection.
If it was… was it only for a moment?
By your own account, after saying those words, was when you noticed our… your friend's gear presented in fronted me.
(Despite both you and the others claiming that I have been "forgiven", I cannot call the man – the boy – I killed a friend. It's not fair to his memory or those who loved him. Please allow me to be the villain – just this once.)
It was at that moment, I went from being nice to being a suspect, but still you kept quiet.
It must have been then.
I have decided for you and for me.
Why else would you have kept quiet? Your silence, your inaction, killed so many others. I'm not saying this to make you feel guilty even though I can already picture your frown as you read these words. You might be thinking of writing another apology to the good Captain, apologizing for the loss of his comrades at my hands.
I'm saying all of this because after all this time…
…after three years of training beside one another…
…after weeks of thinking about the boy who called me nice and whether he would survive his first venture outside the walls…
…after four years of listening to you tell me your hopes, your fears, everything…
…after two years of being by your side, sometimes as a partner, sometimes as a comrade, but always yours…
I think I finally have an answer.
You looked at me before I was the enemy, before you had the memories of the life I led prior to the island, and before we were on the precipice of death.
By looking at me before all those things, I realize that you aren't by my side because you want to keep your enemy close (deep down I know that this was never the case, but please, allow me my anxieties here). You aren't by my side because of guilt towards my traumatic upbringing or lingering feelings of shifters before (why you would feel guilty is beyond me and as for the feelings from our old friend… even if the situation had been different and he had lived… well, this letter is for you and only you. I hope you understand that). You aren't by my side because you think we are going to die and want to go to your grave without regrets (I'll relent a little here. We may still very well die. We're ambassadors of "peace" in a shattered world, but it's not the suicide mission you embarked on two years ago. We may always be on the precipice of death but not like we once were).
So, I guess, after everything, even though I still think you are making a mistake and that there are less broken girls for you to bind yourself to, I will accept your place in my life and my place in yours.
Because after all, you are rarely wrong.
The sunlight coming from the window of the ship woke him up. Normally, it was the morning waves that would pull him from his dreams (after two years of spending most of his time on ships, he was still finding his sea legs; embarrassing for a man who always dreamt of seeing the water), but they had been blessed with calm weather.
He squinted and looked around his room, eyes locking onto the clock, and he chuckled softly. He had slept in, which was a rare occasion for him. Not because he was always required to be up early – well, not always – but because he always found something for him to do. He normally would rise before the sun, whether on land or on the sea, and he would get dressed silently in the dark before grabbing his papers, trying to keep them from rustling, and slipping out the door. He usually found himself in whatever they were using as a kitchen and he would make a small amount of coffee for himself, just to chase away any remnants of sleep.
About an hour or so later, he would start a larger pot for the rest of the ambassadors. Jean normally would join him first, grumbling about Connie's snoring in their shared room before grabbing a stack of papers to peruse. Armin knew it was a lie – the three of them had slept beside each other for almost a decade, they could sleep through all of each other's many sounds – but Jean would never admit that he woke up each day just to help Armin with their work. Jean was always his reliable second in any meetings and at times when the pressures of leadership would get to him, Jean was always there to shoulder it himself.
Pieck would rise next. She would stumble in shortly after Jean. On nights that were particularly rough, she would sometimes half-crawl through the door, her hair covering most of her face as she pawed around for a cup of coffee. Jean didn't think anyone noticed, but Armin had paid attention when, two months ago, he started preparing her coffee for her before silently handing it across the table, his face darkening. Armin knew better than to poke fun – it would open him to the same kind of treatment. Pieck was also quick to look at whatever papers Armin was working on and was quick to offer her perspective as a Marleyan and someone who was more experienced in the world than any of islanders.
Connie and Reiner would normally arrive together. Jean and Connie would immediately start bickering about something, anything, before Reiner would grab them both in his arms, holding them close until they fell silent, all three men blushing. Reiner's physical affection for his comrades had surprised them all, but this was the first time he was free without the expectations placed on him by his country of birth, his family, and himself. Armin knew that his friend's fractured mind and spirt still clawed as the decent heart that was hidden inside and when less than two years ago, Reiner had confided in Armin privately about his suicide attempts and persistent depression, Armin had pushed him to take care of himself before he could take care of the world.
Reiner had left their group to seek help and Armin had received a letter from Onyankopon a few weeks later saying that Reiner had arrived on his doorstep, crumbling in front of him. Back then, Yelena, Levi, and the kids were still staying with him and had ushered in their broken comrade with open arms. Armin remembered reading about how Gabi and Falco had slept on the floor of Reiner's room, guarding him, reminding him that he was not alone.
After a couple of months away, Annie and Pieck had returned to Marley to visit their families and returned with Reiner in tow. There was still pain in his eyes – there always would be – but his smile came easier and he accepted his place in the world and in their lives. No one ever asked about his time in Marley and he never offered anything. It was his journey to make and Armin was grateful that his journey brought him back to them.
Annie was always the last to arrive with Connie often dramatically asking how she could still be so tired after sleeping for four years. Annie and Armin were both quick to silence him with a glare. It worked well enough in the beginning, but then, according to Connie, Armin made Annie's eyes lose their "steelness". That earned him a flick on the forehead from Annie which only served to prove Connie's apparent point, proclaiming that a few months ago, she would have thrown him over her shoulder and had him coughing up blood.
Annie would then usually grab a seat close to Armin, looking over his shoulder at whatever document he was reading. If it was one she remembered him reading the night before – it usually was – she would pluck it from his hands and give it to either Jean or Pieck to read. No words were ever said and he appreciated the understanding amongst all the ambassadors. He may be the "hero of humanity" (he still cringed at whenever his title was used), but they were still a team. They were him and he was them. Despite how the outside nations viewed them, they were all equals.
Something he was always quick to remind Annie of.
The woman in question stirred beside him and he was pulled from his musings of his comrades, his friends, and the lives they now led. He glanced down at her and watched as her eyebrows furrowed before relaxing as she continued to sleep.
She was still plagued by nightmares. They all were, but Annie's were more than just dead comrades at their feet and Titans scorching the Earth. It took her a long time to be able to talk to him about her dreams.
About the abuse she suffered at hands of her father…
About the torture brought onto her by the Marleyan military…
About the four years of isolation and loneliness that was her crystal…
They had been together for over a year before she was ready to talk about her nightmares surrounding the prison that he had trapped her in. He had listened to her with a composed face, trying to be there for just her, for Annie, even as his heart broke with grief and guilt.
There were nights where she would wake up gasping and he would hold her tightly against his body as she shook, allowing her to touch his face with her hands and cling to him, her nails drawing blood.
It was proof that she was here.
That she was safe.
Armin blushed as he realized he had been staring at her and he glanced away before noticing a stack of papers on the table by their bed. She rarely read the documents that were passed their way unless he asked and she refused to bring them to her bed at night as he did.
He could dream of politics, she would say, she would dream of him.
He would chuckle as she closed her eyes and he would press a kiss to her forehead as he dimmed the light by his table, dull enough to allow her to succumb to sleep, but still bright enough for him to keep reading for a few hours.
He delicately reached across her sleeping form to grab the papers, pausing as he did so as he realized that whatever she was writing – or reading – may not be for him to see. Then two words urged him forward:
Dear Armin.
He was still reading the letter when she woke up and she smiled softly before reaching out to touch his back, gently pulling him away from the her on the page to the woman laying in bed with him. He turned and returned her smile, his lips open to ask her a question, but she shook her head, pulling herself to a sitting position.
"Yes, Armin. Yes."