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marisoil · 4 months ago

Text

𝓥ǝ𝐧𝐮𝐬 α𝒔 ᴀ 𝐁𝑜𝐲

summary: you, bertholdt and his conscience

warnings: desperation, sunlight deprived femcel writing, fem pronouns used, reader described as really pretty/super beautiful, themes of emotional confusion, complicated feelings, forbidden attraction, betrayal, guilt, quiet yearning, and personal struggle with loyalty. not too heavy, some moments of tension, and choices that don’t always make sense. reader and bertholdt’s dynamic might be a bit too close for comfort at times. proceed with careeee! ૮ . . ྀིა⁩

an: i’m back!! yayayayyayaayayaa. this took SOOOO FREAKING LONG TO WRITEEE. but i hope it was worth it and not too much of my word vomit >< !! i still have some more works for bertholdt underway sooo you’ll have to pry me from this tag, i fear.

word count: 11.1k (😵‍💫)

there is something contemptuous about you, but whoever created you must have lithographed you with wary, tremulant hands, as if they, too, feared what you would become.

you must have risen from the seafoam, gasping, gleaming, wild-eyed spat out from the throat of some superannuated tide too greedy to keep you, too awed to let you sink, risen from the earth’s own yearning. born not in a womb, born not of blood nor of bone, but of salt-kissed sunlight and the hush of waves pulling back only to reach for you again.

flowers bloom where your penumbra lingers too long, their petals sighing open, drunk on the warmth of your presence while the trees lean inward, the sky unfolding itself just to pour gold at your feet. unequivocally, the world does not know what to do with something like you, a mouth made for poetry but eyes that have swallowed whole cities.

so they call you ruin, call you a thing that should not be, a herald of endings wrapped in silk and sunfire. they say you stole the light from an angel’s back, tore the wings from itʼs shoulder blades with hands too delicate for such destruction. feather by feather, tender as a lover’s touch but violent in the way you claim what does not belong to you. did it cry? did it beg? or did it press itself into your palms, knowing that something as dazzling as you could never be righteous.

you wear the plumage like a birthright, because nothing this beautiful comes without consequence. nothing this radiant can be innocent. there is no purity left in you, only the taste of a devilʼs bargain sealed with a kiss as they themselves smile from beneath their hoods when they look at you, knowing you were meant for paradise.

miles across the swollen sea, he has spent years listening to stories about the devils of paradis, has memorized the shape of them in his mind. their horns, their tails, their blackened claws dripping with the blood of the innocent. they machinate under the cloak of twilight with their forked tongues, seduce the weak-willed with silken voices. their ribs are cages for stolen souls, their spines ridged like the back of some fearsome beast.

they gorged voraciously on the hearts of their enemies, drank deep from the veins of nations. their ancestors defiled the land with their monstrous dominion, built cities atop graves, wove their banners from the skin of the conquered. they called themselves kings, gods, saviors, but their hands reeked of bloodshed. they shattered bloodlines, unmade legacies, turned entire peoples to dust beneath their heels.

bertholdt was raised on the wreckage of marley’s vengeance, fed stories that tasted like gospel. his ancestors had been trampled under eldian boots, he understood. the devils, your people, were not just enemies; they were a sickness that had to be eradicated from the face of the earth. marley’s rise was justice, not conquest. it was balance restored. when he stood beside reiner and annie, when he became the colossus, he believed each and every one of them had to die.

and yet, none of those ideologies could prepare him for you. the physically aspects of you, at least. if he had to conjure a girl from paradis, he would have drawn her with split-serpent eyes, with the stench of something dead beneath her skin. indeed, a savage that wore the shape of a girl but could not wear it well. a creature whose ugliness bled through, no matter how much flesh it stole. they never warned him of a devil that could make his heart race, a creature whose beauty could break the very chains of fate. how could it be that something so pure in itʼs form could be so utterly, devastatingly corrupt? how could a creature like you carry within you the weight of a thousand broken souls and still shine so bright?

he doesn’t know whether to run or to kneel, but he feels the pull of your presence and for a moment, he wonders if he, too, has been stolen.

the instance in question was the very first time he saw you. you were picking at your food, uninterested, while ymir needled at your pride with her lazy smirk. the benches wobbled under the weight of too many cadets, all of them too young, too tired, too eager or too resentful. bertholdt wasn’t sure why, but he couldn’t stop looking. he’s unsure whether to feel disgust, awe, or just... curiosity.

he doesn’t remember where he was sitting, only that his own embarrassingly modest-sized bowl wobbled in his hands, filled with something thin and gray, broth with no bite and no warmth. he already missed marley’s food. real food. cumin and saffron and salt were mourned by his tongue, their absence a quiet funeral held between his teeth. he supposes he can’t complain. not when the reason their rations are so pitiful, so spare, so tasteless, is because of him. because of what he and the others had done.

you were the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. so beautiful, that even the tasteless broth he sipped on began to taste sweet on his tongue. not like the heroines in marleyan fables, not like the soft, docile maidens painted in careful brushstrokes. your beauty lingered long after the eyes had turned away.

the thing he found most profound about you was the sorrow that pooled in your irises, dark and deep as a well with no bottom. shiganshina had fallen just days before. the world had torn itself open, swallowed whole the streets you once walked, the people you once loved. and yet you did not cry, did not weep where all could see. you wore grief, not like a devil wears sin, not like a monster wears carnage. you only stared down at your untouched meal, eyes distant, fingers idly tracing the rim of your tray as if waiting for something — though even you might not have known what.

bertholdt wondered, with something like dread curling in his gut, if you had family there. if their bodies lay in the wreckage he left behind, broken beneath his titan’s heel. if they were the ones who had sung you into life, only for that song to be silenced by the fires he had helped start. he might never know. does he want to?

it was true, yes, that he sat as a wolf in the fold, a predator among the unknowing. but undoubtedly you were the true nightmare in the dark, the horror that lurked beneath paradise’s skin. though beautiful, you were something far worse. all of your people were.

what a shame, his heart cried out. what a waste, for something so lovely to throw herself to the wolves. to join the survey corps, to march toward death with such certainty. what a shame for the world to be so cruel, that even the most beautiful things are not spared.

he’s sure he will never speak to you. never sit across from you, never hear the tremor of his name on your lips, soft like a secret. you exist in a world parallel to his, a world that should mean nothing to him, something to be purged. and yet, for a fleeting second, he thinks if things had been different, if the stars had set a gentler path for him, perhaps he could have met you in another life. whatever.

away, he locked you into the furthest corner of his mind, bertholdt wasn’t that foolish. he wasn’t reiner, eyes pledging allegiance to anything with a pretty face, a passing touch. no, his focus had never wavered before and he surely will not allow it to on this forsaken island. his mission, his purpose, the thing drilled into him since childhood, will never bend under something as weak as adolescent desire.

their raincoats clung to their backs, soaked through, the fabric heavy and clumsy. boots sank into the mud with every step, leaving deep, sucking impressions in the earth that were quickly erased by the weight of the downpour. the stables were a few paces ahead, and though the warmth of the hay inside beckoned, it felt a lifetime away.

horse duty. it was always a thankless job, a grumbling, groaning task handed down to the cadets who didn’t show the kind of promise that warranted anything more glamorous. night duty, especially, was a series of small, mundane tasks — shoveling manure, mucking out stalls, moving hay, making sure the animals were fed and comfortable. bertholdt didn’t mind it much, though it was hardly anything that would give him goosebumps. therein, perhaps lay the subject of it’s appeal. he wouldn’t consider himself the type of boy to have the fortitude for much else.

it was tedious, mindless work, but at least it gave them a moment to talk without too many ears around. reiner muttered under his breath, talking about the next mission, as always. as if there was anything that could distract him from the grim path they were on.

the blonde grumbled as he slipped, his boots sliding in the mud, his breath fogging in the chilled air. “think annie’s ever had to shovel shit in her life?”

bertholdt huffed out something like a laugh, shaking his head, and kept his head down, the storm lashing against his back like a thousand tiny needles. they reached the gigantic wooden door and reiner pushed it open, the sound of creaking wood swallowing the noise of the storm outside.

through the soft rustle of horses and the rhythmic clop of hooves, came the sound that startled him. it was a voice, soft and sweet, someone was singing.

it caught bertholdt by surprise, halting him just inside the door. who on earth could be singing at a time like this? he was unsure if his mind was playing tricks on him.

“who the hell—?” reiner started, but bertholdt was already looking, already following the sound.

they cautiously rounded the corner and there, perched atop a bale of hay, you were. the pretty girl from the messhall.

your head was tilted back, eyes closed, as if you weren’t in the middle of a storm but in some faraway place where nothing could touch you. you stroked the sleek, dark mane of your mare, a black beauty that shifted restlessly under your touch, with a tenderness bertholdt hadn’t thought possible for a devil. the horse’s coat gleamed in the low light, the sound of its breath low as it inhaled the heat of the stable, almost like she was the one soothing her rider, and not the other way around. your boots were muddy from the storm, but you didn’t seem to mind.

let the wind whisper secrets, let the rain wash away….

it was a haunting tune, the kind of melody that seemed to be the rain, seemed to belong to the storm itself. the song’s edges were swathed by the distance between you and them, but it felt like something sacred in the stillness of the stables. your hands hushed in the kind of care he’d only ever seen in those who loved something, someone, beyond the fight.

reiner cleared his throat, not loudly but loud enough to snap you out of it. you startled almost immediately, eyes widening as you turned toward them. bertholdt saw the moment embarrassment dawned on you, the rogue rushing to your cheeks, the way you scrambled to straighten yourself as if you’d been caught in some private act.

this was you, the devil who tore apart families, who stood on the other side of an endless war, who carried a thousand sins on your head, with your gentle hands, with that quiet, beautiful voice, looking like nothing so much as a girl who had affection in her heart.

“oh—” you let out a breath, half a laugh, half a flustered exhale. “i didn’t think anyone was on stable duty tonight,” you admitted, sitting up straighter. you didn’t make a move to leave just yet. you were, in fact, trying to figure out what to do with the sudden intrusion. “i didnʼt mean to interfere.”

reiner made a half-hearted attempt to break the tension. “you’re not bothering us. we’re just doing our chores. didn’t mean to interrupt.”

you flushed deeper, the tips of your ears pink now. “no, no sorry. i didn’t mean to sing that loud,” you muttered quickly, as though the very act of singing was something that had to be excused.

there was a very long pause.

your reaction caught him off guard. it wasn’t just the embarrassment, it was the openness of it. no defensiveness, no snapping or sneering, no attempts to cover it up with bravado. just pure, genuine flustered honesty. his eyes followed the way you shifted, how you looked down at your mare for a moment, your hands moving almost nervously through the horse’s mane, as if seeking comfort from the familiar creature beneath your fingers.

“you donʼt have to stop,” bertholdt found himself saying, the words leaving his mouth before he could think them through.

you glanced at him then, those eyes — those bewitching eyes — lifting to meet his with a hint of surprise, as if you hadn’t expected him to say anything at all. most donʼt. you hesitated for a moment, lips parted, then let out a small breath. “really?” you asked, your voice still a little unsure but softer now.

“yeah,” he added with a laugh that didn’t quite mask his awkwardness, “your voice is... uh, nice.”

bertholdt didn’t know what more to say. he wasn’t sure there was anything to say. but reiner, lacking tact as usual, snorted. “didn’t know you could sing like that.”

you straightened your skirt, brushing the hay off the front of it. “usually i donʼt but... it’s just something my family used to sing,” you admitted, quieter now. “old habit, i guess.”

family. he swallowed, glancing toward reiner, but his friend didn’t say anything, only stood there, watching.

“i, uh, i should go before you two decide to start throwing tomatoes or something.” you said, standing up quickly. but before you moved too far, your gaze lingered on bertholdt for a brief moment. something in that look made his heart shrink in his chest.

and then, as if nothing had happened, you brushed past them, the faintest trace of a smile playing at your lips as you paused. “thanks for not making me feel too stupid,” you added, giving a soft smile before turning, heading toward the stable door.

bertholdt stood still for a long moment after you left. he hadnʼt been looking at you before but now, he wasn’t sure he could stop.

days pass. weeks. the training corps grinds through its endless cycle of exhaustion, bruises blooming like overripe fruit, aching limbs, and sunrises that come too soon. every morning feelz like it’s born from a scream, the days fold into one another, stretching and folding like old paper, each one the same as the last, a blur of repetition and fatigue. sleep is a luxury rationed out in stingy increments, never enough to mend what’s been broken the day before. but now, you won’t leave him alone.

he feels you like a splinter buried too deep to pry out, you haunt the corners of his vision. every time he blinks, you’re there, laughing softly as you pat connie’s head, tapping a steady rhythm against the wooden mess hall table with your fingertips, biting your lip in concentration as you braid the mane of your horse for no reason. youʼre there when he stumbles through formations, lungs raw and gasping, you are there, suffering the same fate as him. your presence is maddening, dangerous, constant.

he tries to ignore it. tries to focus on the ache in his muscles, the burn in his lungs, the sweat rolling down his spine. but youʼre persistent, threading through the cracks in his armor, pressing into the spaces where doubt and exhaustion make room for you.

bertholdt doesn’t get distracted. he doesn’t allow himself to get distracted. he has spent his entire life in quiet obedience to a cause greater than him, a cause that eclipses him. spine straight, head bowed, moving forward because to stop would mean to think, and thinking has never done him any favors. every childish whim, every fleeting indulgence was snuffed out before it could bloom. no time for that. no room. he has always walked the path laid out before him, never straying, never faltering.

he is not like reiner, so easily swayed with his wavering heart, always caught between the push and pull of things that make him feel. quick to burn bright and then fade, enamored with ideals that crumble the moment theyʼre tested. he is not like annie, burdened by ghosts of doubt but too proud to crumble. he has always been steady, a blade honed to perfection, meant only to strike when commanded. no deviation. no distractions. not even you.

and yet, his focus falters. because of you.

bis eyes betray him, drawn to you like the tide to the moon. he watches, unwilling, as you brush crumbs off sasha’s cheek without a second thought, laughing at her half-hearted protests. sees you tie historia’s cloak for her on the colder mornings. watches you guide eren through the finer details of an odm technique you could do in your sleep, sees you grab jean by the collar and yank him out of the path of a runaway cart, the curse on your lips forming before he has a chance to thank you. sees you untangle a sparrow from a net outside the barracks, murmuring something soft as you set it free, even though you’re the one who’ll be behind. sees you run your hands over your mare’s face, forehead to forehead, like she is something sacred.

watches how your fingers curl into the fabric of your uniform when the topic of shiganshina comes up.

he watches, and he begins to understand.

you are not what they told him you would be. you are not cruelty, not savagery, not the embodiment of evil.

and bertholdt is drowning in the realization of it. he wants to drag himself back to shore, wants to claw his way out of whatever spell you’ve unknowingly cast over him. but he can’t. the tide keeps pulling him under, and god help him, he doesn’t know if he even wants to fight it anymore.

how could you be a devil when you wept at the letter of a friend, when you held onto connie’s arm like he was the only thing keeping you upright? how could you be wicked when you were so open, so unguarded in the way you care? like you had never learned to guard yourself against the hurt that always follows? when every touch, every glance, every small act of kindness was given freely, without hesitation, like the world hadn’t yet taught you to be afraid?

it’s all so simple, but it makes you even more lovely. you’re more than what he thought you were. you have depth, kindness, a soul that doesn’t belong in the coffin they told him to put you in. the more he watches you, the more that coffin feels smaller, tighter, something he’s been trying to squeeze you into even though it’s becoming painfully obvious that you don’t belong there.

was marley wrong?

he has spent years reciting his purpose, but then you came along, singing to your horse in the middle of a rainstorm, and now he feels hollowed out.

he is not allowed to feel this way. not about you. not about anyone so wild, so free, that it excites scares him.

but he wants to know you. wants to understand what makes you laugh, what makes you angry, what makes you you.

but he can’t.

can he?

the mission is simple. crush them. end them. burn their homes to the ground.

but wouldn’t you look lovely in marley? wouldn’t you be something soft there, something just for him? wouldn’t it be nice, to press his mouth to yours in a place where he would not have to lie, where he could let the world burn and still feel something real, something that wasn’t the taste of ash and blood on his tongue?

it doesn’t matter. it can’t. he is not allowed to want things. not a home, not a life, not you.

if there is a god, he must be laughing.

because of all the things to bring bertholdt hoover to his knees. war, blood, fire, ruin — none of them could. but you could.

“he’s staring again,” ymir says, voice flat, picking at her nails like this is just another dull observation.

you don’t look right away, but you know who she means. you’ve noticed it too. it doesn’t feel like admiration. it doesn’t feel like longing. it feels like evaluation, like he’s measuring something about you, tallying up numbers in his head.

“he’s just awkward,” christa offers, always quick to defend the quiet ones. “i think it’s kind of sweet.” but you shake your head. no, it’s something else. his pretty, green eyes don’t go soft when they land on you. they sharpen. it makes your skin crawl. or maybe it doesn’t. maybe it does something else, something you don’t want to name.

“he looks like he’s trying to figure out where to stab you,” ymir adds, grinning like she enjoys the thought. “or marry you.”

“ymir!” christa gasps, scandalized, and you groan, shoving her playfully, but your stomach twists all the same. because bertholdt hoover is—

well. he’s something. he’s good. at fighting, at odm gear, at standing just slightly behind reiner and letting him talk for the both of them. he teaches eren, like you do sometimes, plays chess with reiner and by himself, keeps quiet more often than not, but he isn’t forgettable. he couldn’t be. not when he’s that tall. not when he stares so unapologetically.

“he’s too tall,” you mutter, frowning into your palm.

“oh yeah, poor you,” ymir deadpans. “must be so hard, looking at him. must be awful. what do you even do with yourself?”

“it’s weird!” you insist, hating the way your voice climbs, hating the way ymir smirks like she’s already gotten everything she wanted from this conversation. “it’s probably nothing. maybe he just doesn’t like me.”

“oh, yeah, sure,” ymir says, stretching her arms behind her head. “he just spends half of training staring at you because he thinks you're ugly. that makes sense.”

her insistence on irritating you, on drawing you into this frivolous game, grates against your patience until you sublimate into the periphery, letting the conversation fragment into meaningless syllables.

he is not the first to look at you. men have stared all your life as acolytes at an altar, some reverent, others ravenous, but all predictable, all painfully mundane in their worship. their gazes skim your skin, admire its sheen, the architecture of your face, the delicate spectacle of your presence. but his gaze does not wander. it does not consume. it does not exalt. it studies, like he’s confused. there’s something about him that unsettles you. not in the way ymir wants it to, not in the way she’s teasing you for.

she wants you flustered, pink-cheeked and sweet-mouthed, caught in the throes of something girlish and foolish. but this is not that. there is something else in the way he looks at you, something quiet, something solemn, something that does not demand but understands.

and when you do finally look at him, when you meet his gaze across the training grounds, he startles and looks away so fast it makes your breath hitch.

not subtle at all.

what does he want from you?

why won’t he quit staring?

what inscrutable calculus plays out behind those eyes?

what is wrong with you?

you must look like a fool every time you catch him, every time your eyes disobey you and meet his, every time you go still, heat blooming along your throat like some fragile thing caught in a hunter’s snare. flushed and disoriented. it frustrates you to no end.

so stupid, so utterly ridiculous, this pointless distraction, this unbearable pull. you are meant to be focused, you need to train, to forge your body into a weapon worthy of the military police. if you want the safety, the security, the life you deserve, there is no room for glances, for foolish distractions, for the way he makes you falter with something as simple, as cruel, as a look.

you remind yourself of all this but life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans. what power does a young girl have against a young, green-eyed boy with a farmer’s tan?

you would like to think yourself above this. you would like to believe you are disciplined enough, unfeeling enough to withstand a mere look.

but try as you might, you cannot be an impassive girl. your heart has always lived outside your body, exposed to the elements, to the sharp winds of the world, to the tender and the terrible alike.

ymir groans, flopping back onto her cot with a dramatic thud, hands behind her head as she glares at you from across the room. “for god’s sake, yn, if you’re gonna be miserable, can you at least be discreet about it?”

you blink at her, cheeks burning, because oh god. you really have been obvious. you thought you were keeping it to yourself, that your quiet little spiral was contained, but of course ymir would notice. she always does.

“i — ” you hesitate, then bury your face in your hands. a nervous habit. “ugh. i don’t know what to do. i don’t even like him! not like that! i mean, i don’t think i do? i shouldn’t! it’s stupid! we’re training to be humanity’s strongest soldiers, i’m supposed to be focusing, i have an actual plan — but he keeps looking at me! i donʼt know him!” you throw your hands up, exasperated. “and it’s not like other guys, it’s — weird! he’s not even doing anything! just staring! like he knows something i don’t and i hate it! and then i catch him and i just — freeze! like some dumb, lovesick idiot! and i’m not a dumb, lovesick idiot! i’m not!”

silence.

“woah,” ymir breathes, grinning like the devil. “you like him.”

“i don’t!” you snap, mortified.

crista, who has been watching with wide eyes, suddenly claps her hands together, looking far too delighted. “this is so cute.”

“it’s not cute!” you wail, pulling your blanket over your head. “it’s humiliating! what do i do?!”

crista hums thoughtfully. “maybe you should just… talk to him?”

ymir groans. “ugh, boring. i say you kiss him and ruin his life.”

you resurface and throw your pillow at her. she catches it, laughing.

you groan. “be serious.”

“oh, i am.”

you don’t like how easy that sounds.

the first time you actually talk to him, he throws you to the ground.

coincidentally, it was the day after ymirʼs accusation, you thought she was being ridiculous, truly. clearly she has jinxed you with her accursed tongue, since shadis, with his usual sense of humor, pairs you up for combat training, and there’s no room to argue. so now you’re standing in front of him, feet planted in the dirt, fists raised, trying very hard not to think about how tall he is, how broad, how his green eyes look even greener under the overcast sky.

he doesn’t look smug about it, which you appreciate. if anything, he looks a little nervous. his fingers tighten and loosen at his sides, and he shifts his weight like he’s trying not to stand too close. he’s already analyzing the best way to approach this without making you feel small.

“have you fought much before?” he asks, and his voice is softer than you expect.

you shrug. “only what we’ve learned here. i’ve been in a few fights back home, but they weren’t exactly technical.”

his lips twitch, “so, wild swinging and hoping for the best?”

“more or less.”

he nods, still not quite looking at you. “okay. let’s start slow.”

you expect him to attack immediately as most do. but he circles you instead, waiting.

“watch my stance,” he says, adjusting his footing slightly. “low center of gravity. it makes it harder to be knocked over.”

you match him, mirroring the shift in footing. “like this?”

he glances at your stance, nods. “yeah. good.” and then, a beat later, like he almost wasn’t going to say it, “your balance is already solid. must be from the odm training.”

he’s talking to you. just like that. not just talking but paying attention. he said it like an observation, not a compliment, but something about the way he says it makes your stomach do something unpleasant.

before you can dwell on it, he lunges. you dodge just in time, barely sidestepping the sweep of his leg, and grin, triumphant.

“you telegraphed that,” you taunt.

he blinks, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. his mouth opens, then closes again, like he’s not sure how to respond. “i just wanted to see how fast you’d react.”

“oh, sure.”

you’re circling each other now, and it’s nice, almost. in a weird way only you would appreciate. his expression remains calm, focused, but there’s something in his posture that makes you feel safe in a way you probably shouldn’t.

he’s quick, stronger than he looks, but he isn’t using that strength to dominate, isn’t overextending just to prove something. he’s strategic, measured, aware.

before, you thought he was just a quiet guy with an unreadable stare, but now, now you see that he isn’t silent because he has nothing to say. he’s silent because he observes. and heʼs been observing you.

you hesitate for half a second too long, caught up in that thought, and in that moment, he sweeps your legs out from under you.

your back hits the dirt, the wind knocked from your lungs, and in your stupor that’s when it really hits you. he is pretty. he’s really pretty.

his hair is tousled, damp with sweat, a few strands falling into his eyes. his lips are parted slightly from exertion, his brows knitted together slightly. “are — are you okay?”

oh, dear. you need to answer. you need to say something.

“yeah,” you manage, but it sounds breathless, and you hate that.

he must notice, because his expression shifts. he offers his hand. you take it before you can overthink it, and his grip is steady, grounding, pulling you effortlessly back to your feet.

“you’re good,” he says, and it doesn’t feel like pity.

“so are you.” and before you can stop yourself, “but you do stare a lot.”

his brows lift, but he doesn’t deny it. doesn’t look away.

“i know, sorry.” he says simply. and then shadis calls for the next round, and just like that, it’s over.

you wish it wasn’t over. you wish the conversation had stretched into infinity, wrapped itself around the sun and burned bright enough to linger even after night fell. but he’s gone, back to where he belongs, alongside reiner, alongside those who keep him busy, keep him occupied, keep him away from you.

not that it matters. it shouldn’t matter. he probably hasn’t even thought twice about it, probably hasn’t noticed the way your fingers twitch with the sudden, urgent need to do something about this.

youʼre pathetic, drawled ymir. she looks at you like you’re a pitiful stray dog, head tilted, lip tilted in something between amusement and disdain. one conversation and you’re acting like a widow.

talk to him again, crista says, like it’s simple. but it isn’t simple, because he is always with reiner. always speaking in low, thoughtful tones, always laughing at something you are not privy to, always caught in a world you have no claim to. and you aren’t exactly the type to wedge yourself into spaces uninvited.

so you wait for the clouds to part and for the sun to bestow upon you some mercy, for the world to gift you another chance to stand in his light.

like petals plucked from a wilting flower, one by one, days pass, each slipping through your fingers. and still, bertholdt hoover remains an enigma locked behind silence and green-glass eyes. you wait, wait, stomach twisting at every near-chance, every almost-conversation that fizzles into nothing. when will it end?

then, at last, fate takes mercy. destiny, so simple and sudden, cracks the sky open like an egg, spilling its golden yolk into your hands. an opportunity, finally, like a gift pressed gently into your waiting palms. the clouds part, the sun stretches its arms toward you, and relief washes over you like warm river water, lapping at your ribs, easing the tightness in your chest. heʼs alone, untethered from the shadows he so often lingers in, standing by the water trough with sleeves rolled to his elbows, fingertips dripping with cold well water. you nearly trip over yourself in your haste, breath catching, heart leaping like a caged bird at the mere possibility of speaking to him again. the relief is dizzying, an exhale after holding your breath for far too long, the first raindrop after a season of drought.

you don’t understand it, don’t want to understand it, but for once, you don’t fight it. how foolish and lovely it is to feel so much over something so small.

“oh — hi!” the word bursts from your lips before you can smooth it into something more natural, but it’s too late. bertholdt turns, startled, water still dripping from his fingertips, and you swear you catch the way his shoulders tense before relaxing.

“hi,” he says, careful, quiet. always quiet.

now that you’re here, the weight of it settles in. a real conversation. something to hold. something you’ve wanted. but the words don’t come easily, like they’re tangled in fishing wire, caught somewhere between nerves and the way the sun glances off his damp skin.

“uh, thirsty?” you blurt, as if that isn’t obvious. as if he hasn’t just finished dipping his hands in the water. god.

but bertholdt just blinks, glances at the trough, then back at you. “not really,” he admits, hesitant, like he’s not sure if that’s the right answer.

“oh.” you rock back on your heels, searching for something else to say. something witty, something clever, something that doesn’t make you sound like you’ve just been hit over the head.

nothing.

the silence yawns between you, stretching out into something just shy of awkward. you grasp at the edges, determined not to let it swallow you whole.

“you know,” you begin, voice lighter, teasing, because it’s all you have, “for all that staring you do, i would’ve thought you’d have more to say.”

his eyes go wide, panic flickering in the green depths, and you watch, delighted, as the tips of his ears go pink.

“iʼm sorry.” he stammers, shifts on his feet like he’s considering bolting.

“mmhmm.” you tilt your head, “so you admit to staring at me, then?”

he looks utterly betrayed by the question, by the way youʼve managed to back him into a corner with nothing but a few words and a well-placed grin. he presses his lips together, exhaling through his nose. “...not on purpose,” he mutters, gaze darting away, hands flexing at his sides.

and maybe it should wound you, that he doesn’t want to admit it, but it doesn’t. because not on purpose still means he has. still means something unspoken lingers between you, something he doesn’t know how to name.

“hm,” you hum, pleased, leaning in just a fraction. “good to know.”

bertholdt swallows hard, gaze flickering to yours, searching, unsure. but he doesn’t move away. doesnʼt run.

progress.

you clear your throat. “so…” you try, eyes darting to the water, to the trough, to anything to give you footing. “if youʼre not thirsty then what are you doing? cleansing your sins?”

his brows pull together, confused for a beat, and then against all odds, his mouth stretches. not quite a smile, but something close, something small.

“cleansing my sins,” he echoes, voice edged with quiet amusement. “yeah. i think i’ve got a lot to wash off.”

your breath catches at that. something about the way he says it.

“well,” you say, pressing on, “if it’s that bad, you might need something stronger than well water.”

he huffs out something that could almost be called a laugh. it’s hardly there, but it is there. this was worth the wait.

it is absurd, truly. the way your stomach swoops at the mere sight of him, the way your head turns just a little too quickly when his name is spoken, the way you search for him everywhere. in the mess hall, in the training yard, in the space between the trees when you’re meant to be focusing on your odm drills. like some ridiculous school-girl with a crush accompanied by fluttering nerves and warm cheeks. like a girl in a storybook, pressing flowers between the pages of her heart, waiting for the ink of his presence to stain the length of her days. it happens without your permission, this looking forward to him, this gentle anticipation that lingers in your chest.

a small part of you strongly believes that he looks forward to seeing you, too.

you test this theory when you find him alone, hunched over a wooden chessboard in the dimming light of the mess hall, fingertips ghosting over the ridges of a knight as he contemplates his next move against no one.

“teach me,” you say, not a request, but a certainty, dropping into the seat across from him with a smile.

he blinks, startled, but doesn’t protest. just tilts his head, considering, before reaching for the board and resetting the pieces.

“you don’t know how to play?” he asks, carefully neutral, like he’s trying to gauge whether this is a trap.

“nope.” you pop the ‘p’ and lean forward, beaming at him. “but you do. and i want to learn.”

“you’re sure? you want to learn?”

“uh-huh,” you say, lifting your chin. “it’s just a game. how hard can it be?”

he doesn’t answer, instead, he picks up a pawn between his fingers and begins, voice low, patient, explaining the rules, the movements, the strategy. he explains each piece, their movements, the way they protect, attack, retreat. you absorb what you can, but the moment he starts actually playing against you, the board becomes an incomprehensible battlefield. you immediately realize you are out of your depth.

your first move is hesitant, and bertholdt counters with practiced ease. your second move is braver, but he dismantles it within seconds. by your third move, you begin to feel the creeping edge of frustration, the pinch of your brows deepening as you stare at the board, willing it to reveal some kind of secret path forward.

“wait — what? you can do that?” your eyebrows pinch together, eyes darting to his queen, which has just ruthlessly obliterated one of your bishops.

“yes,” he says simply, not even a hint of remorse in his voice.

“this is unfair,” you mutter, glaring at his pieces like they’ve personally offended you.

“it’s just strategy,” he says, so maddeningly even-tempered, so effortlessly good at this, and you think you might actually hate him for it.

“you could let me win,” you try, batting your lashes, even though you already know the answer.

his eyes flick up to yours, green and unreadable, and then he simply says, “no.”

“no?” you echo, insulted.

“no,” he repeats, calmly moving another piece, effectively boxing you into a corner.

you let out an exaggerated groan, dropping your forehead onto your folded arms. “you like watching me struggle.”

“thatʼs not true,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice. “i like watching you think.”

something warm unfurls in your chest at that, and you peek up at him through your lashes, only to find him already looking at you. his gaze is steady, something unreadable flickering there, something soft and curious.

you are ridiculous. giddy over a game you’re clearly losing, over the way he’s watching you, over the way he never lets you win but still sits here, patient, waiting for you to make your next move.

the game stretches on, and you don’t win. not even close. but you swear, when you make a particularly reckless move and sigh dramatically at your own defeat, you catch him watching you like this. this might be his favorite round yet. this might be your favorite game ever.

reiner, initially the subject of your irritation, is the first to notice. “you like him,” he accuses one day, shoving a hand through his already messy blond hair, staring at you like you’ve just admitted something immodest.

“i don’t,” you say, far too quickly.

reiner snorts, unconvinced. “right. of course you donʼt.”

you swat at his arm, but he just laughs, and bertholdt, a few paces away, only gives the two of you a mild glance before turning his attention elsewhere. you wonder, not for the first time, what he thinks of all this. if he even notices the way you’ve been orbiting him like a planet caught in his gravity.

reiner is like a live wire, sparking with a soldier’s energy, with the kind of joy that comes from seeing his shy friend, his awkward friend, talk to a pretty girl. it’s not malicious — no, not at all. it’s more like a game, a light-hearted observation. he watches from the corners of his eyes as bertholdt, hesitant and unsure, stands near you, a little stilted in his movements but undeniably present. there’s a strange satisfaction in it, like watching a bird take its first flight, awkward but beautiful in its uncertainty.

the soldier side of reiner buzzes with joy. good, he thinks, good for him. bertholdt might be reserved, but that doesn’t mean he should have to spend all his time buried in silence. reiner wants him to have this, even if it makes him squirm. even if it’s just a fleeting moment of relief, a breath from the constant weight of their reality.

but then, the warrior side rises. it’s a cold voice in the back of his mind, quiet but demanding, like a shadow that always lingers just out of sight. stay away, it says. don’t let him get too close to her. don’t let him forget what they are. what they’ve come here to do.

but it’s seldom listened to. after all, what’s a little fun? reiner tries to suppress it, tries to push it down, but there’s no denying the way his gaze lingers when you laugh or when bertholdt says something too quietly for anyone else to hear. he shouldn’t want it. he shouldn’t encourage it. but sometimes he does. sometimes, the soldier inside him just wants to see his friend have something that isn’t stained with the blood of their shared mission.

the blonde’s words always seem to land in the wrong place, always seem to stir up something that shouldn’t be stirred. he’s bolder than bertholdt, sharper with his jokes, and his humor is often dark, full of things that make bertholdt’s stomach turn. but it’s one thing when reiner’s jokes are directed at him. it’s something else entirely when they’re aimed at you.

bertholdt always feels the heat rush to his face so violently he’s sure he’s going to pass out. he practically chokes on his own breath, eyes wide and frantic as he shoots reiner a look of pure, helpless panic. you, bless you, laugh so bright and unbothered, but there’s this look you give bertholdt that makes his head spin and his pulse race.

reiner chuckles, always clearly pleased with himself, while bertholdt quietly prays for the earth to split open and swallow him whole. that bastard just chuckles, slapping bertholdt on the back like this is all so funny.

it is not funny.

the way his stomach churns at the mere thought of you, the way desire tastes like something rotten on his tongue. he wonders if the ghosts of shiganshina can see him now, pining after the very thing he was sent here to destroy. bertholdt sleeps like a man waiting for the noose. restless, fitful, tangled in sheets that feel more like restraints. his sins press into the dark, whispering through the cracks of his conscience, dragging their fingers down his neck. he dreams in fire and rubble, in the sound of screams he will never be able to unhear. his hands have torn down cities, have smothered the light from homes that once glowed warm in the night. they will never be clean. no matter how hard he scrubs, the scent of smoke lingers.

you sleep so soundly, nestled in the arms of your dreams, where he is not a traitor, not a monster, not a thing carved from shame and steel. in your dreams, he is only a boy. only hands and warmth and devotion pressed against your mouth.

how cruel, how ridiculous, that you — bright, good-hearted you — get to dream of him with your head resting peacefully on a thin barrack pillow, while he twists and turns in the dark, the taste of ash and blood still coating his teeth.

you are kissed by him in your sleep. he is gutted by you in his waking hours.

he cannot tell which suffering is worse.

he is torn. tortured by the fact that this thing between you cannot be. a friendship? no. no, he cannot do that.

he canʼt be with you. he can’t let himself fall into the softness of your gaze, into the arms of your presence that tugs at him, pulls him in when he knows he should pull away.

he is an enemy to paradis. you are the enemy. and that is the line he cannot cross.

you are a devil, in their eyes. a monster, a thing to be hunted, feared, erased. and what would you think of him, if you knew? what would you say when you realized? that he — the one who read to you in the quiet of the library, the one who helped you with your training — was a warrior in the army that threatens everything you know, everything you love? would your eyes still easd when they meet his? would your smile fade? would you hate him? would you?

he can’t let you know. he canʼt let you see the truth of what he is. he can't bear it — the thought of you hating him, of everything between you both collapsing into the cruel reality of what he’s become.

he’s not like them. not like reiner, with his ease in embracing the role of a warrior, with his heart already hardened by the walls he’s built around himself. and he’s certainly not like annie, whose resolve is iron, unmoving in the face of the brutality that defines her life. bertholdt is the one who feels too much, the one who can’t pretend. not anymore.

if you knew who he really was, you’d never look at him the same again. youʼd hate him. youʼd hate the devil he is.

and so, he does what he always does when he’s caught in a bind, when he’s drowning in uncertainty. he asks reiner.

the conversation is clumsy, but reiner’s response comes with the ease of someone who’s done this before. even though he really hasn't.

“you’re overthinking it, man,” reiner mutters, voice rough, eyes still dull from sleep but sharp enough to catch the tension in bertholdt’s posture. “she’s just a girl, a pretty one, yeah? but that’s it. it doesn’t have to mean much.”

bertholdt looks at him, unsure, unsure if he’s missing something, if reiner’s words are too simple, too easy. but reiner doesn’t stop.

“it’s just... feelings. they happen, man. she’s not gonna be some... problem for you. we are the problem.” he says the last part quietly, like he doesn’t want the others in the barracks to hear, but the truth hangs there anyway.

bertholdt looks down at the ground, chewing on reiner’s words. doesn’t have to mean anything. but the truth is, it does mean something to him. you mean more to him than words can say, more than he ever thought possible, in ways that twist and tangle around his chest. you are warmth in a world that has only ever been cold to him. you understand him in ways no one ever has, sees the cracks he hides behind that stiff, soldier, no, warrior, exterior, and doesn’t flinch. doesn’t look away. he’s never had a friend like you, never even imagined one could exist.

all his life, he’s longed for a kindred spirit, someone who could see him without the weight of the walls he’s built, and the conscience plaguing him because of the ones he tore down. someone who would never judge, never turn away. and yet, somehow, he’s found you here of all places. in the land of the enemy, in a place that’s supposed to be full of threats and distrust. the irony stings, but he can’t help it. he needs you. even if it hurts, even if it’s a wound he doesn’t know how to stop bleeding, he can’t let go of you. not now. you wonʼt let him.

he opens his mouth, about to speak, but reiner cuts him off with a sigh, like he already knows what’s coming.

“you’re making this harder than it is,” reiner says, a bit of frustration creeping into his voice, but his tone softens as he leans back, a strange empathy flickering in his eyes. “don’t overthink it. you know what the mission is. she’s not part of that.” he lowers his voice even more, the words coming out like a quiet confession. “we can’t have that.”

bertholdt nods slowly, but the gnawing feeling doesn’t go away. he knows reiner is wrong. he lowers his head into his hands, exhaling shakily.

“i don’t want to hurt her,” he says, “but i can’t... not feel this.”

reiner’s eyes flinch, hard and cold in the dim light of the barracks. his usual camaraderie fades as something darker takes its place. “if you let yourself get close to her, you’re putting the mission in danger. you’re putting her in danger. and if you can’t kill her when the time comes, when you need to...” reiner leans in, his voice a sharp whisper, “we will. i will.” his words hit like a punch to the gut. “the consequences are simple, bertholdt. either she’s the enemy... or she’s nothing. nothing personal.”

bertholdtʼs hand tightens into a fist. he knows this. he’s always known this, and he has tried to keep his distance before, to push you away in subtle ways. cold silences, short answers, turning his gaze when you speak. it’s a quiet sort of cruelty, the kind that festers, and he tells himself it’s for the best. he wonʼt hurt you, he thinks. if he just steps back, if he just shuts his heart away, maybe you’ll never have to know what he really is.

but you always came back.

like a drag he can’t escape, you sought him out. first, it’s miniscule, a casual “hey, are you okay?” he brushed it off, but it lingered. then it was longer, a whispering frustration in your voice. “you’ve been avoiding me,” you said one day, and it was more of a statement than a question. the words stung, but it was nothing compared to the hurt he saw in your eyes. hurt he’d caused.

he didn’t know how to explain. how could he ever tell you that the distance is for your own good? that keeping you away is the only way to protect you from the truth? but he’s not selfish, he never has been. so he kept pushing you away, even as it tore him apart to see the confusion, the disappointment settle in your gaze.

you’d never had to chase someone’s attention like this before, and the hurt of it cut deeper than he ever anticipated. deeper than the guilt that eats at his insides.

what hurts more? the hurt of losing your company, of never hearing your laugh again, never seeing the way your eyes brighten when you talk to him? or the hurt of you getting too close, of realizing that the boy you thought you could trust is nothing more than a traitor to your very people? a devil in disguise?

the answer rips through him like a blade. he’s already lost you, hasn’t he? both ways.

somehow always, bertholdt found himself apologizing again. the words spilled out like they’ve been on the edge of his tongue, waiting for the moment when he can make everything right — when he can repair the damage he’s done. it was all too easy to fall back into the rhythm with you, to pretend that everything is okay, that nothing has changed.

and so, you returned to square one.

close again. like nothing ever happened. he had and still has let himself believe, just for a moment, that maybe it could work. maybe it could be simple. you could be his. the way you laugh, the way your eyes glisten when you talk about the future, it makes him imagine a life that isn’t torn between two worlds. a life where he’s not the enemy. where you’re not the enemy.

he deludes himself, he knows he does.

but what if? what if he could take you back to matleh? show you the world he’s known, the world he’s fought for. maybe you’d see things differently. maybe you’d understand. he could be with you there, in that place, in that world, far from the violence of paradis, far from the war that seems inevitable. you could be his. his in a way that no one else can be.

maybe you’d go.

maybe you’d marry him.

become an honorary marleyan.

maybe you could learn to live with the man he’s become, the man he has no choice but to be.

he imagines you, standing beside him, not as an enemy, but as a partner, someone who knows the truth but chooses him anyway. maybe, he dares to hope, maybe you’d stand by him as his equal, as his wife, in a land that isnʼt filled with the ghosts of enemies past. maybe he could protect you. maybe you could protect him.

he let the thoughts run wild, let himself picture it all — your hands in his, the two of you in a quiet home, far from all of this. he deludes himself so deeply, because it feels better than facing the truth. he knows it’s not real, but he doesn’t have the strength to let go of the fantasy. reiner must see it too.

the blonde in question leans back, exhaling a breath, he’s done with the heavy words, the warning’s been said, and now it’s done. “you know what?" he says, softer now, like he’s giving bertholdt the final nudge. “if you need to get it out of your system — whatever that is — do it. mess around. kiss her, touch her, make her yours for a little while. just finish it. don’t drag it out. just... get it done.” his words are as cold and blunt as the truth itself.

bertholdt doesn’t answer. he can’t. because there’s a part of him, the part that already knows what he’ll choose, that is screaming it’s already too late. there’s a long silence. reiner’s breathing steadies, and for a moment, bertholdt wonders if he’s fallen asleep. but then reiner’s voice, low and almost gentle, floats back to him.

“you’re not the first to feel this, bertholdt. and you won’t be the last. but the mission’s what matters. just... just remember that, okay? it’s what we’re here for.”

bertholdt closes his eyes. the words don’t fix anything. but they’re all he has right now. he nods slowly like it will somehow help him believe it.

“yeah,” he whispers back, though the doubt still lingers. “yeah, okay.” it didnʼt make him feel better. he’s playing pretend, clutching at a dream that could never come true.

you’ve snuck out to the horse stables so many times, past curfew, dragging him with you, whispering conspiratorially about how the night is wasted indoors. you scale the wooden beams of the horse stables, shimmy up onto the roof, and sit side by side, looking at the sky like it belongs to the both of you.

the first time you drag him out, he doesn’t understand. the second time, he doesn’t ask. the third, he’s waiting. a rule broken so many times it barely feels real anymore. you never belonged inside those walls anyway.

and neither does he.

“c’mon, bertl,” you tease, already grabbing his sleeve. “you gonna make me climb up here all by myself?”

“who says you’re not already doing it alone?”

you roll your eyes, pulling harder. “don’t be difficult. come up here.”

and of course, he does.

you know every creaky floorboard, every blind spot where the night guards won’t see. you move through the dark like you were born to it, quick-footed and sure, and he follows in your wake, quiet as breath. you’ve done this a hundred times while he moves slower, more cautious, but you reach down for him, fingers curling firm around his wrist. he doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he’s up there with you, the world stretched wide and silver.

the stars are sharp tonight, winking like they know something he doesn’t. the roof slants beneath you, a precarious perch, but you sit like you’ve conquered it, arms spread behind you, legs swinging lazily. “what do you think about?” you ask, tilting your head. “when you're all quiet like this?”

he hesitates. “the ocean, sometimes.”

your brows raise in delight. “have you seen it?”

“no.”

“me neither." you sigh, flopping onto your back, staring up at the sky like it might hold the answer. “i think about it too. how it must look at night. how it must feel. sometimes, when i dream about it, i wake up feeling like my hands are wet.”

he glances at you, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“do you ever dream about it?”

“no,” he says, and it is a lie.

his shoulder brushes yours. his knee knocks against yours. he does not move away.

“you always have something to say,” he murmurs, the words only half meant for you, the rest for himself.

“and you never do,” you counter with a smile that could break his heart. “but i know you think a lot.”

his fingers twitch where they rest on his knee. “thinking isn’t always meant to be shared.”

you frown. “that’s a lonely way to live.”

he exhales, just short of a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. he hates it. hates the way you're right, the way he’s kept himself at arm's length from the world, from you, even though all he wants is to pull you close. you wonder, not for the first time, what he was like before all this, before the cadet corps. you know there are things in his head that need to stay locked away, things he can’t share for reasons unbeknownst to you.

but you don’t ask, because you’ve learned by now. he deflects, evades, moves the conversation elsewhere. the more time you spend with him, the more you learn what you do not wish to. not really.

he likes to read, mostly history books, but sometimes novels when he thinks no one is looking. he has preference for colder weather, he likes history books more than anything else, but sometimes, late at night, he’ll pull out novels when he thought no one was watching. he isn’t easy to read. he isn’t easy to touch. but somehow, in all of it, being with him felt like home, even if he didn’t always say the words. even if sometimes, it feels like you’re trying to hold water in cupped hands.

his hands fidget in his lap like startled birds. his throat works around words he will never say. he’s staring, but you’re used to that by now. his eyes move over you like an artist dragging charcoal across a page. he never stops, not even when you turn, not even when your gaze catches his and holds.

you say your father would like him, he nearly crumbles. it’s so easy for you to say it, casual, offhanded, like it’s already a truth. you barely think before speaking, but he knows you mean it. and that’s what makes it unbearable. you don’t know who he is. what he is. you don’t know what you’re saying. because if you did, if you knew your father would spit at his feet before letting him step inside your home.

it makes him want to be better. it makes him worse.

“bertholdt,” you murmur, and his name sounds reverent in your mouth.

his breath hitches.

your fingers ghost along his jaw, and he flinches like you’ve pressed a live wire to his skin, like the heat of you burns. but he doesn’t move away. his pulse thrashes beneath your touch. his lips are parted, pink, uncertain. you want to ruin him.

so you do.

you kiss him gently at first, the way a flame eats at the wick before it devours. he seizes, hands hovering like he doesn’t know where to put them. he makes a sound, and it kills you. then he’s kissing you back, harder, not because he’s certain but because he isn’t. because he’s starving and doesn’t know if he’s allowed to eat.

he tastes like apples, like something crisp and clean, but there’s salt there too like sweat on sun-warmed skin, the edge of something nervous. you can feel his restraint, the way his fingers tighten against his own thigh like he doesn’t trust himself not to touch you.

so you fix that. you move closer and closer until your knee slots between his, until your hands find his wrists and drag them up, up, up until his palms meet your waist, and he gasps like you’ve done something violent. but he doesn’t let go.

when you finally pull back, his pupils are blown wide, his chest rising and falling like he’s been running. his lips are kiss-bitten and red, and he looks devastated in the most sacred way.

you grin, breathless. “again?”

he swallows hard, nods. yes, he was sure now. he was sure of you and of this. he wasn’t afraid anymore. he would keep you. he would take you to his homeland, and hide you from the rest of the cruel, wicked world, and love you until his days ran out. for as long as fate allows, for as long as ymir’s curse lets his body carry the weight of his sins, you will be his, and he will be yours.

if he were stronger, he would end this. if he were selfless, he would let you go. but bertholdt hoover is not a selfish boy. he was raised to be a weapon, a warrior, a tool for a war you are not supposed to survive. but he wants you to. he wants you to live.

and if it means carving out some small piece of a life with you before the end, he will.

so he walks with you when you ask, lingers at the dinner table when you do, lets himself sink into your world when it would be safer to drift away. he reads to you when you shove a book in his hands and tell him his voice is nice. he lets you brush dirt from his uniform, his sleeve, his cheek, because you always do. and when reiner raises an eyebrow across the barracks, smirking, when annie lets out a breath that sounds too much like pity, he only grips his book tighter and pretends he doesn’t see.

the first time he finds himself in your room when he isn’t supposed to be, he tells himself he’s only passing through. just checking. just making sure you’re there. but then your window creaks open, and you whisper his name, and it’s over before he even begins to fight it.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he says, even as he steps inside.

“neither should you,” you murmur, voice warm, teasing. you tip your head, considering. “but i’m glad you are.”

and that’s how it starts.

he is not a selfish boy, but he holds onto you like he is.

he lays awake at night, listening to your breathing, memorizing the curve of your lashes where they brush your cheek, the way your fingers twitch in sleep. he should be thinking of the mission. of what’s to come. of the inevitable, looming end. but all he can think about is you.

how you’ll hate him.

how you’ll look at him when the truth comes out.

how your voice will break when you realize what he’s done.

but that is not now. not yet.

for now, you sleep, safe and warm, and his hands are steady when he reaches for you.

they take you to marley in chains. it happens so fast you barely remember how. the world flips and then you’re here, on the other side of the sea, ripped from everything you knew. bound, gagged, thrown onto a ship that smells of salt and steel, the land you fought for shrinking on the horizon. you should be dead. you were supposed to die with the rest of them.

but bertholdt wouldn’t let that happen.

you don’t know what he said, what he promised, what he sacrificed to keep you breathing, but somehow, you’re still here. not free, not really, but alive. a spectacle, a symbol, the redeemed devil. they clean you up, dress you in fine silks, teach you how to speak their way, make you smile for cameras, sing in theaters like a doll wound tight. marley saw you and saw an opportunity. a devil turned saint. a redeemed daughter of paradis, proof that their cause is just.

you did not run fast enough. you hesitated. maybe you look for him. maybe you can’t believe it, even as the bodies hit the ground.

marley loves a story of salvation. the devil from the island, tamed.

he never says anything. never touches you. never tells you why he did this, why he saved you only to put you in another cage.

but at night, when the curtains close and the world forgets you exist, you wonder if this was mercy or something else entirely.