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Armin had just left another long, dispiriting meeting overseen by Commander in Chief Zackly. He had been reminded that Eren's desertion meant he was Paradis’ last hope against any Marleyan invasion force. The Colossal’s abilities were ill-suited to defence, and protecting the island would necessitate a bloodbath. They had revised the first response plan to accommodate his unique capabilities. In the quiet of the empty stair, he let the titan surface and ripple under his skin, feeling the destructive capacity building in his blood. The weight of his new responsibility and the commanders’ lingering suspicion wore him down.
He was lost in his tempestuous thoughts when Sasha cornered him in the stairwell leading down to the mess.
“Armin, have you seen Mikasa?” she asked.
She was fresh from the exercise yard. Sweat beaded on her forehead, plastering her hair to her scalp. The rank smell wafted off her, and dust clung to her cheeks and the fabric of her ODM suit. She shifted and the belts and buckles clinked together.
“We haven’t spoken since the debriefing meeting with Zackly, what, four days ago?”
“Go find her. She's sick.”
He ran a hand through his hair. He didn't particularly want to see her. The whole long journey back from Marley, he had stared at her grey face and dull, bruised eyes.
“I’m sure she'll be fine.”
Sasha sucked her teeth, a reproachful hissing.
“No, go to her. She’ll talk to you. We were supposed to train a group of recruits on the ODM course this week. Start of the week, all I get is a note. Sick, it says, that’s all. I went to her quarters yesterday and left a basket of food, but she wouldn't open the door. This morning I checked, and she's taken the basket. She never gets sick, Armin. I’ve been covering for her, but she needs to get her ass down here and report for duty soon. Go figure out what's happened before the Commander starts thinking she's deserted too.”
“Alright,” Armin conceded.
“Get the skeleton key,” Sasha said. “Don't let her send you away.”
“Why don't you try talking to her again?”
Sasha shrugged, a fluid roll of her shoulders and toss of her long brown hair. “You can’t corner a wounded animal and expect anything besides an attack. She doesn't trust me, so it's gotta be you.”
Barracks Officer Pavlo Leff sat behind the desk in the little office filling out a requisition form. A fly buzzed, circling lazily in the airless space. Leff’s bald head glistened with sweat, and he mopped it with a handkerchief, a neat little green square with the wings of freedom rendered in white and blue thread. Leff had survived eleven expeditions beyond the Walls. His face was crisscrossed with red and purple scars, and his bare skull bore a row of indents: the bite of a seven-metre titan. He looked up from the damp papers spread out in front of him and turned his one dark eye on Armin.
“Specialist Arlert, what can I do for you?”
“I need access to the master key. It's an urgent matter,” Armin said.
“Well,” Left paused and scratched his neck. “I think you know I can only release the master key under orders from the Commander or the Military Police.”
He leaned forward and dipped his pen into the inkwell.
“But …”
“No. You're free to knock on whoever you're looking for’s door, but if you want the master key, you’ll have to come back with a formal request.”
Armin dithered in the doorway.
“Is there anything else, Arlert?”
“No. Good afternoon, Officer Leff.”
Armin climbed the stairs to the second floor, where the light filtered through a wide window overlooking the street. The corridor was empty, and he hurried towards Mikasa's door, rapping his knuckles against the rough wood. There was the creak of bedsprings and the sound of something heavy falling onto the wooden floor. He knocked again.
“Mikasa! Are you alright?”
There was a great deal of rustling and the scrape of something being pulled across the floor.
“Mikasa, open up!”
“Go away, Armin,” she said. Her voice was very close now.
“No. Let me in.”
“Please, I’m sick. Just go away.”
“If you're sick, you should go to the infirmary. I’m not leaving. If you don't let me in, I’ll just wait. I’ll stay all night. I’ll sleep out here in the hallway.”
The bolt squeaked as she slid it out of the lock. The door swung inwards. Armin pushed his way in before she decided to slam the door on him. He wrinkled his nose. The room reeked of blood and vomit. A porcelain basin sat in the corner filled with bloody linen bandages.
Mikasa hunched forward, leaning against the open door, wavering on her feet. Her face was pinched and pale, the lips chapped and bloodless. She wore a loose grey tunic that fell to the tops of her thighs. A rivulet of dark blood sluiced down her leg and dripped onto the floor.
“Shit. Fuck. What did you do?”
“I’m fine,” she rasped. “Just go. Tell them I'm fine.”
Another gush of blood ran down her thighs. Armin cringed at the slick splat as the clot landed on the floor. It sat beside her white foot, thick and black, glistening faintly.
“You don't look fine. Get in the bed. Fuck.”
Pulling her by the elbow, he led her to the unmade bed. A bloodstain sat in the centre of the white sheets, stiff and dry. She flopped onto the bed and curled up into a ball, her knees pressed against her chest and her eyes squeezed shut. He lifted her hand and pushed down on her fingertip, watching the colour rush back into the nailbed with relief.
“What happened?” he asked.
Looking around the room, he found an earthenware jug and an empty cup set beside the bed. He lifted the jug, sniffing the dark contents. There was a whiff of lemon and peppermint and something harsh and pungent.
“You drank this?”
She nodded weakly and lay back on the bed, head sagging against the pillow. Her eyelids fluttered, and her breathing was rapid. He stuffed down panic, deadening himself and assessing the situation. There was the basin and the bandages carefully wrapped around something that oozed dark blood. He did not want to unwind that hideous package so obviously arranged with care. Sprigs of yellow rue and green and purple pennyroyal lay on the table. He sat down on the floor next to the bed and caught her hand in his. Her nails were gummy with dried blood. He squeezed, imagining his love for her flowing between them. They had always shared everything, even their darkest and most humiliating moments, but this time she had retreated from him.
“Did Eren do this to you?”
“I think we did it together. Then I did this alone. It's not his fault. He left. He doesn't know.”
“Mikasa…” he started.
He didn't know what to say. She watched him, face blank and eyes dim, full of an unspeakable sadness. She cringed away from him in pain and mortification. She groaned and reached for the blanket, covering her face.
“Armin, leave. I’m fine. I’ll report back for duty tomorrow,” she said, voice muffled by the thick wool blanket.
“You're not going anywhere tomorrow,” he said. “I think you drank too much. You don't look good. There's too much blood.”
“Armin,” she whispered, "don't take me to the infirmary. It's over. The blood is... normal. Now I just need to sleep.”
“I'm getting Sasha. Don't lock the door.”
He left before she could protest, rushing out of the room and into the fresh air of the hallway.
New recruits filled the canteen, rowdy and laughing, dressed in the sleek, black uniforms designed by some sadist in the Military Police Experimental Unit. Sasha was among them, slapping backs and talking with her mouth full. They watched her with wide, worshipful eyes as she tossed her hair.
He approached the table, clenching his hands into fists. There was a smear of blood across his palm where he’d taken Mikasa's hand.
“Specialist Blouse, a word?” he called.
Sasha swallowed the last of her bread, waved at her trainee squad, and picked up her tray.
“Did she let you in?” she asked. “It must be bad; you look like you just saw a ghost.”
She deposited her tray, and they walked towards the courtyard connecting the training compound and the barracks block.
“Sasha, she,” he fumbled for words, his throat thick with anxiety. He didn't want to say it. He had always felt that words made things real, transitioning facts from the amorphous realm of private knowledge into reality. “She took a lot of,” he paused again and finally spat it out, hissing “pennyroyal,” low and miserable in her ear. “I think you should come up to her room. She's bleeding a lot.”
Sasha's eyes narrowed. “That fucking bastard.”
“She told me to leave, but I don't think she should be alone.”
They pushed open the heavy wooden doors and entered the barracks, passing Officer Leff bent over his desk, the rows of keys hung on their orderly hooks behind him, and mounting the wide stairs. Sasha knocked.
“Mikasa, we’re coming in,” she called, pushing open the door.
Sasha strode across the room and opened the window. A fresh summer breeze blew in, and the heavy curtains fluttered and flapped against the window frame. She stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the room.
“Alright, you're an idiot. Why didn't you tell me?”
“I wanted to do it alone. Sasha, it hurts so much. I didn't ... I can't. It hurts.”
Sasha sat on the bed, ignoring the blood and the sour smell of the sheets. She slid off her boots and began to unfasten the belts on her ODM suit.
“Shh, I know. I know. You're going to be alright.”
She crawled under the covers and wrapped her arms around Mikasa, stroking her hair and shushing. Mikasa’s face crumpled, and her shoulders shook as muffled sobs erupted from her throat. They built, stifled and quiet at first, and then a sudden wrenching groan and harsh, wet choking cries.
“Armin,” Sasha said, looking at him over Mikasa's head, "go to the market and bring us some meat - beef or chicken liver—and a bundle of lovage and spinach. Then stop by the supply room and get five rolls of bandages; just sign for them; nobody will question it. Go, get out.”
He went to the supply room first, pocketing the bandages and signing the inventory form. Anger bubbled and simmered at the edges of his consciousness: anger at Eren, anger towards Mikasa. He took a deep breath and sifted through the rage. They had been careless and selfish. Putting themselves above their duty. He still hoped that Eren had a plan; that his desertion was not a reckless impulse but part of a carefully coordinated scheme. At least Mikasa had made the hard choice, putting the island above her own desires.
Dust whirled on the cobblestones, kicked up by the feet of passersby and the wheels of carts rolling through. Armin loitered in the market square, drifting between the stalls. It was late afternoon, and the bunches of lovage, spinach, and sorrel were wilting in the heat. The woman behind the grocer’s stall wore a black kerchief tied under her chin and sucked on a wad of tobacco tucked between her teeth and her thin lower lip. Periodically she would smack her lips and open her mouth, moving the brown mass from one cheek to the other and revealing a single yellow tooth.
He gathered the lovage and spinach, deliberated over a sprig of parsley and a garlic bulb, and added them to his purchase.
“Sixty ora,” the vendor croaked.
The coins clinked together as they tumbled onto her palm.
In the butcher shop, sawdust was scattered on the tile floor. The stench of old blood and offal sent his heart racing. Split in half and reduced to so much meat, a cow smelt the same as a man. He closed the door behind him and moved into the room. Chickens were strung up behind the counter beside two glistening red and white beef haunches and strings of sausages.
“How much for an ox bone?” Armin asked.
The man behind the counter wore a crisp white apron over his dark trousers and dark blue shirt. His hands were red and meticulously clean, the nails pared down to his stubby fingertips.
“Ninety ora.”
Armin clutched his purse in his hand.
“And how much for fifty dekagrams of ground meat?”
“One krona twenty ora.”
Armin sighed. “I’ll take both.”
The sun was still bright when he climbed the stairs carrying his packages. He pushed the door to Mikasa's room open and peered inside. A lump of incense burnt on the table, the greasy ashes falling into a saucer and filling the room with the heavy odour of myrrh. The dirty sheets had been bundled up in the corner, and the basin was empty. A wooden crate sat next to the bed and the bloody bundle had been placed in a pillowcase and laid inside. Mikasa slept curled against Sasha on the fresh sheets.
Sasha eased herself out of the bed and took the canvas sack out of Armin's hands, inspecting the meat.
“You went to Hahn's? They always sell gristly beef. This is good, though.” She picked up an egg and a loaf of bread. “You wanna make something?”
“Yeah,” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “There's a soup my mother always made when I was sick. I want to make it for her.”
“She's so closed off. It's hard for her to have someone help. I had to argue with her. I’m gonna stay tonight. She's fine, though. You got scared off by a little blood. You shoulda seen your face in the canteen! I thought for sure she was going to die until I got here and saw her myself. Good thing you're not a girl. ”
They worked together, Sasha stoking the little iron stove and Armin chopping and mixing. The soup bubbled on the stove, the bone simmering with salt and garlic. He added the meatballs, then the parsley, spinach and lovage, inhaling the rich scent of cooking meat.
Mikasa stirred on the bed, rubbing her face and sitting up stiffly.
“Armin, Sasha,” she said.
“We're not going, Mikasa,” Sasha said. “You're gonna eat and sleep, and that's it. Let someone take care of you for once.”
Mikasa pushed her hair back from her face. “Eren doesn't know. Promise me you won't tell him. I know he’ll come back to us. He didn't abandon us. He’ll come back. Don't tell him. Don't tell anyone.”
“Sure, Mikasa, what do you take me for? Some gossiping blabbermouth? It's not our place. That's between the two of you. Our lips are sealed.”
“I won't say anything,” Armin said grimly.
“I still need your help,” Mikasa said, twisting her hands in her lap. “I need to bury … it.”
The sun was setting, an orange glow behind the Southern Mountains. Pink clouds floated lazily on the horizon, and the sky over Trost was already the deep blue of a summer night. They walked to the river bank; Mikasa holding the bundle cradled against her chest, face impassive, Sasha beside her. They moved in step. Armin trailed behind, exiled from their silent connection.
A copse of young birch trees made a natural screen, and Mikasa led them there. It felt safe in the warm night, hidden by the circle of branches. Sasha dug a hole with a trowel. Soon a heap of moist earth was piled beside a pit roughly one metre deep.
“Can you do it?” she asked Mikasa.
She nodded, knelt, and gently lay the white pillowcase in the dark soil. She picked up a clod of dirt and dropped it into the pit, then another, until she was scrabbling in the grass, dropping in fistfuls of damp earth until the white cloth was covered. Sasha sank down next to her, draping her arm over her shoulder. Armin fought back the angry tears that threatened, shoving them into his chest. At that moment he hated the world.
“You did what you had to do. We don't have a future until this war’s over. You have to fight,” Sasha said. “Someday we'll be happy and free. We won't have to fight anymore, and life will be good again.”
The rushes swayed in the wind, and the dark water churned over the rocks. They were enveloped in the warm summer darkness and surrounded by the rushing of the river and the chirps of cicadas. The two women leaned into each other, bent over the grave. At last Mikasa rose, wiping her hands on her dark skirt.
“I’m ready to go.”