Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The day was warm, not that it mattered. He was hungry again, which wasn't unusual. He had been hungry for years, and he wasn't the only one. The warm bread in his hands was a treat. He had out-manoeuvred the guards, again, something that wasn't unusual, but of course, he didn't always get away scot-free, even if he didn't get put behind bars on a frequent basis. Panting, sweat pouring down his forehead and down his back, scratchy linen shirt clinging to his back, uncomfortable and almost suffocating, he glanced around before slipping into a familiar alleyway.

Beating down on him, the morning sun did nothing to help him as the exertions he had taken to get this meal pushed him to his limits. Slumping against a nearby wall he allowed himself a little smile, bread clutched tightly in his hands. “Bertholdt!” a familiar voice sounded, making him jump and jerk upright.

“Ymir,” he breathed as the woman poked her head out an open window, the glass cracked “ah...” he continued weakly, his breathlessness stealing his words.

“Shut up and get inside.” She said, ducking back inside the building before he could respond. Ymir was not company he usually kept, but then...he hadn't really chosen it. She had found him one day and stuck to him for reasons he didn't particularly want to know. She was secretive by nature and her general countenance was intimidating to say the least. Her hazel eyes were almost perpetually narrowed defensively, if she wasn't busy being smug about something. What she had to be smug about most of the time, Bertholdt didn't know.

So, gulping, Bertholdt let out a final, steadying breath before he made his way towards the window. Reluctantly, he passed the bread through the window, Ymir practically snatching it from his hands, leaving him to feel bereft and wanting. He said nothing of it as he lifted a long and thin stick of a leg through the window and ducking his head low to slip beneath the frame. “If this tastes of your sweat again, I'll be pissed.” Ymir huffed as she disappeared into the next room, hopping over a gap in the floorboards that had given away to rot at some point in the past.

“Then maybe next time you should get the food.” Bertholdt said with a frown, just loud enough to carry into the other room. Ymir let out a bark of a laugh as he too, followed her. The building was old and had been abandoned for years...and no-one was quite sure how long, but the marks on the front door marked the house as condemned. Illness had passed through the house, Bertholdt was sure, and no-one had come to reclaim it.

Glancing around, Bertholdt was pleased to see everyone was accounted for “Eren,” he started as he sat down beside Ymir in the empty room, decorated only with old wood that had fallen from the walls and ceiling, the paintwork faded and every inch of it dusty, but the group had done their best to clean it up some. “Did you and Mikasa get water?”

“I did,” the woman said from where she said next to her brown-haired companion. The ebony-haired girl was a little scary at times, especially where Eren was concerned – the fact she had spoken at all meant failure of some kind. “Eren wouldn't get up this morning.”

“It's over there,” Eren grumbled, gesturing to the corner of the room, where a bucket sat with a small wooden ladle set inside, floating precariously on top of the almost certainly filthy water, threatening to slip to the floor at any time as the handle hung over the edge of the bucket. “I tried to sieve it.”

Dirty. Bertholdt frowned, but nodded. There were probably too many guards at the well in the town centre that morning. He looked down at his lap, reaching to toy with the frayed rim of his shirt. If only he could find a needle and thread...almost all of them needed to have their clothes fixed. Eren's shirt had been torn at the sleeve weeks ago because of a confrontation he had gotten into. Some other thugs had tried to take food from him. If Mikasa hadn't been around, they would have, too. The stoic girl had holes in her skirt where splinters and broken wood had tugged at her it. Bertholdt toyed with his clothes so often that he had had to turn up his shirt several times, so it hardly ever managed to conceal his flat stomach and bony hips most of the time. It would be worse if he ever managed to get around to fixing it this time. A new shirt was on his list of things to steal. Ymir's shirt were threadbare at the elbows, but that was all. He could try to patch it up with the scraps of cloth Bertholdt had taken to asking the group to collect if they ever saw any. Of course. Bertholdt had thought it was about time he began to sew some of that material to the rim of his shirt, if he could not steal one.

“Sasha and Connie aren't coming are they?” Bertholdt asked softly. Sasha and Connie kept to themselves more often then not – they made an efficient team when it came to grabbing food on a frequent basis. Sometimes they would come to them if they couldn't get a meal of their own, and sometimes they would trade something with what Bertholdt would very loosely term his family, if they could not obtain food. They were friendly of course, and tended to stay with them for hours at a time until they had to leave for one reason or another.

“Who cares.” Ymir piped up as she began to tear at the bread in her hands, off-handedly chucking food in the group's general direction as she focused on getting the portions as equal as possible. She wasn't counting the pair into the division of the bread. Bertholdt withheld a sigh, guilty that he was almost glad it was the case. It was always kind of a pain when hey showed up, wanting food. Ymir and Mikasa refused to share, and the oriental woman refused to let Eren share his own food. She was determined not to let that boy suffer. Bertholdt didn't necessary care why, but it fell to him to keep up their admittedly beneficial relationship with the pair. There was an awful lot of back scratching going on between the two groups. Of course, that meant he lost most, if not all of his portion of food for that day. It didn't matter though, Sasha and Connie always paid him back for it.

Catching piece of bread in his hands at last, Bertholdt immediately took it into his mouth, and chewed hurriedly – he rest of the group had fallen silent, focused on their meal. The bread was heaven to him, and he couldn't help but let out a pleased sigh through his nose, even as the crust scratched at his dry throat. Hungry as he was, he couldn't be bothered to chew properly. He desperately wanted to feel the weight of food in his stomach. Everything, in that moment, was good. He couldn't help but smile around his bread as he yanked another piece off and swallowed hurriedly.

Beside him, Ymir laughed “You look like you're about to have an orgasm!” She said through laughter, and Bertholdt blushed ducking his head low. He chose not to respond, shoving bread in his mouth and chewing resolutely.

“Lay off, Ymir.” Eren piped up, obviously irritated “He hasn't eaten for two days.”

At that, Ymir scoffed “It's his fault for sharing with Connie and Sasha so much.”

“It's hard for everyone right now – even them.” It was true, Bertholdt thought, as he glanced up just in time to see Mikasa nod once in agreement. Lately there had been an increased presence of soldiers in the city. It seemed like they had begun to filter home again...the war was probably over, or at least very nearly ended. It was only going to get harder once they resumed normal duties as the city guard and palace guard. For the past five years, law enforcement had been somewhat lax, because most soldiers got deployed at some point or another, but of course, there were still enough men around to protect the home front. It just meant that small-time criminals like himself were left largely to their own devices, but now that they were returning, Bertholdt couldn't help but wonder how his little family was going to adjust.

It was entirely possible that one or both of them had run into trouble, but if that were the case, then at the very least, he would have thought Sasha or Connie would come to them. Were that day to come however, Bertholdt would take that as his cue to leave. He preferred to be alone, anyway.

“So, do you think we won?” Eren after a long, almost uncomfortable silence, hoping, no doubt, to shift the heavy atmosphere that had filled the room – perhaps, Bertholdt thought, everyone's train of thought had been similar to his own.

“Probably,” Ymir said with a shrug “probably would have heard about it much faster if we'd lost.” That was true enough, Bertholdt agreed mentally, bad news tended to travel faster than the good. “Probably waiting to make some big announcement.” then she paused “Hey,” She started up suddenly, capturing the group's attention “Isn't Prince Reiner out on the field?”

Bertholdt felt his throat tighten.

“Yeah.” Eren confirmed nonchalantly “Why?”

“They are waiting for him to return.” Mikasa said, as if she had known all along, which Bertholdt wouldn't have put past her. She had a tendency to withhold information until it became of use.

“I guess that makes sense.” Eren agreed, thoughtful. “Maybe he's going to be the one to break the news.”

“Unless he dies on the way back.” Ymir snickered.

“Don't say that.” Bertholdt said, before he could stop himself, tone raspy with the constriction of his throat. The stick of a boy couldn't quite breath.

Ymir fell silent at that, and turned her attention to Bertholdt completely, and he shrunk away, ducking his head down again and nibbling at his bread, to keep his mouth busy – he wanted to stay occupied for as long as possible, so as much as he wanted to, Bertholdt had to resist the urge to simply shove the rest of the bread in his mouth.

“Oh, what, you're suddenly a monarchist?” Ymir snapped pointedly, making Bertholdt wince.

Of course, after a moment, he frowned and lowered his hunk of bread into his lap, filthy fingers tugging a shred of bread from a chewed-upon corner. “I have never said a word about the monarchy...” Bertholdt muttered as he shoved a piece of bread between his lips “So I could be, for all you know.”

Ymir put her arm on her leg, putting her weight on it as she leant forward, and he could feel the heat of her gaze upon him. He felt himself sweating all over again. “You look nervous, Berty.” She said, with an almost malicious note to her tone. “What do you care about them, huh?” She asked, drawing out the inquisitive noise in that detestable way that she had, and it grated on Bertholdt's nerves.

“Don't call me 'Berty'.” Bertholdt snapped lifting his head to meet Ymir's gaze with a furrowed brow and a narrowed gaze. They stared at each other for a time, silently challenging one another. Bertholdt was happy to let many things go but he hated it when people tried to give him nicknames. All but two, anyway.

Bertholdt was the first to look away. A moment of silence followed before Ymir scoffed and shoved the rest of her food in her mouth

The room had settled into an awkward silence – even Eren didn't dare speak. Bertholdt rarely got angry, and no-one liked dealing with Ymir's temper on a good day, let alone a day like this, when she was already incensed. Mikasa simply sat in perpetual silence until suddenly, cheer erupted from the street, and the group turned their attention to it, their ears angled towards the noise.

Eren was the first to stand, jumping to his feet and fleeing into the next room to the window through which Bertholdt had entered, slipping out hurriedly. His hands were empty of his bread, as he had finished it some time ago. Mikasa, true to her fashion also hopped to her feet and followed diligently after Eren. Bertholdt didn't want to go, but when Ymir sighed loudly and pulled herself to her feet as if the effort to stand was too much in itself, and slunk out of the room, Bertholdt mirrored her sigh, shoving the rest of his food unceremoniously in his mouth before he too got to his feet.

It didn't take him long to catch up to the others at the mouth of the alley. Crowds of people lined the street, some people hanging out of windows. Eren and Mikasa were perched on a nearby crate, empty of its contents, and Ymir had disappeared, no doubt making her way to the front of the crowd. Tall as he was, Bertholdt didn't have to make much of an effort to get a decent view. A carriage was making its way down the street – painted white and gold and carved more finely than anything Bertholdt had ever seen in his life. He resisted the urge to gape, despite marvelling at the sight of the procession of soldiers leading the carriage, as well as the four fine pale horses that pulled it. The Royal crest of the founder of the kingdom – Queen Sina – was painted onto the doors of the carriage.

However, it was not the crest that caught Bertholdt's eye, but rather the sight of the person within the carriage, who, rather then sit still within, subdued and regal, he leant out of the window of the carriage door, waving and grinning. Bertholdt's eyes widened. He recognised that short blond hair and the golden brown eyes that were so steely, but in their own way, so kind. He recognised that frame, and gulped.

It had been years.

Turning, Bertholdt ducked his head and skulked back into the alley behind him. Now, at least he knew what the commotion was about.

Chapter Text

The following morning Bertholdt pulled himself from his bed of straw, which had become damp and had begun to rot at last. He tried to keep it as long as possible, because it was a long way to go to the outskirts of the city, just to find decent bedding – within the city, it was sold and bought so quickly on account of so many rich folks owning horses to feed and care for. Bertholdt often had no choice but to venture into nearby farms, if he was desperate. It was one of the only tasks be performed for his own benefit...it was not easy to gather hay and lug it back home. He had tried once, to get some for Ymir, when it had just been the two of them, and he had almost been shot for trespassing.

It wasn't unusual for a farmer to have a crossbow, or even traps strewn about his farm land to shoot or catch predators...and thieves.

He sat there for a moment, trying to ignore the stench of old hay. Perhaps a trip to the river would not go amiss. He hadn't bathed for weeks, and probably looked worse than a common pauper. He might even wash his clothes, however reluctant he was to sit by the riverside naked as he let his clothes dry in the sun. At least there was a bridge he could hide under. At least it would be safer to go in the morning. There were people out there worse than him, after all, and he had encountered a few.

Bertholdt was already dressed, seeing no point in exposing his body to more flees than strictly necessary, not that they wouldn't just stick to his clothes. It was another reason that he discouraged the others from using hay...he would have joined them had he the endurance to sleep on the cold hard ground alone. Bertholdt could not find sleep easily, and when he did, he usually slept like the dead because of it. He had woken up more than once to Ymir laughing her ass off at him. He was not a restful sleeper, often too full of anxiety. He would let her laugh, and scold her for scaling the stairs of their little wreck of home.

When they had found it, Ymir found herself with a trapped leg, her weight causing the rotted wood to give away. She had a limp in her step for at least a week. He ignored his own advice for the sake of his personal comfort. He did not like to sleep in the company of others. That sort of thing had found him in some very unpleasant situations, although more often than not, he could escape.

Forcing himself to stand, Bertholdt stretched, bone tired as he was, he hardly registered his limbs cracking at the strain. Bertholdt often found himself in this situation, and more than being hungry, he hated being tired. More than being hungry, his exhaustion gave way to more emotion than he would ordinarily display. Some days, it was all he could do to keep from crying from the frustration of it all, the anger and the sorrow. He would provoke Ymir on those days, even Eren. Sometimes, he just wanted the boy to punch him so he could snap out of it. He wanted Ymir to distract him. Mikasa might even pitch in if she felt Bertholdt had pushed too many of Eren's buttons...of which there were a great deal.

Perhaps it was self-destructive, and unwise, given the circumstances. The cuts and bruises were a sign of weakness, and an invitation to the rougher criminals on the street to...impose themselves upon him in some way, be it stealing what little he had, or ask him a favour or two. Of course, if things got too rough, he had never met anyone faster than him. Bertholdt was good at picking and choosing his battles, and that often meant no battles at all, if he could help it.

Ymir carried a blade – two in fact. Eren and Mikasa also had them. Another reason he didn't want to spend the night in a room with them. Leaving his room – a tiny old thing with more floorboards missing than plaster on the walls – Bertholdt began to pick his way down the stairs, missing steps now and then and sticking to the corners of others. There were cracks in the roof of his room, which didn't help Bertholdt on exceptionally cold nights. It was only during winter that the boy would seek alternative accommodation, secure places, but not at all savoury. Come spring he would try to make it on his own again, but Ymir would find him. He had often suspected she kept tabs on him during the winter months...and he would end up getting through the money he had made much faster than he had intended. No matter where he hid it, Ymir would find it and pilfer it for her own reasons. She was never one for sharing personal matters, but then, neither was Bertholdt, so he didn't mind. What he did mind was an empty stomach that came too soon, although his anger never lasted. He could not focus on his resentment when all he wanted to do was get something in his belly.

Once at the bottom of the stairs, Bertholdt ran a hand through his filthy, matted hair, pulling out what he could of the straw that had settled there during the night, letting it fall to the floor unceremoniously. From the sounds – or lack there of – that filled the house, Bertholdt was quick to deduce that everyone had left for the day. The group went about their own business in the day, the fruits of which were rarely seen. Mikasa brought the most money in – she and Eren worked as a team, Mikasa slipping her delicate hand into the pockets of those that Eren distracted, with some ridiculous antic or another. Ymir..he wasn't sure what Ymir did with her time. She assured him that one day, the things she worked on would come in very handy. The group worked on the assumption that Bertholdt would provide the food, and if not food than money.

Mikasa and Eren were trying to save money to get off the streets, so they were not willing to share much of what they gathered. For some reason, Ymir did not try to steal from them. It was probably Mikasa's doing. Ymir was not intimidated by Eren in the least. Bertholdt had seen Mikasa break a man's wrist for attempting to pick up a coin she had dropped once. Whether or not he was just trying to be kind and help her, he did not know.

Bertholdt did not begrudge them their desire for something...more. Something safe. Yet, sometimes it frustrated him. He felt obligated to carry the group from day to day, tolerating their selfishness and their unwillingness to help Bertholdt provide for the group. As much as this company existed together, they were not necessarily a team. It was every man for themselves, in the end, no matter how some pretended otherwise...Bertholdt himself included.

Sighing, Bertholdt made his way to the bucket of water that Mikasa had collected the day before, and took the ladle into his hands as he knelt before it, scooping it up and peering at it, cautiously. Hesitantly he lifted the ladle to his lips and took several – tentative – tiny sips of the liquid. He never drank much, and when he did it was just enough to satiate his initial thirst.

Of course, with that thought in mind, Bertholdt stood, and turned to leave the living room and exit into the room on the far side, slipping through the window with practised ease. Bertholdt kept his head down as he slipped from alley to alley, making his way towards the centre of town. He hated to venture there, but he knew that the well there was the only source of clean water for miles around. Bertholdt had always been impressed by the fact that it had sustained the city for as long as it had.

If the city guard was lax that morning, Bertholdt knew he could double back and fetch the bucket to replace the water...if not, he would have wasted a trip. He wanted to check first before he let Mikasa's efforts go to waste. Of course, he knew that losing time to retrieve the bucket was the downside to that plan...but he thought that it would be better than lugging a full pail of water around. Making judgement calls...was not something Bertholdt excelled at, not really.

Bertholdt tried to keep to the alleyways, but sometimes it was simply impossible. Side roads became increasingly sparse the further into town Bertholdt went, and soon he resorted to pressing himself into the side of buildings, trying to look as casual as possible in the face of the crowds of finely-dressed people. Not everyone was well-dressed of course, but a majority were merchants or nobles and few of the ignoble, rough sorts that Bertholdt associated with, and was himself, according to society. Bertholdt was in with the night crowd.

As Bertholdt neared the town centre, dread began to fill him, settling into the pit of his stomach as the sound of hammers upon wood filled the air, and he gulped, peering around the corner of the building he was leant against. Eyes widening, Bertholdt cursed mentally, and pulled back. There were carpenters erecting what looked like a stage in the centre of the town square, stationed just behind the well. Of course, from the look of things, they had started early and the structure would be finished by that afternoon. Of course, it wasn't the carpenters that bothered him, but rather the guards stationed at almost every corner of the square, and more besides milling about. Either someone very important was going to hang, or the announcement that Ymir had mused upon was going to take place.

With a deep intake of breath through his mouth to steady his nerves, Bertholdt tried to calm himself, feelings the beginnings of a familiar sweat manifest upon his forehead. It appeared, Bertholdt despaired, that they were not to get any fresh water that day. He stood there long enough that soon, he noticed people whispering, glancing at him in what they thought was a surreptitious manner, and others blatantly stare – their gazes full of disapproval. Then he noticed the gaze of a woman – dress supported by her underskirts and her chest wrapped tightly in a remarkable bodice. She looked every inch the lady, and an ideal target for Mikasa and Eren, judging by the innately superior look she had plastered upon her face as she spoke to the guard beside her.

Guard.

The guard! Bertholdt started, pushing himself up off the wall, his gaze never once leaving those of that brown-eyed woman. It was only when she gestured again with the closed fan in her gloved hand, and the guard began to head in his direction that he turned, ducking his head and hurrying back he way he had come. He tried to hurry, but remain as calm as he could as he walked away.

But it was only when he heard a sharp “Hey!” which was louder than he expected, that he turned to see the guard jogging towards him, faster than he had thought the other would advance, that he panicked. Turning, Bertholdt shot off down the street, away from the town centre, and with another indistinguishable shout from the guard, Bertholdt knew he was being pursued.

Bertholdt almost thought he didn't have to worry, given that he was the fastest person he knew, save perhaps Connie, if he was not already on par with the shorter male. Of course..Bertholdt was more than familiar with the phrase 'Better the enemy that you know, than the enemy you don't.' And he did not know this enemy. So, Bertholdt pushed himself harder, rounding a corner quickly, glancing around as he did so, to see the soldier hot on his trail. He was closer than he ever wanted to be to a keeper of the peace ever again.

There was another shout and suddenly, there was a flash beneath his feet and the sound of metal clattering to the floor. Bertholdt's eyes widened when he realised – the soldier had thrown his sword at his feet and it was all Bertholdt could do jump and avoid the blade as he clattered and spun where it has landed between his legs, although he was not lucky enough to save himself from being injured. He cried out when the tip of the sword pressed into the skin of his inner thigh and he cried out, gasping when he realised-

Pain shot through his ankle as his foot landed awkwardly on the curve of the pavement and he fell into the road with a heavy thud, landing with the groan, the sword coming to a stop somewhere behind him. He groaned, but soon found himself struggling to get to his feet, but to no avail.

He choked when he felt the collar of his shirt as it pressed into his neck tightly when the guard yanked him to his feet, hearing the distinct sound of cloth tearing, before abruptly shoving the boy into a nearby wall; choosing then to take Bertholdt by the neck and hold him there, his grasp unforgiving. Bertholdt's hand went immediately to the guard's trying to pry them off his as he struggled for breath. It was all he could do to keep his weight off his ankle.

The soldier's deep chestnut eyes were narrowed upon him, strong, unyielding features framed in sandy brown hair. Full lips were settled into a scowl “What do you think you're doing, huh?” The man questioned aggressively.

Bertholdt sweat profusely as he shook his head as much as he could “noth-” he gasped out, trying to pull the other's hand from his neck “nothi-ng..!”

The guard continued as if he had not heard the boy “Bothering good, upstanding citizens with your filth!” Bertholdt managed pull the other's hand away just long enough to suck in a good breath of air before that pressure was upon his neck again, full-force.

“I didn-” Bertholdt half-whined through his breathlessness. Even if he could escape now, he would not get far in his current state. His palms and elbows and even his knees hurt from his rough landing. From the feel of it, his face hadn't been spared either. “pl-please..!” Bertholdt was beginning to feel light-headed. He really regretted trying to be subtle about his initial attempt to flee the town centre. He should have ran like Hell was after him.

The guard scoffed and released his hold on Bertholdt's neck, instead opting to grasp at the collar of his now-ruined shirt. Shoving him against the wall as Bertholdt tried to regain his breath, knocking it out of him again momentarily. Bertholdt gripped at the man's arm, at this point more for support than any particular desire to get away.

“Then don't go poking your dirty little nose where it ain't wanted!” The guard warned, before delivering a swift blow to Bertholdt's gut, and allowing the pauper to slip to his feet in silent agony. Bertholdt curled in upon himself as the Guard turned and walked away swiftly, collecting his sword as he went. The only consolation in that situation had been the fact that the guard hadn't known his face. If that had been the case, Bertholdt would have wound up with more than a twisted ankle, a (no doubt) bruising midsection and suffering various other minor ailments. All the same, Bertholdt couldn't help but let out a pained sob.

Chapter Text

After picking himself up, Bertholdt was quick to leave the town centre, this time not even bothering to take the side-streets and alleyways, which, while safer during the day, were not without peril. The aching of his abused stomach had dulled, but he had not yet managed to uncurl himself completely as he walked with a limp in his step towards the riverside on the edge of the city. Stohess – Sina's capitol was a large city, for such a small kingdom, with a river running through a majority of the east side. Most of the clean water was held in ponds and fountains, when it was it was not within the well – in the upper-class part so the city where riff-raff could not venture without consequence. The palace contained one of the only other wells within the city. Stohess was actually built upon a large network of underground tunnels, through which streams and lakes ran and Bertholdt was not quite sure how far those caverns stretched. The wells were strategically placed and the city was built around them upon its founding by one of the three Queens of olde. Sina was the oldest of three sisters and had a weakness for grandeur. Her kingdom was the smallest, but because she aimed to build an attractive city, trade came easily and riches followed.

Sina's military forces at the time were exceptional, and small though her kingdom was, she had nothing to fear. Bertholdt however believed that those values of strength and nobility had turned to nothing but greed and brutality. Of course, he had just been assaulted by a no doubt battle-hardened soldier. Bertholdt had not recognised him as one of the city guard. He had been wearing the standard breastplate with a white cloak that sported the City Guard sigil – a shield with a unicorn's likeness upon it, in pale green and white, noble and majestic – it would have been typical of the queen to have picked something so fanciful, and in its way, absurd.

Queen Rose's sigil was similar in the way that it too contained a shield as all three sisters did. Yet this sigil was much more literal in the sense that is contained two simple red roses entwined together by delicate white vines. It was her kingdom, why not emphasise the fact? Trost was the largest of all the capitols in the three kingdoms, although it was much simpler than that of Sina's own. Queen Rose was by all accounts, a woman very much geared towards practicality and safety – safety that she believed, was in numbers. Her army was simply dubbed 'The Garrison' because of its large numbers being stationed within a large, formidable fort. The city itself was encircled by the highest of walls in all the three kingdoms. The city itself could have been called a fort, but every wall has a weak point. Rose's army was the largest of the three kingdoms, but it was not renowned for its skill the way Sina's army had been (and in many ways still was), as they only accepted the best of the best into what Sina's people had dubbed 'the Military Police'. No, Rose's advantage within any war as its overwhelming numbers. Bertholdt didn't know much of anything about Rose, but he knew it was reputed to be a friendly place, despite it's foreboding countenance. Of course, because of all that security, it meant that the Garrison's training had slackened, which Bertholdt now realised was a very large contributing factor to their recent defeat in the war against Sina and its people.

Maria however was perhaps the most out-going of all the sisters – the youngest – and although she had the largest heart of all the siblings, was inexperienced in the ways of ruling. Her attempts to encourage trade failed more often than not, which lead hers to become the poorest of the kingdoms, but that did not deter her or weaken her resolve to create a society in which its citizens could could exercise individuality with no repercussions. Her city was simple and was the most successful in becoming self-sufficient, because like her, her people were determined to live a peaceful and happy life. Shiganshina was not as peaceful as it once was as crops failed frequently and often food was scarce, and because of this many people were left jobless. Of course, it was not all hopeless. There was unity there, even if trust was somewhat lacking at times. Her people were largely kind and helpful, although they were the most sceptical when it came to trusting outsiders. More than the high walls of Trost, the isolated cities and farmland left cities without much in the way of outside trade and visitors. Maria was made up mostly on wide plains, forests and rivers, to accommodate her love of nature. A small percentage of the land became farmland, which served to feed its people, but most of it simply symbolised Maria's belief in freedom and exploration.

Her army was a strong one, talented in ways that even Sina's army was not. Yet, the population of Maria had taken on a trait of what seemed to be pure recklessness, which was sometimes near suicidal. It was that trait that became their undoing. It was a smaller army than Sina's, massively disproportionate to its kingdom's size, but talented though they were, their recklessness against Sina's number and rigorous training regime lead to a long and hard-won battle against Maria's army. It was a shame, in Bertholdt's mind that such a city, its army's sigil known as 'The Wings of Freedom' – the very embodiment of the things Maria herself wanted to achieve – had been so cruelly trampled. Of course, King Erwin of Sina had a great mind and it was he who ultimately ensured Sina's victory.

The war had started because the tension between the three kingdoms that had been rising for as long as Bertholdt could remember, had snapped. Rumour had it that the straw that broke the camel's back had been Rose's refusal to marry the Princess Historia to Prince Reiner, in order to form an alliance of sorts with one another. Sina threatened war and Rose called to Maria for aid, who provided it. Now, Reiner was sure to marry Historia regardless, depending on whether or not Erwin saw fit to go through with the plan even after the war. Bertholdt had heard in the past that Historia was very beautiful, so he wouldn't put it past Reiner to want to marry her. Who could resist a pretty woman, right? Marrying Historia off was another hold Erwin would have on the Kingdom of Rose – Bertholdt was not ignorant of politics, but knowing King Erwin, he was liable to decide on that course of action. Erwin had all three Kingdoms in the palm of his hand, so he could do as he wished. That said, Erwin had always been unpredictable.

It was not Bertholdt's place to deal with politics or meddle with the affairs of the rich and powerful. He had no right - not with his standing in society – amongst the lowest of the low, and some would have it that he was worse than that. All he had wanted was water, and because Sina was such a pig-headed place, ruled by those who misunderstood the intentions of the poor, he was unable to get some. He was a dirty street-urchin and an eyesore, what did he deserve water for? Bertholdt would have joined the army, but circumstances made that all too risky, and it wasn't because he was afraid of dying. To be frank, at this point he hardly cared at all, but for some reason, he kept going and did not stop. Bertholdt knew he was simply not the type to give up.

In his younger years, Bertholdt would hop from place to place in the cold winter months, and had on occasion been taken in by a kind citizen or a servant to spend the night in the kitchen or by the fire. More often than not he was given a meal in the morning before being sent back out onto the street again. If he was lucky he might have been given food to last him a day or two, three if he could control himself. As he grew older, it became harder to obtain help in that fashion. Sometimes he might have received food in exchange for work (the proportion of the aforementioned food somewhat lacking in the face of the amount of work he had to do), and if something went wrong he was sent packing, usually with a new bruise or two and no nourishment to speak of.

Now, of course, long since a man by all accounts, Bertholdt had no-one to rely upon but himself. It was this thought alone that kept Bertholdt moving, forcing one foot in front of the other. Help would not come for him and he could not wait for the charity of others, nor could he wait to be singled out as weak and vulnerable. His ankle was on fire and all he could think about was soaking it in the cool waters of the river as the sun beat down upon him. When at last the river came into view, in all its murky glory, the pain in Bertholdt's gut had subsided and he could not help but smile through the pain that shot through his ankle every time he put weight on it. Bertholdt tried to hurry, grimacing as he went before he finally dropped to the hard-packed ground by the riverside and after a moment, lay back against a patch of rich, healthy green grass behind him. He sighed and lay there, silent and unmoving as he panted for breath, the only other sound being the wind as it rustled the riverside reeds and grass and the leaves in the trees. It was a cooler day for it, thanks to autumn approaching swiftly. The weather was becoming somewhat erratic. The wind seemed to nullify the warmth the sun battled to give the people of Sina. Bertholdt almost laughed at the thought. The sun was the only thing warm about Sina, and he would leave, if he could afford to do so. Ymir's tendency to steal from him made saving somewhat difficult.

There was a strong stone bridge not far from where he was sprawled across the ground. He did not worry about passers-by, for they were few and far between. There was very little to the east of any importance. It was almost midday when he made it to the river and by the time he began to move again, sitting up to remove his ill-fitting shirt before carefully removing his soft-soled, soft leather boots that were tied to his legs but a few bit of thin leather straps that wrapped around his calves from ankle to knee. He sucked in a breath sharply as he was forced to disturb his ankle once again. As well as soothing his ankle, Bertholdt realised it was the perfect opportunity to bathe. It was not yet cold enough that he should begin to look for lodging elsewhere, so a wash in the river would have to do for the time being; it had been so long since he had done it last. Frankly, he had been putting it off on account of deeming it unnecessary. Besides, the grimy street rats were much less appealing targets; most other criminals assumed they had nothing worth giving (or taking, rather). It was a survival strategy that Bertholdt employed, but given that he had just been assaulted by a member of the military police, Bertholdt decided he had gotten a little too filthy. It was never a good sign when the rich were so perturbed that they actually paid attention and did something about the unpleasantness before them.

Undoing the laces of his trousers, Bertholdt allowed them to slip to the floor as he stood, before he gingerly stepped out of them, hissing again when he had to put weight back onto his ankle. Bertholdt did not bother with underwear – it was expensive and if he ever had money, he would sooner eat than add one more item of clothing to the list of things that he would have to maintain with things he did not possess. The only undergarments that he had owned had fallen apart years ago, when he was a boy and had not replaced them since. Besides, his trousers protected his modesty well enough.

Bertholdt tucked his boots between two large boulders before he slipped into the water a straying closer to the shadow of the bridge, clothes in hand so that he might be ready to hide from view should anyone show their face. Bertholdt went to his knees in the water, feeling the sand and clay to his knees and between his toes, putting his trousers to one side on the riverbank as he slipped his shirt into the water and began to wash it as best he could, rubbing the fabric together in the water in order to get rid of as much filth as he could. He went as it for several minutes before he finally gave up and set his damp shirt aside (after ringing it out) onto another boulder by the water, settled beneath the afternoon sun. He did the same to his trousers, taking care not to tear at the rip in his trousers that the soldier's sword had made earlier that day as he tried to get as much blood as he could out of the old linen trousers. He really would hate to walk around with a noticeably torn clothes, not that his shirt had gone without rough treatment. It seemed to Bertholdt that he really would have to...obtain, new clothing sooner than he had planned. Unless he could find thread very soon. He believed he still had a needle somewhere.

Once the trousers were taken care of, Bertholdt was finally able to take care of himself, dunking his head beneath the water and rubbing vigorously, yanking at his matted hair to get the clumps of dirt and tangles out of his wild and filthy locks. By the time he was through, he couldn't say he didn't hurt. He scrubbed at his arms roughly and forced the dirt from his skin. His torso and neck received the same treatment although Bertholdt was dismayed at the tenderness he felt there. He would bruise, he was sure. Bertholdt bruised easily, and when he did the bruises remained for a long while, and tended to invite more. He scrubbed at his back as best he could before moving on to his nether regions and legs, sparing several minutes to massage his ankle to ease the pain, with little success.

He was just washing his face, balanced precariously on one leg as the river water ran by gently when he heard a voice. “Bertholdt!” it called, and he recognised it immediately. Connie Springer. Bertholdt had to suppress a groan when he saw the shorter male slip into his peripheral vision. Unable to escape, he turned to regard Connie silently, the other grinning faintly from where he stood on the bank, hands hidden behind his back as he watched Bertholdt. The taller boy did not have much to be shy about, but the unabashed way in which Connie looked at him made him a little nervous. “You know,” Connie started again, upon realising he was not going to receive a verbal response “you look different clean”. Rolling his eyes, Bertholdt turned away and continued to wash his face, more for something to do than necessity. He couldn't work out whether or be insulted or not. “In a good way!” The shorter man hurried to say “like, I don't know...your complexion is more even. I can't explain, you- you look kind of shiny.”

Bertholdt furrowed his brow then, and turned to look at Connie once more, unable to keep from blurting out “Shiny?” incredulously.

Connie just shrugged, almost aggressively as he looked away, his frustration evident “I said I couldn't explain!”

There was a brief pause before Bertholdt smiled kindly, although his expression remained as guarded as ever. “Did you mean 'warm'?” He asked quietly. That was one he had heard before.

At that, Connie started, turning towards Bertholdt with a little “yes!” he declared triumphantly, gesturing at the other male, finger extended to emphasise his point. “That's exactly it! You look like you've been sitting in the sun all day, and not rolling around in the mud.” Bertholdt would have to congratulate Connie on his ability to kill a compliment one of these days.

Bertholdt nodded slowly at that, before turning and limping his way towards Connie “do you mind turning around for a second?” He asked, and realising that Bertholdt was trying to get out of the water, he nodded, frowning a little as he heard the water splashing as Bertholdt stepped out of the river as a slight hiss. He waited for a moment longer before he turned, to find Bertholdt sitting on a bed of moss, one leg pressed to his chest while the other lay flat upon the ground. He would have been lying if he said he hadn't seen the slight limp in Bertholdt's step as he fumbled his way out of the river.

“What happened to you?” He asked bluntly, making his way towards Bertholdt, sitting in front of the other boy, facing his obviously swollen ankle. He reached for it and carefully set it into his lap, ignoring the brunette's slight protest. “Relax, I got a healer's touch!” He said with a little grin and a chuckle. This was actually the first time he'd seen Bertholdt so vulnerable...all naked and injured and stuff. He supposed he was lucky that it was a friend who had found him.

“Forgive me if I don't believe you..” Bertholdt muttered, twitching as Connie began to gently rub at the other's ankle in small circles. It was probably wiser to let it be, but Connie had had enough injuries like this to know that it would cause no harm. “Anyway, it was a guard...I was expelled from the town centre this morning.” He explained quietly with a frown, looking at his hands where they were clasped together in his lap.

“Oh,” Connie replied, in understanding “You got roughed up.”

“Very.”

“Why did you go?” Connie asked after a moment.

“Clean water.” Bertholdt replied with a frown “I loitered a little too long, I suppose.”

Connie nodded, it was not uncommon for street urchins to get chased off by the military police. Sometimes people had trouble grasping the fact that the water in the well was for everyone. “I guess you saw the stage then.” Out of the corner of his eye, Connie saw Bertholdt nod, so he continued “Apparently the Prince is going to make an announcement later today. The stage looked almost done when I saw it.” a pause “We should go.”

“I would rather not.”

Connie paused in his ministrations then, turning to Bertholdt with a frown “Why not?” He asked perhaps a little impatiently.

There was a pause “I want to get some work done.”

His shorter friend frowned “Nearing that time of year already, huh?” Bertholdt simply nodded “Thought so.” Connie's frown deepened “You know, you shouldn't do that. It's dangerous.”

Bertholdt scoffed “Right.” Bertholdt agreed “so why would I let Ymir or Mikasa do it?”

“Don't be stupid, Bert, Mik-”

“Don't call me that!”

“Bertholdt, then.” Connie snapped back just as sharply “Ymir and Mikasa are tough as nails, they can handle themselves.”

“And what if they wind up pregnant, huh?” Bertholdt countered “It won't matter how tough they are then.”

“Look, why don't I just pay you?” Connie asked impatiently, gently pushing Bertholdt's ankle off his lap as he got to his knees edging a little closer to the taller male.

Bertholdt sat up further, looking more than a little surprised “What?” He blurted out, obviously shocked.

“Yeah!” Connie said, turning to his own boots and pulling out a small pouch “I got some money today – I can pay you, you don't have to go find some stranger, and we can both go to the town centre tonight!” Connie shoved his money back into his boots before he moved again, and Bertholdt found himself flat on his back, Connie's hand on his shoulder, with his own hands pressed against Connie's clothed chest, looking bewildered and borderline fearful. “Come on, Bertholdt...what do you say?” Connie's hand was already travelling up his naked thigh.

Bertholdt forced himself to breath as evenly as possible. Connie had never done this before, and he was a little surprised that he would even dare. It was no secret what Bertholdt did over the winter, after all, Bertholdt didn't particularly want his 'family' to suffer too much. It was better to earn during the winter, then go after the slim pickings that winter had to offer. Of course, he could only look after them if he could find them, which was difficult, given that he knew all three members of his little clan moved around a lot during the winter.

“I think you need to-” He flinched then and hissed, attempting to pull away from Connie even as the other sat up in surprise, glancing down and eyeing the raw and open flesh on Bertholdt's inner thigh.

“You're bleeding!” Connie announced “Shit, Bertholdt, why didn't you say anything!” Connie was quick then to pull his sleeve up over his hand and press it to the wound, and Bertholdt couldn't help but feel exceedingly awkward. Connie's hands were everywhere except where he wanted them to be, but at least he wasn't trying to proposition him any more.

“Because it wasn't important.”

“Not important?” Connie parroted incredulously “What if this gets infected, huh. You could die.”

“What's your point?” Bertholdt practically hissed, and Connie couldn't help himself as he lifted his hand and lay a single hard slap across Bertholdt's cheek, and watched the other fall to his elbow, letting out a cry of pain.

“You know people actually give a shit about you, right?” Connie snapped, returning to press his sleeve against the wound as Bertholdt sat up again, frowning, reaching up to feel at his sore cheek tentatively.

“People have a funny way of showing it if they do.” Bertholdt retorted sullenly, his gaze narrowing upon Connie pointedly.

“What.” Connie huffed “I was making a point.”

Several minutes went by after the pair had lapsed into an almost bitter silence. Bertholdt could not go anywhere until his clothes were dry and he could already tell that Connie was not going to leave his side. He vaguely wondered where Sasha was, but figured after a time that she was probably busy filching food for herself and Connie.

Bertholdt was not having a good day.

Chapter Text

The town square was full of life, both the rich and poor making an appearance. The stage had been completed and had stood empty for the past two hours. Connie had helped him along, dragging him to the centre. Injured as he as, he knew he couldn't have escaped Connie even if he wanted to. The Prince seemed to have taken up residence in a nearby Inn, waiting for the right time. Bertholdt wasn't exactly sure what was taking Prince Reiner so long, but...he wasn't Royalty, and he didn't have the authority to wile away other people's time, so what did he know? Bertholdt thought the behaviour selfish and borderline arrogant, but Bertholdt understood better than most how self-entitled the rich felt.

King Erwin wasn't like that – not really, and tended to have the people's best interests at heart, although sometimes he came off as cold, even aloof. Reiner was the opposite in that respect – he was kind and approachable. Bertholdt thought he was a little prone to foolishness on many counts. Many of the citizens loved him despite several instances in which Reiner had bitten off more than he could chew. He always fixed it in the end, but Reiner's mistakes tended to weigh on him. Reiner was a court favourite apparently, from what he had heard from the higher-ups he had catered to in past winters. Reiner this, Reiner that. Reiner wore a sash so it must be in fashion! Reiner has taken to sword-play, perhaps I should too! Reiner jumped off a cliff, so I should follow suit!

It was as if Reiner could do no wrong and Bertholdt couldn't help but be irritated by it. Most of the time, Bertholdt didn't care what the Prince did with his time, but of course, the blond had not been around for three years, so Bertholdt would almost be interested to see how the Prince had grown. Reiner had left for war the same year Bertholdt had begun to visit the brothels for work – at fifteen. It was a young age but certainly old enough that what they were doing was acceptable. In fact, Bertholdt was a little surprised that Reiner had survived. He vaguely wondered how often it was that Reiner had been let out onto the battlefield. He also wondered if Reiner had even found the time to have a woman over the past three years.

The stage was minimally decorated, with white and gold fabric draping over the side of the stage, no doubt to hide the stilts and woodwork beneath. There was no tent. It was not raining that day, so there was little need for one, which was a blessing and a half. Bertholdt's clothes were still a little damp from the river water, but at least he wasn't bleeding all over his clothes any more. Connie had helped the bleeding stop, for which he was grateful; although the shorter male did not bring up his proposition again. Connie was not exactly easy to distract, but he knew when to drop certain matters. It was one of the things he liked about Connie. He could always tell when Bertholdt did not want to be bothered, or if he was upset, but knew when to push Bertholdt for answers.

The thing about Connie was that he was curious. He was also competitive, but usually only when it came to Sasha. They made a game of their lives most of the time. It made living from day to day easier on their parts – took the stress out of it. Bertholdt didn't mind, but he hadn't been one for games for a great many years. He could take Connie and Sasha in small doses, despite the fact that they could occasionally make him laugh. Sasha often accused Bertholdt of being too serious and perhaps she was right, but Bertholdt never lingered on the accusation. Of course, that is usually when Connie's curiosity came out to play. He would ask Bertholdt probing questions; where did he come from? How did he get here? Connie had always noticed that Bertholdt never talked about himself, and prodded at him for answers when he had the opportunity. The only thing Connie really knew about him was where he went for food and water, where he slept and where he went during the winter. He was still a little perturbed about what Connie had done earlier that day.

Connie's touch wasn't unpleasant. It didn't make his skin crawl. It was simply that someone he considered a friend in his tough little world would ask such a thing of him. It could change their relationship and that was not something Bertholdt was prepared to sacrifice. Who knows how their dynamic would change – would Connie ask for further favours of that nature in the future in exchange for food? What about Money? Bertholdt preferred the back-scratching method of their partnership and he would rather it did not turn into one of service. Bertholdt wasn't repulsed by Connie, and perhaps in different circumstances might have been flattered, but Bertholdt simply couldn't fathom performing such intimate acts with anyone he was even remotely familiar with.

Another thing he realised about Connie was his absolute doggedness. He wanted Bertholdt at the town square, so he would have Bertholdt at the town square. The end. Despite his interest in the stage and his attempts to find a good view of the elevated platform that Reiner would occupy whenever he felt ready, and keep it, Connie kept a good eye on Bertholdt. He seemed to know that Bertholdt would leave the first chance he got. Of course, he would hope that Connie would understand, at least on the surface – it was the perfect opportunity to do a little shopping – Bertholdt needed a shirt, after all.

With everyone in the square, it would be easy for Bertholdt to find what he needed. Perhaps he might even be able to find an open window and pinch some thread. That would be a stretch of course. Hardly anyone was stupid enough to leave their windows open when they were away, unless they were extremely absent-minded.

For the time being however, Bertholdt endured the chatter about him, some of it more shallow and superfluous than he cared for. Most of it was reasonable, and expressed curiosity and spread gossip. People even speculated that Reiner was detained within the walls of the Inn because of a woman...which wouldn't have entirely surprised Bertholdt. Even as a child-

“Connie!” a familiar voice cried, distracting Bertholdt from his musing, and he turned his attention from where he stood, leaning against the wall of a nearby bakery to keep his weight off his ankle. The baker had locked up the shop as he was no doubt deeper within the crowd of people, waiting for the announcement. He saw Sasha struggling through the crowd, donned in her usual dirty grey skirt and brown shirt, complete with an aged leather (stolen, of course) waistcoat. Her shoes had seen better days. Her hair was a mess and it was clear he had been doing quite a bit of running before she arrived at the square, her deep brown locks falling from her pony-tail.

She approached with a grin when the shorter male turned, eyes widening at the sight of what she held in her hands: smoked and dried pork. Jerky. It was foreign, although Bertholdt could not say fro where it had come. It was a rare treat to say the least. “Look what I got~” Sasha teased, waving the jerky beneath Connie nose, and he made a swipe for it, only to have Sasha pull away at the last moment and take it between her teeth and yanking a bite off.

“Hey!” Connie protested, making another grab, and it was then Bertholdt realised; now was the time. So, gulped, Bertholdt turned and slipped hurriedly into the alleyway. He would have liked some of that jerky but if missing a meal was the price he had to pay for leaving the square that he could quite literally live with that. He had eaten the day before, after all.

As Bertholdt slipped deeper into the alley behind the baker's shop, leaving Connie and Sasha's bickering behind, Bertholdt moved throughout the almost completely deserted streets. Most stragglers more than likely could not be bothered about the announcement, and figured they would hear enough about it in the days to come that it didn't matter whether or not they attended. The brunette would have liked to be further from the town centre, given that the security was better in this area of the city, but Bertholdt did not want to strain his ankle further. His limp had eased some, but he still hurt.

Connie would undoubtedly be pissed at him later, but that was a sacrifice he was willing to make for his own peace of mind. The streets were quiet, which was a blessing, and he didn't need to be quite so surreptitious when it came to his 'hunting'. Something – anything – would be better than what he was wearing now. It didn't matter if it didn't fit perfectly. Frankly, nothing really did for a man of his stature, and his size. He was far too small. In the past he had had to use some of the precious little thread he had to modify his trousers, given that they were constantly slipping down where they sat on his hips. Of course his winter clients never seemed to mind; they just thought he was some little thing that was far too easy to bully...and he was. He couldn't risk upsetting his customers, even if they did do things at times that were not at all pleasant to remember. They often enjoyed his humiliation. Despite his size, they could often tell he was proud and they thought it would be fun to put him in his place.

For the time being, it was really only his shirt that needed replacing. His trousers were damaged, but it was so little that it hardly mattered. A quick patch up when the time came and they would be fine. The collar of his shirt was irreparably torn and the hem too short. Honestly? Bertholdt felt a little naked. The commotion in the square was nothing but a distant murmur now, so he knew he had not wandered far, shuffling from alley to alley, mindful of his ankle as well as his surroundings. Being closer to the town centre than he ever liked to be, Bertholdt felt this to be an almost unfamiliar place. The buildings were similar, made of the same brick or build from the wood of the same forests, but the paths were new to him, Windows were not always where he expected them to be, and no doors at all were painted red with mark of the sickness that had swept from home to home. He had even heard it said that not even the nobles had escaped that pandemic – nor did they escape death's touch. Bertholdt knew nothing of the details, but knew that when he was but half a year old, his father had been touched by the sickness and had died for it. Bertholdt too had been sickly, but miraculously beat the illness and all that came with it. Few managed to fight the disease once it had come, but those who did were lucky..despite the healing process being a long and painful one.

The queen was not one of those few.

King Erwin Smith of Sina had been left to care for a babe of his own – Reiner. Growing up, Bertholdt heard whispers of the way it had taken the boys father almost a year before he could even so much as speak of his son, let alone look at him for any length of time. It had been a slow process, getting the king to realise that his wife was not the only thing Erwin would see in his son. It was not as if Erwin had never held his son but the day he did so again, some of the servants couldn't help but cheer...apparently. Erwin was a loving father, although the loss of his wife had made him much more reserved than he ever had been before.

Bertholdt would have been upset for him, knowing that story as he did, but then...at least Reiner still had one of his parents. Bertholdt's own mother had passed away when he had reached his tenth birthday. That aside, Bertholdt had never known Erwin to be cruel to Reiner.

Of course, the cruelty of the king had very little to do with the clothes on Bertholdt's back, so he was quick to push his thoughts away as he moved, peeking through windows as he went, occasionally trying a door or two when he was sure no-one was watching him, hoping one of them might give-way to his touch. That did not happen. There was a sudden uproar in the distance and Bertholdt realised that Reiner must have made his appearance...which didn't give the brunette much more time to dilly-dally.

The pauper continued on his way, his limp becoming steadily more pronounced as he hurried on, glancing from place to place in what he realised was the vain hope of finding a clothes line hanging out with freshly washed garments upon it, drying in the late afternoon sun. Bertholdt knew that what he was doing was virtually pointless, but surely, today of all days, he could suffer a stroke of luck, could he not?

He had escaped Connie with no problems, the town was distracted, but nothing was left for the taking? The world worked in ways that Bertholdt found too inconvenient for words at present, although later, if he ever found himself a better situation, he might thank his experience on the streets and know just what it was he had to do to avoid getting stolen from. Not that that always worked, but the thought was there. Not every house was abandoned, of course. Most people were either too preoccupied to attend or found the time to do so. Very few avoided the town square by choice, and those that did were not exactly law-abiding, much like Bertholdt.

The speech was well under-way by the time Bertholdt made any progress with his mission. He could faintly hear Reiner's booming, yet irritatingly warm voice in the distance, although he could to make out the words. Clearly, Bertholdt realised, he had been wandering back towards the square, almost unconsciously. He made a point to check the doors he had missed previously (having had to avoid a stranger or two as he passed) as he attempted to block out the mere sound of Reiner speaking.

He couldn't help but falter when a door gave-way beneath his touch and he hesitated – he found one!An open door. Bertholdt glanced around, taking a deep breath as he thought to himself. This was likely the dumbest thing he would ever do. If he weren't so desperate for a new shirt, things would be different. Not even Connie was foolish enough to do what he was about to do. Bertholdt felt sweat slip down his temple, and he forced his nerves to one side. It was only going to be a quick peek...he had never expected any door at all to be open...so many he should do this?

Maybe this was fate?

Before he could change his mind, Bertholdt shifted and pushed the door further open, poking his head through the doorway to get a better look at the room. He frowned. There was nothing that immediately caught his attention, and it appeared the house was empty. So, emboldened by his discovery, Bertholdt slipped inside and made sure to close the door silently behind him. He could to risk any noise now; but if it came to the worst, then Bertholdt could always offer himself up as an apology..or an explanation...or something. Frankly, the brunette did not spare the idea much thought as he crept about the front room of the house. It was a reasonably middle-class home, one of a respectable merchant. The chairs were of a good quality and the fabrics that draped over the many surfaces of the room added dashes of colour. I was clean, newly swept, judging by the broom that was propped up against the wall by the stairs leading no doubt to the bedrooms.

From what Bertholdt could see, this was was not a family home. There was nothing to indicate young children that he could see or even older ones. In fact, the house was bare of most personal touches that would indicate family of any sort. A lot of the furniture suggested that money was a very important thing within that household. It made Bertholdt think that he wouldn't miss a single shirt, or even a coin or two, but then, people with money always were the most selfish when it came to their possessions, a point, Bertholdt noted, that was emphasised quite suddenly by the feel of a blade pressed to the skin of his neck from behind.

The pauper froze and gulped, feeling a much larger body than his own pressed against his back at the knife pressed closer to him. He could almost feel the bite of the blade against his flesh, but it was the hiss from behind him that commanded his attention before long “Welcome, stranger.” A man hissed in his ear, making his shiver “I wasn't expecting company...”

Stiffly, Bertholdt glanced over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the man over his shoulder. He was shorter than Bertholdt, but stout and strong enough to over-power the trespasser. He was plain with dark hair and his brown eyes set in a furious glare. Bertholdt could see by the light slipping out onto the floor at his feet that the merchant (for that is what he was judging by the quality of his clothes), that the man had come through the front door. He had probably been nearby enough to see Bertholdt enter his home, to know to enter is silently, not that the boy would have escaped in him.

“I-I came for a shirt..” Bertholdt forced out, his voice choked and tight around his panic. This man was a merchant, so perhaps he would believe that Bertholdt had come here to buy from the man.

“To my house?” The merchant asked sceptically.

“W-well...” Bertholdt continued hesitantly, gulping, and knew he had begun to sweat nervously “I don't have any money...” He explained, slowly reaching up shakily, to placing his sun-kissed fingers upon the Merchant's pale wrist.

The merchant let out a short bout of gruff, incredulous laughter “And how were you going to pay?!” He pressed, laughing again and making Bertholdt flinch and the cruelty he heard there. Whatever he had gotten himself into, it was not going to end well, he realised. It was all Bertholdt could do to press his back against the other man's, his backside pressing suggestively against the obviously older man's hips. Bertholdt's cheeks burned in shame when the merchant laughed again, getting the hint. “You little whore...” He laughed out as Bertholdt nodded. He had never used himself this way before, to buy his way out of a tight spot, and it physically hurt him. “A little backwards, isn't it?” The merchant mocked “Actually breaking into someone's home to fuck them.”

“I-I didn't break in,” Bertholdt retorted quietly before he could stop himself “The door was open...”

“A prostitute,” The merchant snapped, and Bertholdt flinched at the word “A trespasser” the man growled “and an impertinent whelp.” The blade pressed to the flesh of his neck and Bertholdt forced himself to withhold the gasp of pain as the knife bit into his skin some, splitting it.

“...I take that as a no, then..” Bertholdt let out after a tense moment.

“Quite the opposite.” The merchant growled, and Bertholdt tensed, his finger's twitching where they rested against the back of the Merchant's hand at his neck, “Someone needs to teach you some manners.” He hissed, and Bertholdt shivered at the feel of the man's breath at the base of his neck, repulsed. He could already feel his fat hand snaking its way around his waist.

Acting quickly, lest Bertholdt find himself in a position where he could not retract his offer, Bertholdt elbowed the man behind him, hissing in pain when he felt the blade cut further into his flesh as the man stumbled away from him. He recovered quickly however, as Bertholdt had not hit him hard enough to cause much discomfort and grabbed the boy's arm, spinning him around on the spot. There was a flash of metal as the other's blade made its way towards Bertholdt's gut which the pauper deftly side-stepped.

Bertholdt realised quickly that the other man was not going to stop and that he had to be disarmed. Bertholdt made point to avoid altercations like this, and was always quick to give in if he could see now way out. Yes, the situation was not hopeless, something he discovered when he dove for the merchant's wrist biting down upon the other's hand, hard enough to draw blood. Screeching, the Merchant dropped the knife and wheeled back.

The street rat bent to pick up the knife – a blade was something always to be picked up – lest the enemy recover it. Of course, Bertholdt received a kick to the gut for his trouble and he doubled over in pain before being grabbed by the hair and yanked upright, emerald eyes widening when he realised the other man was preparing to swing at him.

Hurriedly, Bertholdt's grip tightened on the knife, and lashed out, failing to block out the cry that left the merchant's mouth as the blade dig into his flesh. He released Bertholdt and reflexively bought his arm to his chest, at which point Bertholdt made a run for it.

He burst out of the house, knife in hand, adrenaline pumping through his vain, and drowning out the pain in his ankle as he ran. The sounds of a furious pursuit behind him only made him run faster. The merchant was calling for the guardsmen, but so far as he could tell (he had made the mistake of looking back once, and he was not going to do it again) no-one was coming to his aid.

Rounding a corner, Bertholdt stopped dead in his tracks, coming face to face with a fence, built of strong stone, and he gulped. There were plenty of grips, so scaling it would be relatively easy. He sighed, placing the blade between his lips as he ignored the taste of the merchant's blood in his mouth, placing his hands upon the wall, beginning his climb.

It did not take long for him to hook his hand over the top of the wall – it was not all that high, considering, but rather than slip over the other side, Bertholdt thought it would be much less obvious where he had gone if he moved to the roof instead. So, perched on top of the wall, Bertholdt slowly got to his feet, balancing with one foot behind the other as he reached for the thatched roof in front of him. Travelling by roof was not something Berholdt did, but it was not unheard of. It was a popular escape route for a number of thieves. Bertholdt refused this method of escape, given that he had never trusted the roofs of any house, let alone thatched ones, given that they were prone to rot, on the outside, exposed to the weather as they were. He would risk it this time, however, because the straw looked somewhat fresh.

The straw provided an easy grip, for which Bertholdt was grateful, and he was soon out of sight of the Merchant. He could hear the man below him, cursing and muttering to himself about little whores and the authorities, but...Bertholdt could also hear...Reiner?

“The Kingdoms are at peace,” Reiner was saying, and Bertholdt wished he did not have to listen to that voice. Dread filled him and he decided then to scale the roof further and peek over the other side of the roof, his eyes widening at the sight beneath him. The town square, with crowds of people and Reiner upon the stage that had been built earlier that day, arms out-stretched as he emphasised his speech “Maria's gentle Prince Armin has come to us as our ward and Princess Historia of Rose has done the same!” Betholdt could just hear the smirk on Reiner's face. The crowd before him booed at the news and Reiner laughed softly, waving for silence, which he received soon enough.

Bertholdt shifted unconsciously, removing the blade from his lips and slipped down the roof, closer to the display, his gaze fixed upon the square. Reiner was not alone. A man stood beside him on his right – short, with black hair and the Wings of Freedom proudly displayed upon the green cloak he donned. To his left was a woman, taller than the dark-haired man, with pale red hair, orange in hue, the Garrison Roses upon her own brown cloak. He could make out nothing more of the pair. Sina's own guards were stationed all around the square, so no-one seemed to worry that Reiner was sandwiched between two people from enemy kingdoms...or rather...recently occupied Kingdoms. “Now, now...” Reiner soothed with what Bertholdt could only imagine was a grin “I must ask you to treat them kindly!”

Slowly, Bertholdt stood – or tried to – his ankle giving out beneath him, and he let out a short cry as he tumbled down the roof, unable to stop himself, hardly registering Reiner's words “They are our fami-” There were outcries and Reiner stopped short. Bertholdt felt the roof disappear and Bertholdt's stomach dropped as he felt himself falling.

Reiner turned in the direction someone pointed, shouting “Look out!”, and glanced up, unable to act fast enough to move aside – quickly becoming the cushion that broke Bertholdt's fall. The pair crashed to the floor of the stage. The knife in Bertholdt's hand wedged itself in the wood beside the Prince's blond head and Bertholdt failed register the horror and protests of the crowd around him.

Prince was too winded and dazed to do more than push at the Bertholdt's shoulder, honey brown eyes opening slowly as he grimaced opening at the pain in the back of his head. Bertholdt tried to oblige, bracing his hands on the floor either side of them and attempting to get to his feet.

Their eyes met, and both men stilled.

“You.” Reiner breathed out after a short moment, tone venomous when recognition hit him.

Before Bertholdt could so much as take a breath, he felt hands at his back and he was yanked to his knees. There were hands in his hair and a sword at his throat, and Bertholdt realised he was being restrained by the ginger-haired woman and the black-haird man. He shuddered. Both looked furious...well. The woman did, but the man looked coldly upon him, his expression unreadable and his dark grey orbs fixed upon him with something close to disdain.

The woman's honey brown gaze was narrowed dangerously as he jaw was set, her sword barely an inch from his throat. The hand in his hair belonged to the man, then, Bertholdt concluded, acutely aware of Reiner making his way to his feet, stumbling slightly, and hand moving to the back of his head, hoping to soothe it. Bertholdt could help but wince when he felt a hand seize both of his wrists, hating the way they strained his muscles, rendering him immobile.

“You...” Reiner said again, voice raspy, hatred clear in his tone. His gaze was fixed upon the blade buried in the wood of the stage. Bertholdt made a point to fix his attention on the prince only when he redirected his gaze towards the pauper. “I didn't think you could sink any lower...”

“Do you know this filth, your Highness?” The dark-haired man asked, monotonously.

“Bertholdt Hoover.” Reiner responded by way on an answer “A murderer.”

The woman nodded simply “Bertholdt Hoover,” She started, her tone stern “I hereby arrest you on behalf of his Royal Highness, Prince Reiner, on the charges of murder, attempted murder of his Highness and treason.”

That was the last thing Bertholdt heard before that hand disappeared from his hair and his world went black as pain erupted from the back of his head.

Chapter Text

Finding consciousness was not an easy thing to do amid dreams of youthful laughter and wider more confident grins than had ever been seen before. It was difficult for Bertholdt to pull himself away from the feeling of a soft, tiny pale hand holding his own. It was a firm, sure grasp that Bertholdt would never admit to missing, but even as he dreamed felt bereft of the security of that hold when his dreaming shifted to blond hair and blue eyes, and the smiles of a little girl who was not accustomed to smiling often. He saw dark hair, like his own and bright smiling eyes. Then, there were horses. Smiles turned to frowns and the pain of a whip upon his back

It was, in the end, the force of the whip upon young, sensitive flesh that forced Bertholdt to open his eyes, the hurt shifting then to his head, past injuries forgotten. Bertholdt was panting, his short breaths coming out in hurried pants. As he broke away from his nightmare, Bertholdt felt the light pressure of something wrapped around his head. He reached up languidly, the tips of his fine fingers brushing against the fabric secured there – bandages. He groaned again and let his arm fall to the side, hardly reacting when it fell over the side of his resting place. He did not know where he was, but it was dark and it was cold, the only light provided came from some candle beyond his line of sight.

Bleary-eyed and in pain, Bertholdt was only just conscious of the sounds of shuffling that came from his left. The pauper closed his eyes again slowly and was shortly aware of the shadow that fell over him, and the feel of a damp cloth being pressed gently to his forehead. “Oh, Bertholdt...” He heard – a gentle feminine voice – and forced himself to open his eyes, blinking to find some sort of focus in his gaze.

The façade that met him then was a vaguely familiar one. A young woman about his age if not a year or two older Even in the low light Bertholdt could see that her hair was as dark as night, shoulder length and set into two pony-tails over her shoulders; her eyes too were a deep grey. She had pale skin and her pink lips were set in a small frown. It was only really then that Bertholdt thought to look deeper, seeing her eyebrows knitted together and her gaze full of concern, and even perhaps, hurt. The look on her face was wrong, and it only took him a moment to realise why. “..Mina?” He questioned softly, his voice echoing even then throughout the room. She usually looked so happy.

“Hello, Bertholdt.” She whispered back, still dabbing at his face with the cloth “You still sweat like no tomorrow...”

Bertholdt could think of nothing to say to that. “Where am I..?” He asked instead, finally taking notice of the deep grey, rough stone that made up the walls on the room he occupied.

“The palace dungeon.” Mina replied, his frown deepening slightly as she spoke. She had never been one for blunt speech as far as Bertholdt could remember, but there was very little Mina could do to mince words in his present situation.

“Oh.” He said, turning his head to one side, only to wince and turn back. The wound on the back of his head from where he had been struck (by the hilt of a sword more likely than not) still raw. “How long...?”

“You've been out for three hours...I don't know whether or not to be surprised they hit you so hard.” Mina replied, and Bertholdt's ever-present forlorn expression did not alter. They did not speak for a time, Bertholdt letting Mina dab at his sweat-soaked skin while he lay there and gathered his thoughts and improved upon his current level of coherency.

The pauper soon realised that his head was not the only thing about him that had been treated. His neck was wrapped I gauze, covering the small cut that had been made there by the merchant not hours before. There was a bandage around his thigh and his boots were set to the far side of the room, allowing his ankle to breath. He ached all over, and he was tired again.

Mina had her back to him, kneeling on the floor over a small bowl of water, which had been stained a soft pink by what Bertholdt was quick to realise was his own blood. Bandages lay upon the ground beside the bowl, Emerald eyes could not help but alight with curiosity. “Why do you treat me?” Bertholdt asked, unable to keep from voicing his thoughts. “I'm supposed to be a traitor, after all..” He continued, perhaps a little bitterly.

“Because I was told to.” Mina replied, turning to look over her shoulder before sighing at the taller boy “You're to be taken before His Majesty in an hour or two.” She elaborated when she noticed Bertholdt's confusion.

“The King..” Bertholdt whispered and Mina merely nodded.

Leaving the rag she had been wringing out over the bowl upon the floor before she moved over to Bertholdt's side and crouched beside his crude cot (It being merely a plank of wood bolted to the wall with chains above it and attached to the far side to keep it level), frowning gently. “You know...” She continued a little hesitantly, after another moment of silence, her usually bright eyes sad. “Everyone is in an uproar now you've shown up again.” When Bertholdt did not make to reply, she continued, a little falteringly “T-the guard's especially.” She continued. “None of us like the fact that you're here...but we're glad you're home..”

Again, Bertholdt said nothing, and Mina began to look uncomfortable. Bertholdt watched her, although he did not see her, his gaze almost distant, but by the way he pursed his lips ever so slightly, she could tell he was at least listening to her. Mina couldn't help but think Bertholdt wasn't particularly happy about returning to the castle after so long away, but given the circumstances, she didn't blame him. “Berrik's father-”

“Mina...” Berholdt said finally, his voice strained with hurt and exasperation. “I didn't do it...”

The young woman paused and watched Bertholdt's face for a moment. “I know...” She whispered “I know.”

Bertholdt wasn't sure he believed her, but said nothing by way of contestation. Bertholdt had known that his reunion with Reiner would never be a happy one, although this defied any of his expectations. He did not bother to laugh or cry at his situation and felt little need to do either, although most would have thought the young man would have been weeping at the very least, screaming denials and cursing at most. Yet, the traitor remained silent and his expression could only have been described as one of resignation. The street rat had never once fooled himself into believing he would live a long and full life...he had been expecting this. Nothing to be upset about, right?

“I didn't do it...” Bertholdt protested faintly again and Mina only frowned.

“I'm so sorry..” Mina whispered in return when she caught the sound of leather-lad feet scuffling against the stone floor of the dungeon, very slowly making their way towards them. Mina left Bertholdt to his silence then and turned, gathering her supplies up in her arms and stood up straight then the guards finally came into view, quick to press herself against the cell wall, careful not to kick over the bucket that was Bertholdt's chamber pot.

The pair looked stern, although their gaze was knowing, and one was having a difficult time refraining from smirking. Bertholdt couldn't blame him – He'd met the man before, he realised. The man was plain, with dark hair and eyes and no distinguishing traits save a terrible attitude and a penchant for domination. The other had dull brown hair, and strong nose and somewhat striking turquoise eyes. Bertholdt had not had the pleasure of meeting the second guard before, and he wasn't particularly sure he wanted to given his purpose in Bertholdt's life.

Rather than struggle, Bertholdt forced himself to sit up, resolutely ignoring the pain in his head and the protesting ache of his ankle when he put some weight on it. As the blond soldier unlocked the door, lock clanking loudly in the metal of the door as it unlocked, falling open with a simple push, Bertholdt winced a little at the sound, and for once wished that he could stay within his cell. In an instant, the guards were on him, taking him by the arms and yanking him to his feet. Bertholdt still felt weak, but his ankle was still aggravated (honestly, Bertholdt was more than beginning to wish he had just crawled home like some pathetic worm, and got into his filthy bed and stayed there for the foreseeable future). He limped alongside the guard's as best as he could as they roughly led him up the stairs leading from the dungeons to the main floor to the castle. Their grip on his arms was bruising, but Bertholdt couldn't quite bring himself to care. What was a few more bruises? The week had hardly begun anew and he could quite safely say this was going to be the worst week of his life.

He left Mina behind in the cell, bare feet half-dragging themselves across the stony, uneven floor beneath his feet (tripping more than he would have liked), as he was hurried along by his gaolers. The floor was cold beneath his feet and Bertholdt grit his teeth tightly together when the three men reached a set of narrow stairs that twisted slowly, ever upwards onto the upper levels of the castle. Every step was torture. With nothing else to do but count, with every burst of pain that shot through his ankle and up his leg, Bertholdt gathered a count of fifty-seven steps in total. Fifty-seven very painful steps. He vaguely wondered if it might be more merciful to simply fling him down the stairs when he is once again inevitably thrown back into his cell, rather than make him descend them one-by-one.

By the time they got to the top of the staircase, Bertholdt could hardly say he had been walking at all (honestly, could he be left alone for more than five minutes so that his ankle might heal?), what with the guards practically having to carry him down the dull grey marble floor that made up he length of the corridor the soldier's were marching him down. This corridor, from what Bertholdt could see, was dull, meant not for the noble eye. He recognised this - his mother had told him as a child never to go near the dungeons. Not even the corridor that led down into the depths of the castle. She had never wanted him to cause trouble..of course, he had disobeyed once, on account of Reiner wanting to satiate his own curiosity. Reiner, Bertholdt and...well. They were caught, and Reiner was punished appropriately. One could not have the Royal Heir loping around the dungeons with criminals (few as there might have been in the Palace dungeons at any one time), where harm might have come to the Prince. Bertholdt seemed to have been held most accountable, and took the brunt of the punishment, as was his duty.

Reiner never got him into that much trouble again, but sometimes, trouble came whether either boy willed it or not.

The thoughts of times gone by made Bertholdt's chest tighten, and he somewhat numbly went along with the soldiers. There were a few windows, but very small ones (it would not do for someone to escape the dungeon via a window after all), and from what Bertholdt could see, night had fallen. Reiner had probably eaten. The sconces lining the walls were lit, casting dark, foreboding shadows over his captor's faces, which only made Bertholdt lower his head again.

Soon enough the faint echo of leather-clad feet upon the marble floor came to a stop as the three halted before a door. For one brief moment, the smirking soldier released Bertholdt and he was quick then to balance himself on one leg, to keep the weight off his foot. The door before them was unlocked, and Bertholdt roughly led through it by the sandy-haired soldier. The door was locked and Bertholdt was once again flanked by both men, who still held him tightly and with unyielding cruelty.

The grey marble turned to white and the walls finer, large windows draped with fine red fabrics and portraits of former family members and royalty and other such people. Bertholdt was sad to realise that he could name less than half of them after so long away. Long carpets went from one end of the corridor to another, also a rich regal red. There were four diverting paths leading away from the castle's main entrance and foyer, and adjacent to the entrance was indeed a grand staircase, leading to the less public areas of the palace. The floor was spotless, the marble and stone banisters on the stairs as well as the balcony were polished to oblivion and everything was just as Bertholdt remembered it.

Bertholdt felt nauseous.

There were no new buttresses, ornaments, vases or even a new chandelier. That, hanging over their heads, was as large and as beautiful and spotless as ever he remembered it. Again, sconces lined the walls, and there were several ceiling candelabras. There were a few delicately carved sofas and small tables for guests lining the walls.

There was one door however (just down the first corridor on the far side of the room), that Bertholdt dreaded. The entrance to the throne room lay at the end of the corridor, large and imposing and regal and the closer Bertholdt got, the more he realised he did not want to be there. It was a dark oaken door with great iron hinges and elegant carving made into the door. Meticulously done. Bertholdt had never been fond of that door, it frightened him; it frightened him now. The door loomed ever closer and as it did Bertholdt pushed his feet with all his might into the floor in the hopes of halting his progress, struggling against the guard's hold upon him. He gasped and whimpered as the guards cursed, yanked and pulled him back into submission with a swift knee to the gut and a firm slap across the cheek. “Shut up,” The smirking one (whom at this point was not so much as smirking but growling) snapped, taking Bertholdt briefly by the hair when the brunette tried to take a bite out of his palm when it had ventured to close “Traitorous harlot!”

“Hush!” The turquoise-eyed soldier said hastily, grabbing Bertholdt again, only to have to struggle for his hold again when Bertholdt bulked and attempted to shove the man off him “Don't let the King hear language like that..!” Bertholdt wanted to scoff. This man seemed a little whiny...or perhaps he was simply trying to get a promotion by remaining as respectful as possible in the eyes of everyone that mattered. He was young, after all, and apparently ambitious.

The smirking soldier scoffed “Never you mind about that.” He snapped, grip tightening on Bertholdt again, making the boy wince. He was taller than both these men, but he was much weaker, and they knew it. “Just let me do the talkin-”

“No.” Bertholdt protested softly when they began to advance, the soldiers hand hovering over the door handle.

“What?” The (formerly) smirking soldier asked, as if startled into monotonous incredulity.

“No.” Bertholdt said again.

A moment of silence followed as the army men exchanged glances, and the smirking soldier scoffed, reached forwards and yanked the door open, and Bertholdt gave a wordless cry, his panic getting the better of him as his struggling began anew. The two soldier's were practically forced to haul Bertholdt into the room, virtually throwing him down upon the throne room floor in a graceless heap upon a carpet that was anything but. A red carpet with golden lining that lead from the door to the steps leading to the Royal throne. It was soft and beautiful and for all the pain he was in Bertholdt, for a single, insane moment, only wished he could have washed before entering the room. Bertholdt felt dirtier than usual in he face of such grandeur.

The prisoner hardly had time to react before his arms were seized and he was dragged along the floor until he was a respectful distance from the greatness that had deigned to see him. Bertholdt was forced to his knees, his arms restrained tightly behind him as he was made to bow his head, having it pushed down by the previously smirking soldier as he announced “Bertholdt Hoover, your Majesty, Your Highness.”

Bertholdt tensed. He had expected the King, but he had been hoping against hope that Reiner would not be present when he saw the elder man. He had been hoping that the Prince would not want to see him. The King made a silent gesture and Bertholdt's head was released and he was able to look up, although he dared not raise his gaze above the Royal's feet.

Erwin sat upon a dais, his throne was made from the same strong oak as the door, although the carving was different, almost floral in its lines, and it was upholstered with red velvet. The throne to his right was identical but vacant, and to his left sat Reiner, his seat only slightly smaller in size, but that was the only difference. Bertholdt could feel Erwin's gaze upon him – he had never been able to meet the man's intense stare – and it made him feel like a child again. The man was a blond-haired blue-eyed Adonis in the eyes of many, and Bertholdt would be lying if he said he couldn't appreciate the view, but the man terrified the boy. There had always been something about Erwin that Bertholdt both admired and feared, and he could never quite name what it was. The man wore black waistcoat over a silken shirt with a high collar, tied together neatly with no doubt very fine string. and at the base of his throat sat a small, simply blue broach that set off his eyes. He wore simple black trousers (tailored to perfection) and polished black boots, that reached just below the knee. Bertholdt didn't need to look at his face to know he would not be able to read the stony look that undoubtedly sat there.

Reiner himself was out of the finery he had donned that afternoon and was instead draped over his seat in an outfit that almost mirrored his fathers in simplicity. His shirt was an open-collar was that was loosely tired, his shirt and trousers white, and his boots a pale brown. He wore no waistcoat. Bertholdt thought the Prince looked like a tiger, waiting to pounce upon his prey, given the tension in his falsely relaxed posture. His golden-brown eyes were narrowed upon Bertoldt, and his jaw was set, but otherwise, he made no immediate move to say or do anything. Perhaps, Bertholdt reasoned as he lowered his head again, Reiner was waiting on his father's word. Of course, Reiner could be kind, but Bertholdt could never quite accuse Reiner of having gentle features.

“Bertholdt Hoover...” Erwin spoke after was seemed like a minute of silence. Bertholdt looked up then, emerald eyes moving to meet the King's haltingly, when the boy was suddenly distracted by the sight before him. At the bottom of the steps either side of the Dais stood the two soldiers whom had been responsible for his arrest – the ginger-haired woman and the ebony-haired man – he was excessively short for a soldier and wore not the mark of the Garrison or the Military Police but the mark of the Wings of Freedom. Bertholdt could not read his face, but the coldness in his narrow gaze made Bertholdt turn from him abruptly, toward the woman. Her amber eyes were narrowed upon him, but they were not as unforgiving. They were however, as stern as he remembered. Neither soldier said anything, but evidently, his interest in the pair has caught the King's attention. “This is Lance Corporal Levi,” Erwin said, lifting a hand and gesturing to the shorter male. The man said nothing, but pursed his lips slightly. No doubt wondering why it was His Majesty was even trying to converse with a traitor. “And this is officer Petra Ral” He offered, with another gesture. Bertholdt said nothing.

The lack of a response did not seem to perturb the King, who instead offered an almost sardonic smile, before he continued “You stand accused of treason-”

“No-” Bertholdt's protest was interrupted when he arm was yanked very pointedly upwards as he was forced to bow further forward to escape the strain that the soldier to his left had put upon his arm. Soon however, the pressure was gone, and Bertholdt figured it was because Erwin had made a gesture for the torture to stop.

“No?” Reiner barked, sitting up at last, making Bertholdt flinch and protest again.

“No..!” He reiterated, more firmly this time, but to what end he could not fathom. He could not form an argument for his case. “No..”

“No.” Reiner parroted, impatiently, leaning forward in his chair, elbow resting upon a knee, apparently finding it difficult to resist the urge to curl his hand into a fist.

Bertholdt shook his head, his voice nothing but a whimper “N-no..”

Reiner snarled “If all he is going to say is 'no', then I think we're done.” The Prince was not in the best of tempers that day, for obvious reasons, “I think a hang-”

“I didn't do it!” Bertholdt interrupted, his voice quaking.

A moment of tense silence followed, as Bertholdt forced himself to lift his gaze to meet Reiner's own. His golden-brown orbs were full of fury, and not-quite-unfamiliar hatred. Bertholdt's eyes were rimmed with tears, although they did not fall and were formed more out of stress than remorse. “I didn't kill Berrik...”

Chapter Text

Bertholdt realised a second too late that mentioning that name something akin to stepping on the tail of a sleeping tiger. That second was instead filled with the sound of an unintelligible cry – more a roar, to Bertholdt's ears, filled with rage and hurt and soon enough the gangly lad felt two strong hands wrap around his neck as he braced himself, clamping his emerald eyes shut, and in another second they were gone.

The Brunette's shot open, and widened at the sight before him – Reiner was on his knees, straining against his father's hold. Erwin too was upon his knees, his hands were like shackles upon Reiner's wrists, albeit shackles that were being tested for all their worth. Erwin appeared to be struggling. Reiner was a strong young man, and was likely physically stronger, although Erwin was renowned for his unbending determination. If he wanted something to happen, he would make it so. If he wanted to restrain Reiner, then that is what would pass.

The prisoner was inexplicably relieved, and frightened at the sight. He watched as Erwin fought to control his son, managing slowly to pull the Prince's arms back and hold them against his heaving chest when Reiner seemed to lose his fighting spirit. Those hands came to rest, although Erwin's grip remained steadfast as he pulled his son against his chest, before leaning forward a little over his shoulder and whispering into his hear. It was so quiet that not even Bertholdt could hear. He was hardly a foot away from the Prince now, level with both him and the King. A moment ago Bertholdt had thought that kneeling before royalty as they sat upon their seats of power had been closer than he would have liked, but he had been wrong. Bertholdt could feel Reiner's heaving pants against the skin of his face, and he winced, sweating beginning anew, although he couldn't say when h had begun in the first place.

There was more than a minute of silence before anyone spoke, and when someone did, it was not who Bertholdt had expected. There was a flash, and in a moment, Bertholdt realised there was a sword at his throat, slightly to the left, at Erwin's side. “What exactly is your relationship to Prince Reiner?” It was the short man – Levi, Bertholdt recalled. His tone was bored, yet somehow sultry, like he was present out of obligation rather than his own will. He might have been impatient, but the impassive look on his finely-featured face made it difficult for Bertholdt to read.

“Levi,” Erwin spoke up at last, his sky-blue orbs directed upwards, towards the shorter man. He could see the smaller male's grip tighten around his sword for a moment, as if to redirect his irritation to the hilt of his sword. Bertholdt realised then that Corporal Levi must have thought Erwin was being too informal. Bertholdt knew the feeling. “Put the sword away,” Erwin continued, although the pauper could not tell whether or not the ruling monarch had been oblivious to the gesture. “He is restrained.”

There was a moment's pause before Levi scoffed and sheathed his sword, but he did not move away from the group. Bertholdt's arms were still straining against the hold the guard's hand on him, made worse by the fact that the pair had jumped at Reiner's near-assault. Bertholdt's eyes had left the commotion around him, and focused on the Prince, however much he wished he could look away, he could not, knowing that the Prince was just as focused on him. He swallowed “Reiner, I didn't kill B-”

“You don't get to say his name!” Reiner snapped, lurched forwards. Bertholdt was luck Erwin was the type never to let his guard down, and was able to keep the Prince restrained.

“Sorry,” Bertholdt breathed before he could help himself, his voice nothing but a broken whisper “I'm sorry, so sorry, I'm sorry..” Bertholdt was all too aware of how pathetic he sounded, and ashamed because the room had fallen silent to hear him. “I won't say it, I'm so sorry..” He whimpered, quick to reassure the Prince. Even now, Bertholdt realised, he never wanted Reiner to be unhappy. Bertholdt had always wished he could smile like Reiner used to.

Reiner seemed to visibly relax at Bertholdt's words, although the hostile air about him never left. “Don't ever say it,” Reiner stated firmly, scowling “You're just a whipping boy,” Reiner continued, watching s Bertholdt's eyes fell to the ground as he ducked his head “and you are unworthy of speaking the name of that nobleman.”

There was a gasp, and the hush in the room that fell over the room was tense. Bertholdt instinctively turned to the source of the noise, to see the woman – Petra – with her hand raised, as if she had forced herself to keep from pressing it to her lips, and rested awkwardly against her breast. He gentle, pink lips were slightly agape, and she looked torn, she bright amber eyes conflicted with shock, indignation and confusion. Bertholdt could understand the look. This was not generally the position most whipping boys found themselves in at his age. Had things gone as they should have, he and Reiner would still be friends, he would have retired, and Reiner might even have given him some property of his own, perhaps even an allowance to spend as he wished. 'Just a whipping boy' seemed like an insult, even now. After all, every Prince had a whipping boy...Erwin had once had a whipping boy.

The prisoner forced his gaze away from the woman, and instead moved again to find Reiner, quickly, but instead, he caught the King's gaze. Those sky blue eyes were as steely as ever, and Bertholdt was immediately consumed with nerves, and felt his mouth go dry. That said, even though Erwin made Bertholdt uncomfortable, there was something strangely fortifying about his presence, despite the circumstances. Erwin should have made him want to beg for mercy or cry or scream, but instead, he stilled Bertholdt, and halted his attempts to turn back to Reiner and apologise. His reaction to Reiner's upset had been instantaneous, and he had hardly registered the churning in his stomach when he thought about how pathetic he must have looked in that moment. Reiner had hurt him just as much as he had hurt Reiner...so why was he the only one apologising?

Suddenly, there was a hoot of laughter at the back of the room, making Bertholdt visibly jump, wincing when the Soldier's did not shift to accommodate his shock and ease his pain. Bertholdt shifted and tried to turn his head around to look in the direction of the noise when the slow amused clapping had begun. In that instant, Reiner tore himself away from his father and turned on his heels returning moodily to his chair. Erwin rose ever, ever graceful, to his feet, and did the same, returning to his throne.

“I always did wonder what your relation to the Prince was!” There was more obnoxious cackling and Bertholdt found himself stiffening at the familiarity of that voice. “I have to say, I wasn't expecting this..” Bertholdt heard movement and shortly, he found himself having to crane his neck to look at at the familiar woman looking down her nose at him.

“Ymir...” He breathed out, incredulously, emerald eyes widening in surprise. She looked the same as ever, in her rough clothes and soft boots, the sleeves of her shirt scuffed and ruined at the elbows. “What are you doing here..?” He couldn't help but ask, hope blooming painfully in his chest. Perhaps she had come to vouch for his innocence!

“Oh...” She started, with a bit of a shrug “I live here.”

“Wha...” Bertholdt huffed unintelligibly, the hope within him deflating on what felt like a physical level. “What...”

There was the slightest clearing of the throat, and Bertholdt's attention was stolen by it immediately, his head whipping around to look at the royal pair, his gaze fixing upon Erwin as the man shifted slightly and began to speak. “When you left us six years ago,” the blond explained “I could not allow you to slip into oblivion-”

“It was Hell trying to find you” Ymir chipped in, unhelpfully.

“My son was distraught,” his gaze flicking to Ymir only briefly when he was interrupted, but other than that, did not seem to mind the minor interruption. “So, I hired young Ymir here to find you.”

Ymir nodded in agreement, his dark hair swaying slightly with the movement, where it sat, framing her elegantly featured face as usual. “It took three years to locate you.” Ymir explained with a frown, and Bertholdt felt his throat constricting. Ymir, he realised, had been in the room the entire time, hiding from him, behind the doors when he entered and remained silently to watch his exchange with the Royal family of Sina.

“She reported back to me as soon as she did,” Erwin explained “And I told her to keep you here, in Sina.”

It was then that Reiner shifted, sitting up and turning to his father, apparently resisting the urge to scowl “You mean you've known where he was this whole time?” He asked, snappily, failing to keep his irritation from his voice. Erwin did not reprimand the boy, knowing that he was being faced with a sensitive issue. Besides, he was quite aware of how cool and collected Reiner usually was...so he did not begrudge anything for his laps in composure.

Of course, it was then that something clicked in Bertholdt's brain, and he turned to Ymir, faster than he would have thought possible, ignoring the strain on his neck “You bitch!” Bertholdt hissed out venomously, and for a moment, even Ymir was surprised. Bertholdt rarely swore, and he never used insults like that. “That's why you stole from me?!” He had been trapped within Sina all this time, because Ymir had been sabotaging him? He'd thought...well. He hadn't thought, really. “You bitch!” He cried again, this time, his voice cracked, betraying his hurt, and very nearly missed Reiner's announcement as he stood.

Bertholdt never even looked away from Ymir as he was yanked to his feet painfully. “Bertholdt Hoover.” Reiner started sternly, his own golden orbs alight with fire “You shall hereby be executed for treason in two days time.”

It was only then that Bertholdt turned back to Reiner, his eyes widening, despite himself. He shouldn't have been surprised. Reiner had made no signs of forgiving him for what he had done. He did not, however, speak or protest as he was pulled away from the Prince as he was yanked out of the room, with uncalled for brutality. Bertholdt had failed to suppress his pained grunts ever now and again. Soon enough the Brunette was gone, and the room was left in an uncomfortable silence.

It was broken, after several long moments of silence, by a scoff, to which everyone turned, to see Levi eyeing the door through which Bertholdt had been dragged. “Shitty brat.” He muttered, his grey, dully interested grace falling upon Erwin's own gaze “He didn't even seem to give a shit about the treason charges.” The look in Erwin's eyes suggested he had not been the only one to notice.

Chapter Text

Bertholdt had spent the rest of the day in his cell, laying upon the wooden slab that served as a bed, his ankle hanging over the end to take the pressure off of it. He lay there, his back to the cell bars and the light of the torches that were set further down the hallway, breathing slowly and evenly. The pauper couldn't think. His mind's eye was filled with the image of Reiner's face, contorted in such rage that it hurt to think of it. Under different circumstances, Bertholdt might have thought that he deserved that pain. Reiner was incredibly stubborn, that much had not changed about the blond. Very little could make the Prince change his mind when he got an idea in his head, and the idea that had setted there had been there for six years.

Bertholdt Hoover was a killer.

That's what Reiner thought of him. That's all that he was to the Prince. Some..poor, insignificant servant boy who had a...a temper, or a grudge or...whatever it was that Reiner thought was wrong with him. It didn't matter. Reiner was a Prince. Reiner's word was damn near Law and the only other person with the authority to really stay Reiner's hand was his father. Erwin was a man of few words and a stern countenance. Bertholdt was as intimidated by him now as he had been when he was a twelve year-old whipping boy. Of course, the man was a little more to him than an authority figure in his life.

The brunette remembered a least one occasion he had sat upon Erwin's lap when he was a boy. Bertholdt could recall that he must have been no more than about three or four. It was one of his earliest memories...apart from shoving Reiner that one time and making the blond cry. Even now that memory made Bertholdt's heart seize up with guilt. Bertholdt remembered sitting in Erwin's lap because he had squirmed initially, wanting to get away from the big scary man. Bertholdt had tripped and scraped his knee and his mother hadn't been there, more than likely off doing work somewhere else in the castle. He couldn't recall whereabouts he had been in the castle but he had been playing with Reiner, probably a chasing game.

Bertholdt remembered crying.

Erwin had held him until his tears subsided, all the while bouncing him soothingly on one knee. The brunette vaguely recalls Reiner getting jealous and demanding that he, too, be let up onto his father's lap. Of course, he could have made that last part up. It was difficult to discern memory from fiction after so many years. That was a good memory of Erwin, and one that managed to temper his fear of the man..just a little bit. It was nice to remember that Erwin was as human as the rest of them.

Erwin had protected him from Reiner – a thought that hurt more than it perhaps should at this point – and the hurt he could have caused. Bertholdt was going to die in the morning, all because of a misunderstanding. He should have argued, he knew that, he should have pleaded his case...but seeing Reiner again, seeing him so close and so angry had thrown all rational thought out the window. Bertholdt made a mistake that would cost him his life. He pleaded for forgiveness, not release, not innocence, and most certainly not for the most pressing charge of Treason.

Bertholdt hurt a boy to whom he had once been so close. He wouldn't presume so much as to call him his best friend, but they had been friends, at least. They even slept in the same bed, every night, after a while. At the time, Bertholdt hadn't realised that that would have happened whether he wanted it to or not. Whipping boys were meant to be friends with their..charges? Their Masters? Their superiors? Bertholdt thought the last to be the most accurate. Reiner demanded very little from Bertholdt at the time. The only difference between them had been their social standing, so that made Reiner superior, didn't it. Reiner was encouraged to spend all the free time he had with Bertholdt, and Bertholdt was encouraged to do the time. Bertholdt wanted to do the same. He liked Reiner. He liked the way Reiner never cried, liked the way Reiner worked hard to achieve his goals, like the way he was so devoted to his people. He liked the way he smiled at Bertholdt.

It made him sick to think that all of that kindness, all of that confidence, all that made Reiner who he was, would never be his again. Reiner would never hold his hand at night when the thunder rumbled through the sky, Reiner would never comfort him, read with him, eat, play or smile at him. It hurt to think that Reiner was capable of hate. The sight of Reiner was enough to turn his stomach, to make his chest ache and make his heart feel like it was caught in his throat.

Bertholdt the murderer. Bertholdt the pauper. Bertholdt the traitor, prostitute, liar and thief. Bertholdt was everything he shouldn't be, everything he never wanted to be. He hated himself for clinging to the memories that he had wanted to forget more than anything in the world. Bertholdt despised the way he pined for Reiner sometimes. Bertholdt missed him, and would never be able to face him again, even without the charge of treason. The day Reiner returned from the war had been the first time in six years that he had seen the blond. He'd made a point to ignore and pointedly avoid any of the public appearances that the Blond had made in the three years before the war had begun.

In some ways, Bertholdt couldn't believe that they had allowed the prince, fifteen at the time, to go to war. That said, Reiner had always been strong, and he had always been convincing, albeit only when he wanted something. Reiner had never been good at coming up with excuses to avoid something, considering it happened so rarely. Bertholdt had always been in the habit of shrinking into the background and quietly excusing himself if he thought he could get away with it.

That was how Ymir got away with the things she did. Bertholdt was a push-over. He didn't like confrontation. He was never one to jump into action at the first opportunity. Ymir stole from him, and he did nothing. Ymir disappeared and he never asked where she went, because she always came back. It was entirely possible that she had been going to the palace, now that he thought about it. Where else could she have gone? Did she even had to steal the food she would sometimes bring to their glorified shack of a house?

Bertholdt had been made to look like a fool. She had even taken a jab at his connection to the Royal family, and he'd had no idea that she knew anything at all. Bertholdt had been too busy trying to survive day-to-day, keeping up their friendship with Connie and Sasha, who Bertholdt had hardly spared a thought for in all his time in prison. He missed them both. Of course, they brought to mind Eren and Mikasa.

Did they know about his arrest? Do they know Ymir probably wouldn't be going back to them? Were they still expecting Bertholdt to come home with bread or a bit of meat if he had been lucky that day? Bertholdt tried not to steal more than one thing in a day, so he always tried to go for the more filling stuff, which more often than not, was bread. It was almost among the easier things to nab. Bertholdt knew they were more than capable of looking after themselves, but after spending so long with them in their little four-man pod, it was difficult not to worry for them; and Bertholdt had been reluctant to keep them around in the first place.

Whether or not Bertholdt had wanted it, it was over now and there was nothing he could do to stop it, to make sure they were safe and able-bodied. If one of them ever got hurt, it would leave one or both of them vulnerable. Eren was not as good at defending himself as Mikasa, and Mikasa was never good at thinking straight if she thought Eren was in trouble. Eren could get aggressive and Mikasa could be cold, but in their way, they usually had each other's backs and if one or both were injured, then it might make feeding themselves difficult. They might even start having to spend the money they had collected to travel to Maria. Betholdt understood the need to get away, to move onto something better, perhaps safer. They would be able to get by easier in Maria. Things were generally cheaper there. Bertholdt had wanted so desperately to get as far from Reiner, as far from his 'crimes' as he could. Ymir had put a stop to that.

So there he was, in a cold dank cell, waiting for the sun to rise, waiting for the shackles around his wrists and his ankles. Bertholdt worried his lower lip with one hand, while the other toyed with the frayed edges of his shirt, pressed between his midsection and his leg, where he had pulled it up to his chest, pressed against the stone wall of his cell, whilst his other was still stretched out, offering relief to his injured ankle as it hung over the edge of the plank that served as his bed. Mina had come to his cell some time ago, with food. He had not responded, and had not so much as acknowledged her presence.

The food went ignored.

With his back ato the gaol bars, Bertholdt blocked out the rest of the world. He didn't need it, and it didn't need him. As far as he was aware, Mina had not spared him any words. She was clever enough to know that there was no point in talking to a dead man.

When he had been put back into his cell, Bertholdt had done nothing to cushion the fall he'd suffered when the guard's quite literally threw him back behind bars. He had lain there for a time, unblinking. He did not cry, he had yet to cry at all. He was quite aware that he should probably be inconsolable. He simply stared, unblinking. Bertholdt wasn't even entirely sure when exactly it was that he had made it to his bed.

Bertholdt did not sleep that night, and when morning came, he did not so much as flinch when the guards came to take time away.

“Come on!” Reiner's voice called impatiently, and Bertholdt frowned, letting out an indistinguishable whine of protest. They had been walking for hours. “Hurry up, Bertl!” Reiner was clad in a blue woollen cloak, the hood thrown back, off of his head accompanied with black boots, baby-blue trousers and a white shirt. It was early spring, and although the winter chill had mostly passed, sometimes a cold breeze called for a little warmer clothing. The Prince was ten years of age, with his golden-brown orbs alight with excitement and restlessness.

“Reiner~” Bertholdt whined again, appearing at the mouth of the cave where the pair stood, one grinning and the other more than a little sweaty from the trek up the small mountainside that resided to the south of Sina. “we've been walking for ages! Are we there yet?” Bertholdt was tall for his age, and gangly. It never did his confidence any good when he was stood beside Reiner, who looked so comfortable in his own skin. Bertholdt's clothes were a little more modest. An undyed cotton shirt with pale green trousers and brown boots, over which was a deep brown cloak, the hood also thrown back.

Reiner just laughed, and turned, making his way through the cave, careful as he descended, so as not to slip on the loose stones that littered the cave floor and tumble down the incline. “It's just in here.” He said, his back to Bertholdt “You're going to love it!”

Bertholdt took a few hesitant steps towards the cave and frowned, his resolve faltering “A-are we even allowed here?” He swallowed, nervously, half-reaching for Reiner in a pathetic, silent attempt to stop Reiner from venturing deeper into the cave “We're really far away from the pal-”

“Of course we're not allowed!” Reiner exclaimed, a little too cheerily, making Bertholdt blanch for a moment in disbelief. “If we were, you would have seen it already and it wouldn't be a surprise!” He never once stopped his movements, and never looked back, the echo in the cave strong enough that his words carried far enough for Bertholdt to hear everything quite clearly.

At that, Bertholdt glanced around, as if an adult would appear out of no-where and catch them doing something they ought not to be. Seeing none, Bertholdt hesitated for a moment more before he turned to follow Reiner reluctantly into the cave, jogging a little to catch up, slipping once. He was able to catch himself however and was soon once again at Reiner's side, feeling only marginally safer than before. “We'll get in trouble...” he protested again, weakly. There wasn't much point in arguing now, given that they had come all this way and were nearly there to boot.

It was only then that Reiner stopped, and turned to Bertholdt. “Don't worry.” He said, quite seriously, his mouth set in a firm frown “I won't let them hit you again.” With such conviction in his tone, Bertholdt almost believed that Reiner would be able to stop the adults. By now Reiner knew Bertholdt would get hit if he did anything to misbehave, but sometimes Reiner didn't think of such things until it was much too late. He did try though, and for that Bertholdt was grateful. Reiner almost always said he would stop them, and almost all the time, Bertholdt didn't believe him. It only hurt more when Bertholdt decided to trust Reiner's words when it came to potential punishments, albeit, it was the only time Bertholdt didn't trust Reiner.

Soon enough, Bertholdt was able to hear the trickle of water coming from further within the cave, and he glanced at Reiner, who only grinned, and hurried onwards when the pair finally reached the bottom of the incline. It was colder, Bertholdt realised, when he was underground, and he needed to cool off, but he wasn't sure if being so cold was a good thing.

They walked for some time, mostly because Reiner had led them in the wrong direction and had to double back, which only made Bertholdt more nervous. What if they got lost and couldn't find their way out? What if no-one found them? What if they died? Bertholdt didn't want to die, and he was very close to expressing his thoughts to Reiner when the blonde exclaimed “Ah!” He laughed that boisterous laugh that calmed Bertholdt's nerves whenever he heard it “It's just up ahead!”

Reiner picked up the pace, breaking out into a run, and Bertholdt was quick to follow suit, with a nervous whimper. He did not want to be left behind.

Rounding a corner and Bertholdt and Reiner exited into a large dome-like passage, and he gasped I shock. Until now, the cave walls had been closed-in and cramped. Luckily, Bertholdt and Reiner were not yet tall enough to need to crouch, but Bertholdt could tell that the adults would need to do so if they entered the network of underground passageways. This room was so different to the rest. It was wide and spacious and unlike anything Bertholdt had ever seen.

Water flowed from one end of the cave to the other, where is disappeared through some kind of underwater passage, the arch of which peaked over the water's surface. There was a great pool of water, which gave way to a stream, and Bertholdt had never seen anything so pure in his life.

The expression of awe was not lost on Reiner, “See.” He he said, and grinned when Bertholdt yanked his eyes from the clear, fresh spring water to the prince beside him, “I told you you'd like it,” And Bertholdt couldn't help but smile.

“What is this place?” He asked after another minute or so of watching the underground lake, taking a few steps towards it and crouching down beside the water's edge to run his finger's through it slowly.

“Father said this is where our water comes from.” Reiner explained, moving forward to sit beside Bertholdt, his legs crossed in front of him and he leant back on his palms. “Our wells are built over little lakes like this one.” Reiner explained with a grin, glad to know that he knew something Bertholdt didn't. Bertholdt, though, wasn't surprised.

“Your father told you?” Bertholdt asked, puzzled. The water felt odd to Bertholdt – not bad – but different. It seemed fresher than anything Bertholdt had come across before. It was different from the well water that Bertholdt had never drank as fresh as this. It was beyond better than the dirty river water that flowed through the city.

Reiner nodded “He's the one that told me where this place was.” Reiner explained with a shrug “When he told me I asked if I could take you to see it and he said it was okay.”

“But you said we weren't allowed!” Bertholdt cried, a little incredulous. He was a little surprised that Reiner would lie to him. Bertholdt must have looked quite offended because Reiner suddenly sat up and held his hands out and shook his head.

“No, no!” He hurried to explain “When I said that I meant like...people in general.” He chuckled a little, looking sheepish “I had to ask anyway because I didn't know where this place was, and Father kind of caught me out when I asked where it was. He said if I was going to go that I ought to tell someone...which sort of ended up being him anyway...”

“He let us come on our own...?”

Again Reiner nodded “The mountains are pretty safe most of the time.” Bertholdt didn't want to know what the mountains were like the rest of the time.

“Reiner...” Bertholdt began uncertainly.

“Yes?” Reiner asked, shifting and resting his arms on his knees as he regarded Bertholdt seriously. He didn't like the tone the other was using, not because it annoyed him, but because he didn't like it when his friend was upset.

“What if we get lost?”

“Don't worry,” Reiner laughed quietly, grinning as he patted Bertholdt on the head, making the taller boy smile awkwardly. It was a familiar gesture, and one that had become instrumental when it came to calming Bertholdt down when he became too anxious. The familiarity helped. “Father said that if we weren't home by evening, he would send someone out to come and find us.”

Oh god, Bertholdt thought to himself. I want Reiner...

When the guard's arrived, they had yanked him to his feet and immediately tied his hands behind his back and blindfolded him. Bertholdt as only glad he'd had presence of mind enough to slip his boots on earlier that night...although he wasn't quite sure when. He just knew that he would rather hang fully-dressed.

He could hear the crowd now, boisterous shouts of 'traitor' and more than a few insults filling the air, along with the low curious whispers. At one point, he was almost certain he had heard his name, but it was difficult to tell.

The pauper stumbled up the stairs of the gallows, which Bertholdt had heard the stage that Reiner had made his speech upon had been converted into. It seemed appropriate really, that Bertholdt should die in the very place he had attempted to murder the prince...well. According to the crowd, anyway. He could feel only one guard on his right side, yanking him across the platform to position him very deliberately in one spot. Blindfolded and restrained, Bertholdt saw no point in fighting, or trying to escape, for he knew he would get nowhere at all.

He could feel himself shaking, and he wondered if anyone could see it. He couldn't breath and knew that soon he wouldn't have to. He was going to die. He could feel the sweat on his brow and he was going to die. He could feel the hatred in waves and oh god he was going to die. He felt the buzz of excitement in the air because who doesn't love a good hanging and oh god he was going to die.

God, no.

By now, he could hear someone beside him, reading out the charges set against him, feeling the noose being fitted around his neck and tightened roughly.

He had disappointed Reiner, hurt Reiner, and he was going to pay for it.

Reiner would make sure of it.

Reiner.

The speech done, Bertholdt felt himself grow numb, and he knew. He had but a second or two-

“Stop!”

Bertholdt's heart lurched in his chest.

Connie!

He heard the beginnings of a scuffle and a cry, before another voice spoke up “You can't do this!” Sasha! Fear and anticipation swelled within Bertholdt's chest, and all of a sudden, he could feel himself shaking again. The lever hadn't been pulled, and he was still alive. Still breathing but-

“Stand down,” He heard that voice, that low voice that was fearsome and so emotionless it sent chills down Bertholdt's spine “Or I will arrest you both for the obstruction of Justice.” There was yet another brief struggle and Bertholdt wanted more than anything for the pair to be safe. They were right beside him, he could tell, judging by the distance their voices were. Perhaps, they were even on top of the platform with him.

“Hey, let go of me!” He heard Sasha protest, and suddenly, there was the scrape of a boot on wood and sound of flesh on flesh.

“You little shit!” Someone growled, Bertholdt couldn't tell who, but he knew it wasn't anyone Bertholdt was friends with. He is still surprised that he had yet to hang...so it was possible that Connie and Sasha were trying to keep people away from the level that would decide his fate.

“You stay the fuck away from him!” Eren!

That voice again “That man has been accused of High Treason, you are at risk of being accused of Treason.” Levi's voice was stern, and unmoved. He clearly did not think much of the display before him. “Step away from the prisoner before I make you regret it.”

“I'll kill you before I let you hurt Eren.” Mikasa! She had approached so quietly that Bertholdt had not even heard her. The crowd had gone quiet, perhaps just as shocked as Bertholdt was. Bertholdt could not find his voice, otherwise he might have warned his friends to back off...to leave him. They would only wind up where he is now, otherwise.

There was a heavy sigh and the scuff of soft leather upon wood. Was that... “You're so over-dramatic, Mikasa.” Ymir...? “But they're right.” Ymir agreed haughtily “We just can't let you kill Bertholdt.” Bertholdt frowned, more than a little puzzled. Why was she doing this, when she had clearly been keeping track of him for the Royal family...? “He's too pathetic to commit treason.”

“Yeah!” Connie agreed. He couldn't tell where their attention was directed, but they were shouting now “I mean no, I mean-” He paused, his next works coming in a whisper “Ymir that was mean...”

Bertholdt figured Ymir must have replied non-verbally, because she said nothing in return.

The brunette couldn't help but gasp sharply when he felt the back of his neck being seized, and the noose begin yanked loose before having it thrown over his head. He too was yanked and tumbled blindly away from the place in which he had been frozen in. Soon enough the blindfold was yanked off of him just as he heard the ring of swords being drawn all around them.

Bertholdt found himself wide-eyed and staring ahead of himself, too stunned for words, in Eren's arms. He was leaning heavily against the shorter boy, but he felt safer now than he had moments before. Bertholdt still couldn't think. “Bertholdt would never do anything like that!” Sasha spoke up again, her attention dawn to a balcony situated to the right of the gallows. From there, Bertholdt could see both King Erwin and Prince Reiner seated with the most dire expressions of their faces. The pair were dressed in their usual finery – in doublets and fine leather boots, Erwin with his crown and Reiner donning his circlet, which was no more than a plain golden band. Around them stood four guards, two by the doors and one situated beside each member of the royal family. Bertholdt felt his heart sink.

“You don't know how kind he is!” Eren protested, scowling, his grip tightening on Bertholdt, which surprised him. “You don't know how much he's done for us!”

“He always feeds us, when we don't have enough food!”

“He's gone days without food for us, you know!” Connie spoke up.

“And lets not forget how blatantly monarchist this guy is.” Ymir chimed in bluntly. It was a good point to raise, even though Bertholdt had never confirmed his allegiance to the crown, he had not denied it either, and Ymir tended to decide things for other people.

“A little ironic, don't you think.” Levi spoke up again at last. He hadn't been given the order to attack, but he waited, his gaze flicking to and from Erwin now and again “a bunch of ratty criminals vouching for the integrity of another.”

“Well, it's true!” Sasha snapped, her own expression steely with determination. Bertholdt couldn't help but notice that none of the his friends had drawn their weapons, although some of them were in plain sight. This was some kind of peaceful protest or negotiation, not a kidnapping, it seemed; which, given the circumstances, was probably their better option. Of course, that was not going to stay the soldier's swords much longer, and Bertholdt could feel it.

“He is one of the better men I know.” Mikasa added, loudly, firmly.

Up on the balcony, Erwin raised his hand, and he couldn't help but see the nervous trepidation filling the paupers' faces from where they stood, crowded upon the gallows platform. Bertholdt looked as if he was not present. The boy was dazed, it seemed. Erwin couldn't blame him. For a moment, the soldiers looked confused, and shifted into a more relaxed posture although they did not completely sheath their swords.

“Father...” Reiner started beside him. “What are you doing. You can't call this off-”

“No,” Erwin continued, regarding his son seriously now “Bertholdt is your prisoner...it is down to you to decide his fate, as well as the fate of his fellows,” Reiner frowned at that, and for a moment, seemed uncertain. “You heard Captain Levi.” He started simply “what they are doing is grounds enough for treason.”

“But-”

“The law is absolute.” Erwin interrupted, frowning at his son. “You and I are the only ones with the right to over-turn the law because we have the privilege to do so.” He explained simply. This was the first time Reiner had been faced with a decision such as this, but it would most certainly not be the last. Erwin could only wish that ruling was as easy as Reiner seemed to think it was, sometimes. “It is not a Right to be abused,” he continued “and it is times like this that you should ask yourself...is it right to spare them? Bertholdt? Could you live with yourself if you did not?”

“They're only defending their friend!” Reiner protested, not loud enough for the crowd before to hear, but loud enough to communicate his confusion.

“They are committing a crime.”

“Well, yes-”

“Bertholdt has committed crimes, that much is certain.”

“He's a mur-”

“This is treason. They are traitors, my son.”

“No, they haven't done anything.”

“Is that so?” Erwin pressed, raising a brow “And Bertholdt?” When Reiner opened his mouth to protest again, Erwin was quick to interrupt “He didn't do anything either. Not really.”

“He killed Berrik,” Reiner snapped “And he tried to kill me.”

“You have no proof that he killed Berrick,” Erwin stated pointedly.

“I saw him.”

“No-one else did,” The King intoned pointedly

“He did.”

“Excuse me, you Highness, your Majesty...” A voice to their right started, quick to attract the pair's attention. A woman stood to their right, he said tied back into a messy pony-tail, and her wide hazel orbs framed in glasses, lined with copper. She wore her uniform, of white trousers and iron breastplate, although it seemed much thinner than the standard, military issue armour. She donned her green cloak, marking her as a member of the Wings of Freedom, from Maria. “Something's been bothering me...”

There was a brief pause before Erwin responded with a simple “continue, Hanji...”

“Well!” She started, brightly, all traces and formality and hesitance disappearing in her excitement “I wasn't around during the initial attack or when that kid was brought to the Throne room – why you did that I don't know - but then I don't really care because that's not the important part-”

“So what's the important part?” Reiner cut in, impatient for her to get to the point. He had a decision to make and the last thing he needed was some ranting lunatic talking his ear off.

“The knife!” Hanji responded unperturbed.

Reiner raised a brow, prompting Hanji to sigh before continuing.

“From what I heard, Bertholdt's knife was already bloody when he attacked you right?”

“I don't know...maybe,” Reiner responded, sitting further forward in his chair, frowning a little.

“Well, when I heard that, I decided to do some digging – it was a lot of leg-work let me tell you,” she chuckled then, but continued on quickly. She could sense the restlessness in the crowd below. Some already heckling the soldiers on the platform of the gallows below, demanding they get on with it. “I didn't have a lot to go on, so I just looked for people who had been injured recently, in the nearby area.”

“Why nearby,” Erwin questioned, his gaze drawn to the crowd below, although his attention remained upon Hanji herself. “He could have stabbed anyone anywhere and run off.”

Hanji nodded “Right!” She started “But if you'd stabbed someone, odds are, you'd want to get rid of the evidence, right?” Reiner nodded slowly, and she continued “he didn't drop it because he was in danger!” a pause “I mean, that's what I'm inclined to think, anyway,” shee explained, when the young prince frowned “I mean, would you get rid of your only means of protection if you felt threatened?”

A pause “I suppose not...” Reiner conceded the point.

“The blood,” Erwin prompted.

“Oh right,” The soldier nodded, still grinning “So, anyway. The source of the blood!” She shifted then, moving towards the balcony, leaning back against the barrister as she continued, her back to the crowd below “I found a merchant whoo told me that he'd been attacked by, and I quote 'some thieving whore', and had been stabbed for his trouble.” She cleared her throat “He said Bertholdt had broken into his house, but he got stabbed and Bertholdt got away.”

“Bertholdt was fleeing the scene and he wound up on the roof.” Erwin summarised.

“Right,” Hanji nodded. “He probably wasn't trying to kill Reiner at all, although why he thought the roof as a good hiding place I'll never know.”

“So...he wasn't trying to kill me?” Reiner asked, more for clarification than anything else.

“I don't think so,” Hanji said firmly.

“Father?”

Erwin turned his attention to Reiner then, and sat back further into his chair “It's still your decision,” He stated simply, “You can hang him now for an imagined crime, or you can do so for the murder of your friend...of course, I cannot see the justice in killing a man for one when he has been charged with another.”

“What, so if I don't excuse him now, I'll look like I'm just determined to kill him regardless?”

Erwin nodded, once. “Indeed. The people will not like a quality like that in a ruler.”

“And I can't just tell them why I would still have reason to hang him?”

Shaking his head, Erwin replied “It would look as if you were making excuses.”

“So...” Erwin could hardy stand to look at the conflict clearly playing over his son's features in that moment. Bertholdt it seemed, had not been trying to kill Reiner, but if had still also committed a severe crime, by Reiner's count. “If I let him go now...I won't be able to...”

“Not without losing face,” Erwin stated simply.

Below, the crowd waited with bated breath as the Royal pair deliberated amongst themselves. Bertholdt and his comrades – his friends – waited in tense silence. All of their fates hung in the balance. Ymir personally did not particularly want to die, but Bertholdt didn't deserve to die. That much she knew. Why she chose now of all times to develop of conscience she would never know, but it just wasn't fair on the stupid giant.

Eren still held Bertholdt tightly, And Mikasa lingered near the shorter man's side, surreptitiously placing herself between the captain and the other boy. Connie and Sasha stood beside the lever, tense and ready to throw anyone back who so much as approached them...not that anyone had tried to do so for a while.

The minutes ticked by, until at last, Reiner took to his feet, stepping forwards lowly and placing his hands on the finely carved wooden bannister that stood between him and the open air beyond. Bertholdt stared, unseeing, as Reiner glanced over the crowd. For a long moment, he was silent, his gaze narrowed and stern. He looked tense.

“By order of the King,” He started, after drawing in a heavy breath. “There will be no hanging this day!” Reiner hardly sounded pleased by the fact. The crowd erupted into a mess of noise, incredulous, disappointed and some even cheerful. Not everyone liked watching people suffer after all.

When those words washed over Bertholdt, with that voice, in that moment, Bertholdt finally cracked, only vaguely aware of Mikasa cutting the rope that bound his wrists together. A broken sob burst from his lips, choked and what a relief! The brunette fell to his knees then and at last, the tears fell. Bertholdt shook violent and it was all he could do to hang on to Eren, the other bending to accommodate the movement, although he tried to keep his feet. Eren moved to grip Bertholdt's wrists, almost as if to pry them off.

“Hey!” He heard Eren shouting, and he frowned shaking his head “Look what you've done to him!” Bertholdt choked out an unintelligible protest and shook his head vehemently “I've never seen-”

“No..!” Bertholdt choked out through his sobs, ignoring the crowd and the way his friends had begun to crowd him, wanting to sooth the hysterical boy “Shut up..!” Bertholdt sobbed, managing to yank Eren to his knees with a few good tugs wrapping one arm around the back of Eren's neck whilst clinging to the material at his other shoulder with the other, managing to root the other to the spot and he choked out his sobs “Show-” Bertholdt tried “you show R-Reiner your re-pec-t..!” He could hardly force his words out through his tears.

“Show him..!”

Sighing, Eren took Bertholdt into his arms almost roughly again, and allowed the other to cling to him, desperate and hysterical as he was, muttering over and over again that they had to show their respect..

Chapter Text

Bertholdt hadn't thought about what to expect after the prince had spared his life. He hadn't intended to think beyond the tightening of his chest as the noose around his neck strangled the life out of him. Even with the distinct lack of stimulation Bertholdt had from where he lay in his dark cell in the bowels of the palace, Bertholdt's mind seem to fail him with every breath. It faltered constantly, and the thought: I shouldn't be here. Plagued the brunette's mind.

Everything looked as it always had. There were no epiphanies, no choirs, no bright shining lights that made Bertholdt smile and see the world in a better light. It looked the same. It was the same. It would have been different, perhaps, if only a little, had Bertholdt died that day. His friends had saved him...but to what end? He had not seen them since that morning. It was entirely possible that they had been put behind bars and made to answer for their own crimes, having brought so much attention to themselves. That would, of course, mean that they were not being kept within the palace dungeons. He would have heard something.

Now, it was only him, sitting on his cot and waiting in the darkness for the torches to be lit for the night. That was how it went. At a certain point – that Bertholdt assumed was dusk – servants would come down into the dungeons and light the torches, allowing Bertholdt a little light. He didn't need it of course, but it made a change. It was then, more often then not that Mina would appear with a bowl of what Bertholdt could only assume was porridge...although sometimes it was difficult to tell. It didn't always taste brilliant, but Bertholdt figured it might just have been the age of the wheat...either that, or someone was messing with his food. He didn't bother to bring up the fact that his food tasted like sandpaper. He was a prisoner, not a guest. Who cared about what he ate?

Revolting or not, Bertholdt usually ate. He had given up being picky about his food six years ago...not that he was very fussy to begin with. Bertholdt could starve himself, if he wanted to, but saw no point. His friend's risk would be for nothing if he did so, although he could not envision himself making good use of the time they had given him – this cell was undoubtedly to be his home from this point on. Mina had given up trying to talk to him. Bertholdt never responded anyway. What was there to say? Every day was the same, so what was the use in small talk. That said, sometimes she might give him a little news or a juicy piece of gossip, but only if she had any.

It was a conundrum, really. Live a worthless life or die quickly and throw his friend's sacrifice in their faces? Reiner had no more use for him, and he had not even so much as seen Annie – not that he ever expected he would. She'd had little to do with Bertholdlt and Reiner as children, and he had no idea how their relationship had progressed over the years. She had always been reclusive and quiet – maybe even more so than Bertholdt, despite the fact that the Prince's outgoing nature had never seemed to rub off on Bertholdt. It would have been nice to see her, Bertholdt couldn't help but think, if only once. He had no idea what she thought of him now...if anything at all. She was like her uncle – hard to read and intimidating at the best of times. She had Erwin's hard look about her. She wasn't a bad person though...she never did anything unless provoked.

An empty smile made it's way to Bertholdt's face at the thought. He missed his life – the one before – in the palace. Sure, Reiner had gotten him into a lot of trouble at times, but he had been happy. He'd had his mother and he'd had a warm bed sleeping beside his prince and friend. He'd been well-fed and even learnt to read. Annie was nice, relaxing company, even if she could be scary sometimes. However, sometimes Bertholdt thought even Ymir could rival her ferocity.

Ymir! Why Ymir? Thinking of her never gave Bertholdt any peace, as unendingly confusing as she was. Ymir had spent years chasing him down in order to steal from him, by orders of the King as it would seem, and all to keep him from leaving the capital. But why? So that he might one day be hanged? Reiner had said that it was by order of the King that he was to be spared, so was it Ymir or was it Erwin that he should be so concerned about? What did Erwin want from him? If anything? That day in the Throne Room...Erwin's reason for keeping him in the city was because Reiner had been upset over Berrik's sudden demise...

It still didn't make sense.

Why stalk a murderer? Why not locate and arrest him immediately. Bertholdt had been a hapless street urchin four years ago, helpless and subject to the whims of others, easy to apprehend. Why wait four years to charge him with treason rather than go after him with the perfectly good charge at the ready? It couldn't have been his age. Bertholdt had seen younger hanged for less.

Bertholdt leant forwards, resting his elbows on his knees as he buried his face in his hands with a groan. Could it be that Erwin refused to have him killed? Maybe, just maybe the King felt attached enough to spare him? Even that sounded absurd to Bertholdt. Erwin was a man with strong morals and a man of his word. He adhered to the law and rarely altered it...he wouldn't let a criminal roam free and unpunished...would he? But then, whatever for?

Sitting in a cell was punishment, that much was true, but was it enough? Reiner threw the word 'murderer' around enough that people must see him as one. Bertholdt would always maintain his innocence, but whether he did or not would have ordinarily seen him at the end of a rope. Bertholdt still couldn't decide if sitting in a cell for the rest of his life was better than the hangman's noose.

“Please, Princess, you can't go down there!” A voice called, pulling Bertholdt from his musings, somewhat jarringly. Princess? Bertholdt stiffened when he became aware of approaching footsteps, two or three, Bertholdt couldn't quite tell. There was the ring of metal as it clashed and sang with every movement the armour made, but the echo in the dungeons distorted the sound, making is somewhat difficult to get an idea of exactly how many people were approaching. There had been no movement save for Mina's comings and goings, and the change over of the guards when their shifts came to and end for weeks. This was unusual.

When the steps came closer, the echo lessened and Bertholdt was able to pick up a softer tapping on hard leather soles on stone. “I can do what I like,” came the monotonous reply, and Bertholdt's heart leapt to his throat.

“Prince Reiner has forbidden-”

“Reiner's an idiot,” that same voice interrupted just as the body it belonged to came into Bertholdt's line of sight, in front of his cell and tucking blond bangs behind her left ear with a gloved hand. “Leave me now,” she said, waving a hand airily in the general direction in which they had come. The guards hesitated.

When she did not hear them moving, Annie shifted, turning bodily towards Bertholdt as she turned her head to face the guards behind her. She said nothing, but levelled them with a stern look and narrowed her eyes pointedly. It was enough to spur the two men, wearing Sina uniforms, into turning and leaving swiftly.

Bertholdt remained silent as Annie turned to look at him. She had grown a lot, Bertholdt knew she had been the one to attend most formal functions in Reiner's place, making public appearances when he was at war. She was short, intense and stand-offish. She stood before him not in the dress he had imagined, but in dark brown boots and trousers, well-fitting and suited for riding, over a white cotton blouse was a red vest and crimson cloak. She had never been one for women's apparel when riding, Bertholdt recalled. Skirts, she said, were impractical in that way. Not to mention hot. She still had a riding crop gripped loosely in one hand. Clearly, she had come straight from the stables.

After a long bout of silence, Annie raised a brow, and the Prisoner's eyes widened a little before he hopped to his feet, more than thankful that his ankle had healed up. “P-Princess- I- your Highness!” Bertholdt fumbled out as he bowed to the woman before him.

“Glad to see you retained your manners,” Annie comment, to which Bertholdt simple stood and awkwardly brought his hands up to wring them together slowly. Annie regarded him silently for a moment. He could almost see the mental sigh she heaved. “Sit down,” she ordered in her uniquely level tone.

Bertholdt nodded, and practically dropped into his seat. Annie was here. Princess Annie. Princess Annie whom he had grown up with, alongside Reiner and Berrik. “What are you doing here...” Bertholdt began suddenly, trailing off once he realised he had not at all meant to speak aloud “your Highness...” he finished, a little lamely.

“I got sick of Reiner's whining and decided to come and see you instead,” a pause “it's too dark out to ride any more anyway.”

“Do you still ride Leonheardt?” Bertholdt asked, before he could stop himself.

The blond shook her head before she leant back against the wall behind her in a most unladylike gesture, “we put her down years ago,” the girl admitted, her lips turning downwards ever so slightly “she got sick.”

“Oh..” Bertholdt replied, not knowing what else to say in that moment “she was a beautiful horse...” Annie folded her arms in front of her and looked to the side, down the hall in the direction she had come. Perhaps she was contemplating leaving already? “I mean,” Bertholdt started again, wishing for the first time that someone would be willing or able to spend an extended period of time in his company since he had been left there those few weeks before. “I heard Princess Historia and Prince Armin were brought to Sina...is that true?”

At that, the princess nodded “pleasant enough company, I suppose.”

“No public appearances?”

“They do not want to.”

Bertholdt nodded in understanding. It must have been difficult, to be plucked from their home and taken miles upon miles away. It was easy to see why they did not want to be paraded around like prizes after the war's end. “I remember...meeting Historia once....Reiner wouldn't shut up about how pretty he thought she was.”

Annie let out a huff that Bertholdt knew was a sign as amusement, having known her for a long as he had. She didn't laugh often, but he had always liked it when she did. It made her seem like a much lighter person – more carefree. “That was something,” she started “every time he saw her he'd propose. Or try to at least.”

Bertholdt nodded, allowing himself a little smile, glad to have someone who wouldn't attack him for one reason or another. It was relaxing, to have someone to talk to...properly. “He'd always stutter, or call out just when she was out of hearing range...I felt bad, actually...”

“Really?” Annie questioned, shifting in her place to put a hand on her hip, lips perking up in amusement “getting married or playing with someone else would mean he would have had less time for you.”

“Y-yes, but...” Bertholdt lapsed into silence for a moment, before he sighed “what I thought then doesn't matter now...Reiner doesn't have time for me...he doesn't want to have time for me. I don't blame him, of course I don't...what does that even mean, Annie...” the brunette trailed off, confused.

“You're not angry with him?”

Bertholdt sighed and shifted to once again place his elbows on his knees and he buried his face in his hands, groaning out “Annie~”

There was a sigh “Fine,” a pause “you're really pathetic, Bertholdt,” Annie scolded, ignoring the way the boy in questioned raised his head to stare at her incredulously. It wasn't the first time she had ever insulted him, but that had come out of the blue. “You've always been awful at looking after yourself,” Annie elaborated further.

Bertholdt could only frown. He wanted to protest that no, that was not the case. He had learnt. He had learnt things that Annie never could – never should. He could protect himself...although he didn't always get off without a bruise or two to show for it. Was that what she meant? She always teased him for being 'delicate' and 'fragile' when they were children....but in fairness, Bertholdt had been a runt of a beanpole. “Thanks, Annie...” Bertholdt mumbled indignantly, despite the defeat in his tone.

“Not at all,” Annie countered with a casual nod.

“Annie...” Bertholdt started, only continuing when he saw Annie's eyes meet his own, gaining her complete attention. Her eyes had previously been wandering aimlessly over Bertholdt's cell languidly. He wasn't sure what she was looking for, if anyway, “Why did you come here?”.

“It reeks in here,” Annie said, looking off to the side, pausing to make a show of sniffing the air, and bringing the back of her hand up to her nose as if to block out the smell as he returned her gaze back to Bertholdt. “I can't decide whether or not it's just you.”

Bertholdt could only frown, self-conscious and ultimately unable to do anything about his current predicament. Honestly? He had gone without bathing for a fortnight at least and was living in a dungeon, which hadn't exactly smelt of strawberries to begin with, so if the smell was him, he wouldn't have been surprised. When Annie was met with a wall of silence, she sighed, turned on her heel and left.

Bertholdt had been too bewildered by her course of action to protest, and found himself alone once more, the silence broken only by the sound of Annie departing footsteps as they echoed throughout the dungeon and the short burst of activity from the guards that game with being in the presence of royalty.

Chapter Text

The room was cloaked in silence, the only sound being the semi-regular scrap of paper on paper as Armin turned the pages of the book in his lap. Sometimes it was easy to see that he wasn't paying attention to the words on the page. He had read the old journal so many times the words practically said themselves in his head, and at present, he refused to peruse King Erwin's library at the risk of getting too comfortable. It was of course, a shame. The library was an impressive one, and far bigger than his own in Shinganshina.

The journal itself belonged to the brother of his great grandfather. Being second in line to the throne meant that he had had time to travel – something Armin himself had little time to do himself. In fact, the only travelling he had ever really done outside of his own Kingdom's borders was the trip to Sina itself. He found the world inside the journal fascinating. The man to whom the journal belonged had a was with words that seemed like poetry to the prince's ears. Armin had never seen the ocean, but the way the man described it made Armin feel as if he almost didn't need to – that if he did, he would be disappointed when it was not as the man described it. Of course, Armin knew that if he was ever presented with the opportunity, he would get there as fast as his horse could carry him. The disappointment, if there was any, would still be worth it to see what that man saw.

Beside him, the princess Historia worked quietly on her embroidery, knees bed slightly towards him as she pressed herself into the corner of the sofa, her skirts obscuring her legs from view. She seemed to dutifully ignore Ymir, who sat on the arm of the chair, watching almost intently, leaning forward with her chin in her hand. She looked as if she were beginning to get bored.

Reiner was sprawled across the living chair across from the foreign royalty, staring at nothing in particular, the light of the fire illuminating his features, which looked almost fierce in that moment. For all Reiner's kindness, his face carried strong, but defined angles that caught shadows in a way that made him look more than intimidating. It was no wonder that many of Shinganshina and Rose's soldiers whispered about his terrifying strength on the battle field, which was a great source of pride for the people of Sina. It did not help that his almost golden eyes seemed to imitate the fire into which he was staring without seeing when the light of the flames caught his naturally narrowed gaze.

It was moments like these that made Armin forget that Reiner was actually quite approachable, although he had never met the prince before the war. Historia had, in her younger years, and she remembered him fondly, although she had confided in him that the war must have changed him some. That, or it was that mysterious boy in the dungeons that few seemed to be willing to talk about. All they knew was that he had apparently killed someone dear to the prince. Reiner had sulked about the failed execution for days.

“Stop brooding,” Annie said from her place by the windowsill, perched as she was on the window seat there, upon plush, purple velvet cushions. She wore a simple cream dress, buttoned at the neck with frilled at the sleeves and neckline, her skirt lined with white lace. Her feet were clad in familiar brown boots. Her unruly hair was tied in its usual bun. Annie often refused to have it styled outside of formal occasions. She didn't like people touching her. “You're just being stubborn now.”

“I'm not brooding,” Reiner huffed, frowning as he turned his head to look at Annie. She had yet to look away from the view before the window, watching the activity in the stables below. A boy about their age with a mop of dirty blond hair and an undercut that made him look as if he had two-toned hair was removing a saddle from a horse while the bold boy they had picked up after Bertholdt's failed execution brushed its fur gently. She had forgotten his name, but he was grinning and laughing at something the stable boy said – Jean, she recalled – much to the taller boy's chagrin. “you're the one staring out the window like some...some...miserable person.”

“Witty,” Annie retorted blandly.

Reiner scoffed and frowned deeper “you're my cousin,” he said, turning back to the flames, watching them as they flickered with wild abandon. “You're supposed to be supportive of me, I mean, you could have at least come to the hanging.”

“Because we both want to see our old friend have the life choked out of him,”Annie responded after a beat of silence.

At that, there was a snicker, and both blonds turned to look at Ymir as she hid her grin behind a hand. “Ymir,” they heard Historia admonish the girl softly, a little frown on her face, blue eyes reproachful.

“Aw, come on,” the servant chuckled, placing a hand on top of the blond's hand with a grin “that's funny,” she told Historia “I've never heard people argue like that over a criminal before. It seems kind of pointless if you ask me.”

At that, Armin frowned “at the risk of sounding rude: nobody was asking you.”

Ymir shrugged “in any case, Bertholdt isn't going anywhere, so what does it matter? He'll rot either way. It'll just take longer now.”

“Ymir!” Historia protested again, shifting to pull her head out from under Ymir's hand “that's a cruel thing to say...didn't you say you knew him?”

At that, Ymir nodded “he's nice enough and we all established that he's too weak and stupid to try and assassinate anyone – let alone his precious Reiner,” she ignored the choked noise that left Reiner then, and the indignant look on his face. She turned to look at the prince then, her gaze narrowed seriously. “You know, he never talked about you, but he was never very good at hiding his connection, or interest in the royal family. I would have been able to tell even if I hadn't been hired to follow him.”

“Which I still don't understand,” Reiner interjected, sitting up in his seat, replacing his feet firmly back upon the ground. “He won't tell me! I mean, all I managed was having a very long very one-sided conversation with that man.”

Ymir snorted, “you mean shouting match.”

“I'm pretty sure I was entitled to that much,” Reiner snapped pointedly. He missed the way Annie rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the stables beyond the window.

“Maybe, but you were hardly the soul of brevity and grace about it all,” Ymir countered swiftly, folding her arms in her lap and fixing Reiner with a smug smile. “Not very princely of you.”

“Of course not! That's not me!” Reiner retorted passionately, flinging his arm out towards the sofa upon which Ymir was perched, gesturing at the blond at her side “Historia is the very definition of- of grace and brevity and- and benevolence, not me!” Under normal circumstances, he might have enjoyed her embarrassed squeak and gentle blush. As it stood, he was too absorbed in that way Ymir laughed and shifted to throw an arm around Historia's shoulders, much to the princess' embarrassment, he cheeks reddening further.

“Well, my Christa is amazing!”

“Christa?” Armin questioned, blinking confusedly.

“Oops,” Ymir started with a little chuckle, releasing Historia from her hold. “Back in the day, I sometimes had to go to Rose to do a little work here and there, and I met Historia in the market place – in disguise, can you believe it!” She chuckled.

“I-” Historia started up “I just wanted to get away from the castle sometimes...so I used a fake name...” Historia explained. Then she paused “why were you there anyway?”

“Oh,” Ymir started, waving her hand dismissively. “This and that. It doesn't matter now.”

“You were spying,” Armin frowned. It was an obvious conclusion to draw, given the way that Sina seemed to know each and every weakness that Shinganshina and Rose had. It was their armies, not their defences (not to the same extent, anyway) that had kept Sina at bay for as long as they did. “Did you ever go to Shinganshina?”

Ymir shook her head. She did not bother to deny Armin's accusation. Besides, Bertholdt's situation was more than enough evidence of what she was capable of. “No, it was too far for me most of the time. I had to stop going to Rose in the early days of the war anyway because for one, it was too dangerous, and two, I'd finally found Bertholdt.”

“And what,” Armin started again, “he was your primary mission?”

Ymir shrugged at that “I guess,” she said “he made money almost as fast as I could take it sometimes.”

“What?” Reiner questioned tone blank.

“Oh, don't play dumb,” Ymir said, rolling her dark eyes. “You know as well as I do that he was a whore,” she said casually. She resisted the urge to chuckle as the incredulous looks upon both Armin and Historia's faces at the revelation. Clearly they had been in the dark on the matter, and it was no doubt scandalous that such things could be said so casually. Reiner's expression seemed to darken at the mention of the fact, and Annie remained seemingly unmoved. “I heard he was a pretty good one, too.”

Reiner scoffed and looked away, his narrowed gaze landing upon the fire again.

“I mean,” Ymir continued, shifting in her place a little, one foot on the ground now as she rocked momentary on the arm of the chair, much to Historia's mortification, “can't you imagine it, Reiner?” She said, her tone almost teasing.

“Ymir, stop...!” Historia protested, hiding her face in her hands as Armin looked away and quite pointedly lifted the journal up to his face. Ymir, however, listened to the command. She did not, however, cease talking.

“You saw him – imagine that body of his, beneath some pervy guy – touching him and fucking him into the matt-”

Reiner shot to his feet in that instant, his jaw set tightly, as he stormed towards the door, slamming it behind him as he practically fled the room. That was not something he needed to hear. He ignored the way Ymir's cackling laugh seemed to follow him down the hallway.

Chapter Text

It was unbearable, sometimes, to think that he had lost his two best friends – one to a murder everyone seemed convinced was an accident and the other to jail – to mistrust. That said, Reiner had very little to complain about. He had returned from the war not only victorious but a renowned fighter. He was famous for more than just his status, which earned him even more respect. His father had said that war changes people, and Reiner understood that. He took that in his stride, because he knew he was no longer naïve, knew he never could be again.

When he was at war, he had his first woman. She had been a camp follower; a beautiful brunette with a gentle smile and patient eyes, not to mention gently tanned skin. Some of them men had decided that having spilled a man's blood for the first time warranted the success of another kind in the bedroom. He had been drunk – he couldn't stop touching her hair – if he hadn't been intoxicated he might have said no. He would have said no.

Now he couldn't remember a thing about her, not her name, not the colour of her eyes, not the sound of her voice. He'd been drunk and she had the most beautiful hair. Such hair. She got him going, of course, and he fumbled. He remembered her chuckling, although what that sounded like he had no idea. He assumed bells, like the way Historia sounded when she laughed. Bells. That woman had told him what to do, how fast to go. She didn't tease him about his inexperience – in fact, she told him that she would make everything feel good for him. She kept her word.

What he did not need were images of Bertholdt riding a stranger the way she had ridden him that night. He didn't want to imagine Bertholdt panting and moving with every sharp thrust of the man behind him. Did Bertholdt ever take women- Another thing he did not want to think about. The thought of Bertholdt of all people, taking it on his hands and knees with his face buried in a pillow unsettled Reiner more than he could have imagined. Yes, he was well aware of Bertholdt's reputation, but he had never thought about it before now, before Ymir decided to run her mouth.

Reiner groaned a little to himself as he meandered purposelessly through the castle, with no particular destination in mind. He wished he had no concept of what sex was now that his mind was being plagued by images of Bertholdt lying on his back, stuffed with his cock- cock, no not his cock – someone else's! He wished he hadn't seen some of the men at camp go at it. He hadn't blamed them at the time. There weren't always enough women to go around, and not every camp follower was willing to go that far for coin. A lot of them just kept the camp in order for spare change. That said, the idea did fascinate him. He wondered what it would be like to be inside a man, but in the same breath, to imagine doing so with Bertholdt was all kinds of wrong.

With his thoughts as wild as they were, Reiner did not even realise his footsteps, that had previously been muffled by carpet were now tapping gently along the tired flooring and a racket had begin to pick up. It was only when he found himself opening a door and lifting his head to look within did he realise that his feet and taken him to the kitchens. “Well, look who it is!” a voice exclaimed pointedly, and soon enough Reiner found his personal space being invaded by one very forward brunette.

“S-sasha-” Reiner blurted out haltingly, taking a step back.

The young woman watched Reiner intently, brows furrowed and lips pursed. Looking at her now it was easy to see that she had filled out and put a healthy amount of meat back on her bones. In her hands she held a bowl covered with a cloth, her palms covered with flour. She was clean save for the flour on her apron and the spattering of the powdery substance on her old black shoes. She had cleaned up since the trial, donning a white shirt that exposed her shoulders, lined with a gentle ruffle underneath a black waistcoat as well as a long maroon skirt. Her hair was still somewhat a shambles but she looked all together neat for the most part. “What brings you here?” she asked after a tense moment on silence.

Moving further into the room, Sasha deposited the bowl down onto the nearest available work surface and turned to watch Reiner enter the room, running her hands over her apron in an attempt to tidy herself up. “What,” Reiner asked, somewhat grumpily, “I'm not allowed in my own kitchen?”

“No,” she started, with a little shrug. “But from what I gathered, you don't come down here much these days,” she observed aloud, her hazel eyes falling upon Reiner, who moved further into the room, a frown etched onto his stern features.

“Well, I wouldn't, would I?” Reiner retorted at the sound of a door swinging open filtered in from the next room “I've been at war for three of them,” he did not much care for Sasha's tone, but it was his father's decree that gave her and Bertholdt's friends a pardon for their petty crimes and a place to work. Why that had to be the castle he would never know. But, speaking of war “Your friends, Eren and Mikasa...” He started, taking a moment to register the look on Sasha's face, hoping he had remembered their names correctly. The lack of an incredulous reaction suggested, of course, he had. “They joined the military.”

Sasha nodded “Since they were pardoned, they decided to join...good money, you know?” Reiner nodded. It was only fair that the men and women that risked their lives for their country would receive a higher wage than most. “Not to mention, all those war stories made a huge impression on Eren.”

“And Conner?”

“Connie.”

“Right,” Reiner said, taking a few more steps into the room, frowning. “How is he adjusting?”

“Fine,” Sasha replied amiably, although the tension in her tone was back after a few moments. Since the fiasco in the town square, Bertholdt's friends had not been the easiest people to be around. Not all the time, although he could see they were nice people...it was hard to miss the fact that each of them harboured some level of animosity toward the prince. “He's still worried about Bertholdt, though,” Sasha continued, and for a moment, anger flared within Reiner.

The thought of Bertholdt made his blood boil at the best of times, but given his recent train of thought, he would rather not have thought about the other man at all. “He's looked after well enough,” although Reiner still believed that Bertholdt still stood a bit too tall.

“You say that,” Sasha huffed, frowning as she moves forward, raising a hand to prod Reiner quite pointedly in the chest. For a moment, she faltered, he face mildly astonished. Reiner suspected she hadn't expected him to be built quite so firmly – even if he was a big man – or she as surprised he allowed her to touch him at all without an immediate reprimand. She poked him a few more times before she schooled her features again and frowned up at Reiner, eyes narrowed pointedly. “You,” she started again, prodding Reiner for emphasis, “don't know that Bertholdt hasn't been eating properly, and Mina can't get two words out of him most days.”

Pursing his lips, Reiner took a moment to simply breath. She was concerned for her friend, but surely she knew that he was the last person she ought to confront about that fiend's well-being. “And what am I supposed to do about it?” He asked, a little more testily than he had intended.

“I don't know,” Sasha admitted with a sigh. It was a stretch talking to Reiner about Bertholdt like this, in the hopes that he might do something to help her friend. She turned for a moment, eyes widening a fraction before she quickly trotted over to the fireplace in order to stir at the porridge within the small pot that hung over it to make sure it didn't burn. “Mina said you were close... he doesn't talk much these days...”

“were,” Reiner stated pointedly. He hardly reacted when a woman came bustling into the kitchen, her arms full over laundry which she was no doubt taking to the laundry room down the hall from the kitchen. She was a fairly stocky woman – not fat – with short brown hair tied into a pony tail. Reiner offered her a smile. “Mrs. Kirschstein.”

The woman blinked for a moment before a gentle smile spread across her face, crows feet becoming more apparent a her eyes narrowed slightly in her joy. “Why, Reiner!” She greeted easily “look at how you've grown,” she observed. This was the first time she had taken a good look at the Prince since he had arrived at the castle. The Kirschteins had come to the castle just before the war began and the elder woman had only heard a tale or two about the Prince's visits to the kitchen being a lot more frequent before the death of his young friend. “You should meet my Jeanny – properly I mean,” she startled as she moved to the island counter in the middle of the room and placed the basket on the counter. “You never had a chance to know him better, but between you and me, I think my Jeanny is lonely...”

“I can think of someone else who is probably lonely,” Sasha added casually from where she was bent over the pot, a wooden bowl now in her grasp, plating up the dish.

Reiner gave her a look but said nothing as Mrs. Kirschtein continued “but I know he was fond of your Marco...such a sweet young man,” she said with a wistful smile “Jeanny can be a bit rude and it was nice that he found someone with so much patience...it's a shame he's no longer with us...”

At that, Reiner couldn't help but chuckle. “You make it sound like he died, Mrs. Kirschtein,” he gave her a little smile and shook his head “he's fine...he was injured during the war and was sent home, but he's in one piece...I received a letter from him a few days ago..he says he's very happy in Jinae.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Kirschtein exclaimed, a had on her chest at her sudden revelation “I should get Jeanny to write him a letter, I don't know why I didn't think of it before.”

“Where's Mina?” Sasha interrupted, stepping up to the chatting pair just as Reiner opened his mouth to respond. It was time to take Bertholdt his meal and no-one but Mina had been granted access, excluding the guards.

Mrs. Kirschtein frowned “Oh..I don't know...I think she went into town to get some vegetables for dinner...”

Sasha frowned a little but nodded, “I'll take it myself, then.”

“No,” Reiner interrupted, reaching out and taking the bowl from Sasha's hand and plucking the spoon she held from her grasp with his free one. “I'll take it,” he didn't know why exactly he wanted to do this, perhaps to see what Bertholdt was like in his captivity? To check on him? Perhaps even to confirm the other's stance in his mind. He wanted – needed – Bertholdt to be a murderer, needed him not to be some dirty whore. He didn't want Bertholdt's imagined moans and pants in the back of his mind. He needed to see Bertholdt, whether he liked it or not.

“Eh?” Sasha asked, blinking owlishly.

Without a word, Reiner shook his head and turned to exit the room, leaving the two women behind in stunned silence. It was no secret how much Reiner seemed to hate Bertholdt Hoover.

The Dungeons were not far from the kitchens, despite being on the opposite side of the castle. Reiner was most definitely not used to the suffocating stench of the cell below. There was a chill in the dungeon that Reiner had become acquainted with only a few times in his childhood, alongside Bertholdt...it had been one of the less intelligent things they had been caught doing. Bertholdt had not gotten away unscathed.

But, ignoring those distant memories, Reiner sighed, trying to push away the smell of damp and squalor as he went – the dungeons were not well ventilated, so regardless of how well the cells were kept, some smells just did not disappear – he marched down the stairs like a man on a mission, bowl and spoon in hand. He needed this, he told himself over and over. He needed this. He waved off the guards when they noticed him, dismissing them with a somewhat forced smile and telling them he would likely not be long and would prefer not to be disturbed. The guards shared a look – perhaps apprehensive as to why the Prince of all people would want to see that particular prisoner. Still, they did not question it and left soon after. The Princess Annie was one thing – a woman should not have to see the inside of a dungeon – but Reiner had made no indication of ever wanting to look upon Bertholdt again. It was somewhat perplexing.

Steeling himself, Reiner walked further into the dungeons, rounding a corner and stopping in his tracks abruptly, jaw clenched. Narrowed eyes landed upon the prisoner, who appeared to be sleeping, a long and arm hanging over the edge of his crude bed, brushing the floor was the boy lay on his stomach, half dangling over the side. His brown hair was matted and his usually lightly tanned skin was decorated with dirt. Reiner couldn't help but take in the too short shirt that was just as filthy as the rest of him and the ratty trousers. Bertholdt appeared to have banished his shoes to the corner of the cell.

The sight almost made the prince want to wince. He had never seen Bertholdt so dirty not even when he had been initially arrested and detained. It seemed that Bertholdt would rather drink his water than bathe in it. Reiner didn't blame him, not for that at the very least.

Reiner heaved a sigh through his nose and placed the key he had taken from the guards into the lock to open the door and slip inside, before closing it behind him. The guards had worried that Bertholdt might try to make a break for it, but Reiner assured them that he could take Bertholdt down if need be. They did not doubt him then. Since returning from war he had proven more than once to be capable and strong.

The rattle of the bars as the gate slide shut again brought Bertholdt into awareness, eyes fluttering open listlessly before they closed again, having quickly dismissed the noise. Even in the dull light from the sconces, Reiner caught a glimpse of familiar green. “Don't ignore me,” Reiner bit out impatiently.

Immediately, Bertholdt tensed and forced himself up – or rather, tried to. Scrambling to rise as he did, Bertholdt slipped and tumbled off his bed with a dull thud and a grunt. The sight was not unfamiliar and it make Reiner want to laugh, if only a little. Instead, he remained silent as Berholdt scrambled to his knees and ducked his head, kneeling. Bertholdt said something then, but Reiner did not quite catch it, although it sounded like his name. A greeting, he supposed. The words no doubt caught in the prisoner's throat. Bertholdt was panting, obviously rattled and no doubt beginning to sweat.

Reiner was silent for a long while, not because he was angry, but because now that he was there, with Bertholdt, he didn't know what to say. He had come here to see the other, and now that he had, what had been the point? He was furious with Bertholdt, but for once Bertholdt looked too pathetic to bother with. What had Reiner been expecting? To finally beat Bertholdt the way he deserved? To be overcome with desire for the other man? Perhaps, if Bertholdt was not so filthy, Reiner would see whether or not Bertholdt was worth getting worked up about. Perhaps he would see why it was that Bertholdt was rumoured to be a 'good lay'. Ymir wasn't the only one he had heard rumour from. They had floated about the castle since Bertholdt arrived. Perhaps he would see it if he wasn't so furious with his old friend. He hoped that now at least he wouldn't be plagued by the images Ymir had planted in his mind.

“Get up,” Reiner demanded pointedly, breaking the tense silence that filled the room.

Bertholdt hurriedly shook his head, and curled up a little from his spot on the floor.

“Are you telling me 'no' again?” Reiner pressed, through clenched teeth. “Because you know I hate that.”

Bertholdt shook his head and Reiner heaved a sigh, taking a step forward before he leant down a little dropping the wooden bowl to the floor carefully and dropping the spoon into it shortly after, watching as some of it spilled onto the floor and specks met with Bertholdt's trousers. Bertholdt jumped but did nothing, a fist clenched tightly, nervously, at the fabric of his trousers on the knee.

“Sasha tells me you're not talking...” Reiner ventured almost casually as he took a step back.

Bertholdt gasped softly, breathing out “Sasha...?”

“She works in the kitchen now...your...friend, Connie, works the stables, too...” Reiner informed the other. Honestly, he would have thought that Mina told him things like this, but then, if Bertholdt had given up speaking, Mina would likely have stopped trying to make him.

“Mikasa...Eren...?”

“Entered the military...Shinganshina division.” Reiner added, bluntly, making Bertholdt's fingers twitch nervously at the impatience in Reiner's tone. It seemed that Mikasa and Eren would not be around for a while...especially if they ended up being stationed in Shinganshina when Erwin was done with restructuring the military. Maria and Rose had been annexed, although in conditions of their surrender meant they would keep their countries names. Sina was larger than it had ever been, which means that redistribution of men and order of command had to be adjusted so that each countries military units became and worked as one. Erwin had lost more than a few nights of sleep thus far over the matter.

“Oh...” Bertholdt breathed out, obviously disappointed.

Reiner had always liked that Bertholdt was quick to grasp any situation, whether he liked it or not. He was usually quicker than Reiner, although Reiner was always the one to act first. Bertholdt had never really stepped up to the plate, as it were. Bertholdt sat unmoving, and Reiner decided then that he had had quite enough of that. “Eat.”

There was a moment of hesitation before Bertholdt shifted, sitting on the floor cross-legged and bringing his plate up to sit on his lap, slowly bringing the spoon to his lips. He had not met Reiner's gaze even once, he head quite firmly downward, eyes directed to the floor. “Thank...thank you...” He offered tentatively, before he brought the spoon to his lips, taking half a spoonful into his mouth. Bertholdt's shoulders began to quake minutely, and Reiner looked away.

There was another long, tense silence while Bertholdt picked at his food. It wasn't that he hadn't eaten, but rather he had not been eating properly, and somehow, Reiner knew that. Why else would he come by and demand that he eat? It almost warmed Bertholdt's heart. It truly would have if Reiner was not being so cold.

Scoffing after a moment, Reiner frowned and turned on his heels, marching back to the door and slipping it open, the bars squeaking obnoxiously. Slamming the gate shut, Reiner locked the cell again. “W-wait...!” Bertholdt called, struggling to his feet, porridge abandoned on the floor as Reiner turned around to regard Bertholdt with a frown. He watched Bertholdt approach the bars. Reaching out, Bertholdt's hand closed around the bars “I-” Bertholdt faltered, unsure of himself in that moment “I'm...forgive me-”

Reiner scowled “If you think-”

“No!” Bertholdt blurted out, hesitating again when he realised Reiner seemed somewhat stunned into silence “I'm sorry...please, please forgive me, please...not...not about Berrik...there's only so much I can apologise for that..” Not that he ever had, Bertholdt could not apologise for something he had not done.

“Then what else could you possibly be so guilty over?” Reiner snapped, and when Bertholdt could only open his mouth, hesitant and and weak-willed, as he always had been, Reiner shook his head, turned and left in a quick flurry of movement.

Chapter Text

The sun beat down on the city below, blanketing the busy market place in unrelenting heat. This was one of the rare occasions in which there was a fair passing through the city – it clashed with market day, which meant that the city was the busiest it had been in quite some years. Reiner could not remember the last time the fair had rolled into town, horses dragging carts from place to place, horses pulling then hastily on their way. The workers offered small amusements, song and dance, face-painting and games. There was jugging and all kinds of exotic animals from far off lands that they had no doubt collected over the years from their travels to amuse the children.

Business was thriving in the market that day, due to the fair, pedestrians walking to this stall or that for a quick snack or for something to the quench their thirst. Voices and music filled the air and elated as he was, Reiner couldn't help but turn to Bertholdt and grin,his gaze flicking to Berrik as the ran up behind Bertholdt, letting out a short cry before he launched himself at the tallest boy. Bertholdt cried out as Berrik laughed, just about managing to keep his footing. Bertholdt blushed in embarrassment but wrapped his hands beneath Berrik's legs to hoist him further up his back, effectively choosing to carry the other on his back.

Berrik was only a little bit taller than Reiner, but they were twelve and Bertholdt always thought that Reiner would one day be the tallest of all of them, given that Erwin was a giant himself. Reiner laughed at the pair, grinning. “Bertholdt, you don't have to carry him,” he said, reaching up to whack Berrik gently on the temple “And don't bully him,” he couldn't help but scold lightly.

“Aw, come on, you don't mind do you, Bertl?” Berrik said, wrapping his arms around Bertholdt's neck loosely as he leant as far forward as h could manage, forcing Bertholdt to adjust his hold quickly.

Bertholdt huffed lightly “I'm not Bertl...”

“Pfft,” Berrik let out sceptically “then how come Reiner calls you it all the time then, huh?” Berrik asked somewhat indignant. Reiner thought that he was perhaps somewhat offended that Bertholdt seemed to take issue with the shorter boy using his nickname.

“It's just a thing we do,” Reiner said with a dismissive shrug “I think Bertl thinks it's special or something,” Reiner said with a laugh, which only seemed to make Bertholdt blush more deeply than before.

“So what if I do?” Bertholdt shot back with less force than he had intended. He had never been very good at arguing with Reiner, if only because he never really wished to upset the blond. Reiner only shrugged and in that moment decided to be merciful to his friend. Berrik was a mutual friend and an important one, who had travelled many miles to be with them that day. Berrik was the son of a great noble lord who kept Erwin's council and was a dear friend to the King as well. It was the reason Berrik had come to meet the prince at all.

“Anyway!” Berrik started up again, wriggling in Bertholdt's grasp until the boy released him and he fell to the floor, feet meeting the floor with a quiet tap. “We should go before your Nanny figures out we're gone. I want to see the animals over there,” Berrik said with an excited grin, pointing off into the distance, where he guessed the animals to be. It was too crowded to really get a good look at the surrounding area. It was in moments like these that Reiner wished he was older – taller. Then he'd be able to see anything he wanted.

“I-I don't know...” Bertholdt protested faintly, eyeing the crowd around them “we might get separated...” Berrik looked distinctly unimpressed, but that did not deter Bertholdt in that moment “maybe we should go find nanny after all...” Reiner and Berrik laughed grinning.

“Oh, come on,” Berrik yelled, reaching out to rest his forearms on Reiner's shoulder, the angle somewhat awkward due to Reiner's slightly taller stature “we're twelve – it's not like we need her to hold our hands or anything!”

Reiner shrugged a little “we're only crossing the road, it's not going to take long at all,” Reiner reasoned. Bertholdt's brows knit together in worry, glancing behind him for a moment, looking for their carer. Reiner had begged his father to see the fair that morning, and he didn't really want to ruin the blond's day, Reiner knew that. He knew Bertholdt would do anything for him if he wore him down enough.

His attention turned away, Reiner and Berrik shared a look before they grinned almost conspiratorially at one another. Reaching out, Berrik gave Bertholdt a pointed shove, yelling “you're it!” before he turned and fled, flitting through the crowd with staggering ease. Bertholdt whipped around, and gave chase – seemingly out for revenge. He struggled a little through the crowd, but Berrik remained in his line of sight all the while.

Reiner was the last to follow, chuckling to himself. He was glad to have successfully distracted Bertholdt from his worries for the time being. The boy was such a worry-wart that the prince thought it a miracle he didn't look like an old man.

Reiner was soon torn from his musings when there was a desperate whinny from a horse, a crash and shocked screams – one of which was very quickly Bertholdt's. The crowd parting just enough for Reiner to see Bertholdt retracting out-stretched hands. The sight stopped Reiner in his tracks, turning pale.There was more shouting, which caught Reiner's attention, recognising the authoritative tone of the city guard. Panting Reiner scowled and forced his way through the crowd, tears beginning to prickle at his eyes.

Breaking through the crowd, Reiner barely paused to look at the sight before him. Berrik lay in the road,the pavement stained with his blood, nearby guards crouched around him, inspecting the body, searching for a pulse – anything. Somehow, Reiner knew, Berrik was gone. Bertholdt still had his back to Reiner, staring, frozen in place.

Both the young boys were pale, both shivering and frightened and Reiner more than a little angry – he felt betrayed. Reiner lurched forwards then, not at Berrik, but at Bertholdt, taking hold of the boy's shoulder, forcing the other boy to face him. Reiner shoved Bertholdt, and he stumbled back with a sharp gasp. “What did you do?!” Reiner yelled, “why would you do this?!” Reiner couldn't believe that Bertholdt, sweet, kind Bertholdt could do this time him – to Berrik.

At that, Bertholdt seemed to blink himself out of his daze, eyes wide with confusion “W-what?” He asked, tone weak with shock. Reiner's scowl only deepened when he saw Bertholdt take an unease step back. Bertholdt' breathing rattled in his chest.

“You!” Reiner yelled again, “you never liked him!” Reiner drowned out Bertholdt's protests with his next words “you're jealous!” Reiner cried out, voice wavering as the tears began to flow. Reiner couldn't tell whether they were fuelled by rage or sorrow, but all he knew was that he hated Bertholdt for this. “you've always been jealous!”

By now, Bertholdt was well aware of the eyes upon him, shocked and condemning, even concerned. The boy sobbed, realising, somewhat belatedly that some of the guards were already advancing on him. He whimpered, glancing between them and Reiner – hurt.

“Arrest him!” Reiner cried, voice thick with anger and pain, lacking the natural authority his voice usually carried.

Eyes widening, Bertholdt, took several steps back, jumping away from a guard when he realised that the man was reaching out to take him by the arm. Bertholdt ran.

Lurching upright, panting breaths filled the room, Reiner running his hand through sweat-soaked hair, leaning forwards to rest his elbows on his knees and he crossed his legs, trying to regain his footing. It'd been a long time since he'd had that nightmare, the war having taken up most of his thoughts and dreams. Running into Bertholdt again had only brought those old memories – although to as old as he probably would have liked, wishing they could have faded and been forgotten – back into the forefront of his mind.

It felt in that moment that Reiner's life was meant to be painted red. He'd lost one of his most dear friends to another, pushed into the path of an on-coming horse and carriage. He still remembered the sound the cart had made when it rolled over his friend, the wheel crashing against the pavement after having broken too-young bones. Reiner shuddered. He never forgot the sight of Berrik's blood against the pavement, nor the sound of war cries and the blood of his enemies.

He wondered if his future would be filled with much the same thing; more blood, more pain and more death. He had been lucky, in his time away, that he had not had to say goodbye to another dear friend. He wished for Marco's warmth, his voice soothing him when he awoke from a nightmare, from the time they had met as children to the camps during the war. The memory of Marco's care during the night forced the remembrance of Bertholdt pressing his lips to Reiner's forehead and wrapping Reiner in a warm embrace when they were children, quick to send him back to sleep after a nightmare.

Reiner let out a sardonic chuckle, breaking the silence that filled his chamber that night as he hid his face from nothing but the moonlight seeping through his window on the far side of the room, blinking away tears that slipped from his eyelashes to the blanket draped over his legs. He couldn't help but raise a hand to grasp at his arm, as if trying to chase away the warmth with an embrace that wasn't there.

“This is fucking bullshit, Erwin,” Levi said, from his place in an armchair beside the window, a book closed in his lap. He had long since given up on reading the words, despite his interest in the novel. “It's three in the morning,” the saying 'it is always darkest before the dawn' had more truth to it than one would think in the literal sense of the phrase. The study was brightly lit and chased away the shadows to the point that Levi found it somewhat difficult to see the view beyond the window at all.

Erwin sat at his desk, hair fallen out of it's usually pristine appearance with the amount of times he had run his hands through it during the course of the day. The King had not even attended court earlier that day, seeing his paperwork as more of a priority. For some unfathomable reason, Levi had seen fit to spend most of his time in the company of the King, making sure the man didn't die because he overworked himself. He had also taken to seeing Hanji once or twice a day a she, like the King, had taken to locking herself away for days on end.

Although Levi had been an enemy of Sina and it's people during the war several months prior, he had known of Erwin and the tales of his intelligence and had, once, gotten a copy of Erwin's battle plans during an infiltration mission by one of his more skilled soldiers. They had been brilliant – almost fool-proof, Levi realised when they had gone to battle the next day. Erwin had also made a lot of contingency plans judging by how badly the battle had gone for Maria that day. Still...more people had survived than Erwin had undoubtedly hoped.

Seeing the man up close was interesting enough to keep his anger at the man and his kingdom at bay. Even the annexing of his nation did not infuriate Levi as much as it should – perhaps because he did not care as much as would be deemed appropriate. Levi had lived many years in the service of the military, and before that, Maria's underground. He had seen a lot of death and saw that there was to be no glory found within it.

Erwin made a vague hum of acknowledgement, but said nothing as he flipped through a few papers and made corrections to a number of other documents. Levi scowled. That man was in desperate need of a shave. “You mother was a hamster,” Levi stated bluntly.

Erwin hummed and said nothing.

“You're the son of a whore – and I don't mean your mother,” Levi said, unimpressed with Erwin's despondency.

Another hum.

“Your son is abdicating his right to the throne and giving it to Annie and becoming a eunuch.”

A hum.

“Oh, for fuck's sake Erwin!” Levi shouted in annoyance.

Then there was a laugh and Levi frowned, narrowing his eyes on the blond man, who sat back in his chair with a smirk on his face, eyeing Levi in amusement. “I couldn't resist.”

“I think I preferred it when you were quiet,” Levi snapped, sitting back I his chair and folding his arms loosely over his chest, “and wipe that stupid ass look off your face.”

The look was gone a moment later when there came a knock at the door. Erwin frowned and glanced at Levi who sighed and pushed himself up fluidly off the chair and moved over to the door, opening it and stepping aside to allow their guest into the room. “Father,” Reiner said as he entered, glancing at Levi as he went. He wasn't quite comfortable with the idea of his father being in a room alone with a foreign soldier, particularly one as fierce as Levi. “I thought by now you would be asleep.”

“So did I,” Levi muttered, but with a shared glance between the King and the soldier, Levi nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

For a moment, Reiner looked decidedly perturbed by the action, but stepped further into the room when his father gestured for him to do so, standing in front of the desk where his father worked, the man's full attention now on his son. “What is it?” Erwin asked, his tone as gentle as his deep baritone would allow.

“I just...” Reiner started with a shrug “I had a bad dream...that's all.”

“And you wanted to talk about it?” Erwin responded simply, brow raised.

Reiner shook his head intently, before running a hand through it with a sigh “No, no...” he started “just...I want to be in someone's company...and since you're already awake...”

Erwin nodded. Reiner's nightmares had risen in quantity when Berrik passed, but with the war, it was not unsurprising that Reiner would return home with a few new scars. It was one of the things Erwin would truly regret – allowing his son to go to war. However...it would be something for Reiner to learn from all the same. It would make him a good leader...to know pain, to bear it and suffer with his men, to know what war is and what it can do to people. “Then I have a question for you,” Erwin said at last.

Reiner blinked, wrapping his robe around himself more tightly as he watched his father “yes?”

“Do you like flowers?”

Reiner frowned, obviously puzzled “what?”

“Flowers,” Erwin repeated, do you like them?”

“I suppose,” Reiner replied after a moment of hesitation, “is this one of your metaphors?”

At that, Erwin smiled soothingly “humour me,” he started, raising a hand for a moment as if to beg indulgence. Reiner moved closer to Erwin's desk, but did not sit. “You have a flower – a beautiful one – in your hand,” He paused, continuing only when he received a nod of understanding “before you stands someone demanding that flower, even though they have several just like it,” Erwin explained, his tone giving nothing away, “they threaten to push you down and take it. Do you give it back?”

Reiner would have answered immediately, but this was his father, and simple yes or no answers were rarely what he sought. “I don't see why I shouldn't,” Reiner replied, but continued “what makes this flower so special?”

Erwin smiled at that, pleased to know that his son knew to search for more information – it as the mark of a good king – to care about the details. “It is the most spectacular of all,” Erwin continued seamlessly “but the other flowers look wilted in comparison, and you can see that nothing good would come of you returning that flower. They will pluck its petals until there are none and it is made useless.”

The prince wanted to know how exactly a flower would be made useless, unless it died before it could be used in a medical remedy of some kind. Flowers had very little use to Reiner anyway. “Then..I suppose I would keep it,” Reiner replied, with a slight frown.

“Where?” Erwin asked, quickly; eagerly.

“In my house.”

“What if you are gone?” Erwin pressed “and the door is not locked?”

“Then I would put it in the garden,” Reiner replied with a little shrug, glancing towards the window on the far side of the room. The sky was no lighter than before, “with the other flowers.”

“Any flower can be discovered after a time, even in our garden,” Erwin reasoned with a casual shrug of his own.

“Then-” Reiner started, before he paused to throw his head back and groan in frustration for a moment before turning his gaze back to his father “what's the point you're trying to make exactly?”

“Bear with me,” Erwin replied coolly, ignoring his son's irritated huff. Reiner had always hated his father's puzzles. “What would you do to save the flower, if neither your house or your garden are safe?”

Sighing, Reiner folded his hands across his chest “Then I suppose I would take it somewhere else,” he responded, somewhat impatiently “somewhere no-one would think to look.”

“Where?” Erwin asked?

“I-” Reiner shook his head, “the forest?”

“Similar to a garden,” Erwin pondered aloud, raising a brow at his son as he rested his chin upon his closed fist, elbow propped up but his desk.

“Yes,” Reiner said in agreement, his tone much more certain this time, “but wilder.”

“Much riskier for the flower,” Erwin argued simply “what if an animal were to find it?”

Reiner brought a hand up to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger, resisting the urge to sigh again “do I have another house in this metaphor?”

The king paused for a moment, before he nodded, “You do.”

“Then I would keep it there!” Reiner said, his frustration evident in his tone “they can't know where that house is if it's a secret, right?”

“I suppose not,” Erwin said simply, giving nothing away. He did not mention that most things could not remain a secret for long, but, he supposed Reiner would realise that soon enough if he hadn't already.

“Does that satisfy you, father?” Reiner asked, glad when all Erwin did was nod.

“Yes,” He said, moving to clasp his hands together on the desk then “what was it that you wished to speak with me about?”

Reiner shook his head and ran a hand through his hair “It's...well,” the blond shook his head “never mind,” he finished and turned to leave, heading towards the door “Goodnight, father.”

Again Erwin nodded, “Good night, Reiner,” he said quietly, waiting until his son was at the door before he spoke again, “I'm thinking of changing the flower arrangements.”

Reiner looked at him then, over his shoulder, frowned and stated “I swear if all that was about the flowers in the hallway I will have you assassinated.”

Erwin simply leaned back in his chair and smiled, almost playfully. “Goodnight.” he said again, and Reiner scoffed, exiting the room and leaving Erwin alone at last with his thoughts.

Chapter Text

A wheezing cough filled the cell, and a chill sank into Bertholdt's bones as he lay curled up on his cot, the hard wood doing nothing to soothe his aches and pains. He had felt it creeping up on him – the sickness – although he had not thought much of it at the time. He had thought eating would stave it off...but it was too little too late.

He couldn't remember the last time he had seen a person, although it can't have been more than a day. Bertholdt had not even the strength to sit up, to see if someone had dropped off any food. The damp cold and filthy stink of the dungeons did nothing for his coughing or his head. Bertholdt could hardly keep his eyes open. Honestly? He was surprised he had remained as healthy as he did so long, or he would be, had he the strength to think on the matter.

Bertholdt didn't have a blanket, sanitation was lacking, and the walls smelt of musty mould, no doubt finely aged over the years. The soldiers, Bertholdt was quick to learn, never really stayed in the dungeons for more than an hour at a time, with regular shift changes, and even then, they hardly patrolled most of the dungeon corridors. Bertholdt thought he had stopped smelling, but in between being unable to breathe through his nose, Bertholdt's renewed senses would take in the aroma, and he would gag violently.

The next time Bertholdt awoke, he felt something cool on his forehead and his body weighted down by something he could not lift for the life of him, wanting nothing more than to get it off his burning body. He felt too hot, he couldn't see, couldn't hear. Time passed in a haze of colour and noise and burning flesh and blistering cold. Bertholdt tried to speak sometimes, although of what and to whom he could never say. He saw people around him, but he was never lucid enough to put a name to the face.

Black hair, blond, blond, blond, brown. Green eyes, grey, brown, blue. Bertholdt even imagined Reiner's beautiful, unique honey-like gaze. He had smiled, Bertholdt remembered and tried to reach out, but something took ahold of his wrist and lay his arm back down on the bed, mumbling words he did not understand. Beyond a helpless moan, Bertholdt did not protest and was quick to fall asleep.

The fire in his throat was sometimes quelled by a glass being pressed to his lips and water sliding down his throat. More than once he had choked on the liquid in his haste to get it down.

Some nights, he would wake, without the strength to open his eyes, to the feel of a hand running through his hair, occasionally catching a knot, but he never complained, and those hands were always gentle. That was, until the night he awoke, his mind, clearer after several days of clouds across his memory and cotton in his ears.

At first, Bertholdt simply lay there, feeling that hand in his hair, brushing it back from his forehead and occasionally wiping at the sweat that settled on his brow during his fever. Bertholdt let out a pleasant sigh, turning and leaning towards the touch, his eyes fluttering open slowly. At first, his gaze met the sight of a thigh, clad in deep green trousers, the candlelight lending them light. In Bertholdt's addled mind, he couldn't help but be reminded of a forest fire.

“Ah,” someone began, his tone low, familiar, authoritative even as he spoke in a murmur; “good morning, Bertholdt,” Bertholdt's gaze shot upwards and was, for a moment, overcome with dizziness, closing his eyes for a while as the churning in his stomach calmed. That voice, despite the years gone by, still did horrible things to his nerves. He opened his eyes again when that hand slipped from his hair and rested on his shoulder.

“Your...Majesty...?” Bertholdt began, eyeing Erwin where he sat, perched on the side of the bed, the candlelight illuminating his face and covering it in contrasting, harsh shadows. Bertholdt's voice was raspy from disuse and rough from his coughing and sore throat. Bertholdt still felt like he ached everywhere.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Erwin said, resting his hand on Bertholdt's shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “You gave your friends quite a scare.”

Bertholdt was slow to react, blinking dumbly before he frowned, “I was...sick, wasn't I?”

Erwin nodded, gravely. “Terribly so,” he told Bertholdt. “The doctor thought you were not going to make it,” but then he smiled. “But, you proved him wrong, and for that I am glad.”

That gave Bertholdt pause. He did not know how to respond to the sentence, and instead chose to look up to the ceiling, unable to look Erwin in the face, feeling inexplicably unworthy to do so. His brows furrowed after a moment. “Where..am I?” he asked, for he realised he was not in his cell, and moreover he was in a bed – a real bed – with thick blankets and a delightfully soft pillow. The sensation felt alien to him now, the prospect of a bed. He hadn't really slept in one for years. He had used them, yes, but never really slept in them. Even then the pillows were thin and the bed sheets were coarse and rank with sex.

“You are in one of our guest rooms,” Erwin explained slowly. “It was easier for you to be placed here than have to make a bed around you in the servants' quarters.” That would explain the finery of the bedposts and the curtains that wrapped around them, keeping them open. “I fear you are too tall for those beds now, anyway.”

Frowning, Bertholdt, shifted onto his side and placed his arm on the bed trying to push himself up, only to be forced down again by the older man. “Your Majesty...” Bertholdt whimpered pathetically in his broken voice. “It is not my place-”

“Your place is where I say it is,” Erwin said pointedly, perhaps more harshly than he had intended, judging by the way Bertholdt visibly flinched at the tone as he lay on his side, gaze fixed firmly on the pillow beneath his head. Sighing inaudibly, Erwin began running a hand through Bertholdt's hair for a moment, idly tucking his locks behind his ear, although they failed to remain in place. “You will remain here for a few days,” Erwin explained, his tone softening again, “and then you will be moved to the servant's quarters.”

“Why are you doing this?” Bertholdt asked quietly, closing his eyes to the sensation of Erwin's fingers sliding soothingly through his hair. It had been a long time since he had felt such a soft, and dare he say, sincere touch. He did not see Erwin's small smile.

“Your friends came to me frequently with news of your declining health and disinclination to eat,” he explained slowly, quietly, Bertholdt turned his face further into his pillow, as if ashamed of his behaviour. “You were a good boy,” Erwin explained, “and now you are a fine young man.”

“No, I'm not...” Bertholdt argued, his protests muffled slightly by his pillow. “Everyone thinks I'm a murderer...”

Erwin chuckled some. “No,” he whispered softly, “no-one thinks that of you.” Not to mention one other thing. “Moreover, you do not do well in the dark...that cell was detrimental to your health.”

Bertholdt opened his eyes, brows furrowing as he looked up at Erwin with a mixture of scepticism and curiosity, “But Reiner-”

“Needs to believe you are,” Erwin interrupted, “or at least I think that is the case,” he explained slowly “I think at the time, he truly believed you did kill Berrik...and over the years, he continued to do so out of stubbornness, if only because he sought someone to blame.”

“And he picked me...” Bertholdt frowned.

Erwin nodded “I know he is like a brother to you,” it was fairly obvious that Bertholdt still felt very strongly toward Reiner, despite all that had happened, and despite the way the other had treated him. “I have seen it in the way you look at him, that you love him very much.”

At that, Bertholdt's heart clenched, “but I am no longer his friend,” the prisoner said as he closed his eyes again, in an effort to stem the tears that burned at his eyes. He wanted, more than anything, to be free. “You're the one who gave the order to stop my execution...”

Erwin sighed, audibly this time, “no,” he offered quietly “I left the decision up to Reiner.”

Bertholdt's eyes opened then, wide with disbelief, and he was quick to sit up, unconsciously reaching for Erwin and clinging to his shirt when a wave of dizziness hit him. Erwin allowed it, even going so far as to shift and wrap his arms around Bertholdt to steady him. He held Bertholdt close even as Bertholdt's breathing steadied and he began to speak “Really?”

Erwin nodded as best he could, chin resting upon Bertholdt's head, a feat made possible by the younger man's hunched form. “Yes indeed,” Erwin stated, holding Bertholdt more tightly when Bertholdt fell silent before a sob wracked his body and he quivered in his disbelief.

Bertholdt couldn't help but shake his head in disbelief, where his forehead was pressed against his chest, “but why...?” Bertholdt whimpered, confusion evident in his broken tone “he does not look at me with kindness..!”

“Hush,” Erwin said, raising a hand to run his fingers through Bertholdt's hair again, noting the desperation in Bertholdt's tone, “I do not know if he will ever come around,” he said softly. Erwin was always on for honesty, which didn't make him apt for comforting others, “but treat him kindly as you always have. Live, eat and sleep in comfort, for him; as you always have.”

Bertholdt remained silent, his sobbing subsiding quickly as his nerves calmed. He didn't mind Erwin's words. He always trusted them to be true. Erwin had never been unkind before, not to him. He had never deliberately led anyone astray.

“I cannot offer you much but my protection,” Erwin whispered into Bertholdt's ear, “I know of your reputation and so do many others...come to me directly if you encounter any problems. You will not be returning to your cell when you are recovered, but you will be working here...not completely free of your sentence, but you can roam the grounds as you see fit.”

Bertholdt nodded. “And I'll work..?”

“Yes,” Erwin offered simply “you will help with whatever needs to be done.”

“But, Reiner...?”

Erwin frowned a little “he is not completely happy with the arrangement, but I do not believe he would rather you waste away.”

Chapter Text

It felt alien to be held by Erwin. Berholdt had grown to be even taller than the man, and it was hard to imagine that would ever be the case. Erwin had always been so imposing, and still was in some ways, but not all. Gone was Berholdt’s childish fear of the King, and in its place was the very adult concern of social status and a reverence for the man that only his most loyal subjects felt. In Berholdt’s feverish mind, that reverence increased tenfold, if not more, and the warmth of the man felt like basking in the sun. Berholdt wasn’t stupid. He knew that Erwin had ultimately been the one to save his life, given Reiner’s evident hatred for him. He couldn’t quite fathom why it was that Reiner had agreed to spare him, and was even more puzzled at the thought he had even agreed to have Berholdt roaming the halls of the castle once again.

King Erwin shifted slightly, and Berholdt took that as his cue to pull away. He leant back far enough to rest against the headboard, trying to give the man as much attention as he could, the fever still clinging to him, and affecting his focus. He felt so tired, and his eyes sore from the tears he had so briefly shed.

“What should I do?” Berholdt asked finally, quietly.

Erwin was thoughtfully silent for a moment. “When you have rested,” he started, his tone one of certainty. “You will report to the kitchens,” he explained. “Your duties will be limited to the ground floor of the castle, as a condition of your freedom is that you remain in fetters.”

Berholdt knew better than to protest, but was unsure whether fetters were categorically better than shackles in this particular instance. Erwin’s words were delivered with the authority of a King, and Berholdt could not, and would not refuse. The concern must have shown on his face, because frankly, Berholdt had never been good at concealing his nerves.

“What is it?” Erwin asked, his tone betraying his curiosity where his expression did not.

Berholdt’s frown deepened. “And if my duties...take me upstairs?” he asked.

“Your fetters will allow for that, but traversing the stairs would be difficult for you at the best of times,” Erwin began. “The servants have been informed to send you upstairs as little as possible. For example, carrying laundry upstairs would be more than difficult for you to do safely.”

“But,” Berholdt started haltingly. “I-I’m not-”

“You are a servant here,” Erwin practically decreed. “You always have been,” he continued. “Need I remind you that nobody believes you are a murderer; I am not the one who needs convincing of your innocence.”

The pauper flinched a little at that. Erwin’s inclination to appear impartial coupled with his deep baritone and stern countenance made Berholdt feel foolish. Made him seem like he meant to be condescending; something which the King evidently did not appreciate. Although whether Erwin actually felt that was a mystery. There was a pause in which Erwin seemed to take the time to relax his expression, seeing Berholdt’s nervousness. “It seems that you are still very much the boy I knew in some ways,” he said a little fondly before continuing in a more dire tone. “Despite your hardships.”

Berholdt froze then, his fear obvious. He knew Erwin could see it. He was tense and still and wide-eyed and he couldn’t seem to relax. After a moment of assessing Berholdt however, Erwin stood, evidently choosing not to press the issue. Perhaps wise to the reason behind his expression, or simply choosing not to poke the bear. Either way, when Erwin next spoke, Berholdt relaxed almost immediately.

“I’ll leave you to rest,” he said, offering Berholdt a faint smile and turning to leave. “I will return in a few days to check on you,” he told Berholdt, before opening the door to slip into the corridor. When the door closed, Berholdt sat in befuddled silence for a long while.

Beyond the bedroom, Erwin met Levi, who stood leaning casually against the wall in the hallway, apparently waiting on the King. “You mind telling me why you care so much about some old whipping boy?” he asked as he fell into step beside the King as the two of them made their way down the corridor away from Berholdt’s room, their footfall muffled by the seemingly endless rug running down the centre of the hallway.

“I have my reasons,” he explained slowly, not even bothering to look at Levi, who watched Erwin out the corner of his eyes. “But suffice it to say that I am protecting my son.”

“How is keeping that kid alive supposed to protect the prince?” Levi asked, his curiosity poorly masked beneath his irritation.

“Berholdt is his oldest, and most loyal friend,” he stated. “Reiner will need that one day,” he explained, turning a corner and heading towards his private office. “Reiner is Berholdt’s dearest friend,” he told Levi, “and whether Reiner wants to hear it or not, he would never do anything to harm Reiner, directly or otherwise.”

Scoffing, Levi opened the door to the office, stepping inside ahead of Erwin and taking a cursory glance around the room before he stepped aside and allowing Erwin entry into the room. “You expect me to believe that’s it?”

“Anyone else would be furious with your impetuous and presumptuous behaviour, Captain Levi,” Erwin said, raising a brow at the shorter man as he took a seat by the fireplace in the centre on the room, occupying a large and plush armchair.

Levi took the other free chair, without invitation. He looked at Erwin as if expecting a reprimand, and when he did not receive one, he spoke. “But you’re not, so it doesn’t matter does it,” he stated, no question in his voice. “So, there’s more.”

“There is,” Erwin conceded after an extended pause. “I made a promise to his mother.”

“Another pauper,” Levi observed blandly, watching Erwin’s expression, which was as guarded as ever.

“Do you mean to tell me you wouldn’t want to protect a rare flower like that?” Erwin asked, somewhat rhetorically.

Levi raised a brow. “Yes, I really want to spend my time protecting an alleged killer.”

The king let out a breath which to Levi’s ears was something akin to a laugh, judging by the little smile that graced Erwin’s features however briefly. “Now you are simply being argumentative,” Erwin remarked. “You don’t believe he killed Berrik anymore than I do.”

“So what,” Levi shot back. “Perceived murderer or not, he has still committed crimes. Some of which really are worth a hanging,” Levi asserted. “He stabbed someone, although not fatal, it was an assault. And he stole. He should lose a hand for that at least. He-”

“Hold your tongue, Captain,” Erwin snapped, sitting up in his chair, his expression stormy.

“Why are you protecting him?” Levi countered, standing in opposition.

Erwin stood as well, towering over the shorter man. “You will not be privy to that information,” Erwin said lowly, exercising his Kingly authority at last. “Not yet.”

“Why the fuck not?” Levi snapped, irritated.

“Because you have no idea the kind of rare flower he is,” Erwin explained, before gesturing to the door dismissively. “Now begone,” he commanded as he turned and made his way over to his desk, effectively ending the conversation.

Scowling, the foreign soldier stood stock still for a moment in his fury, evidently debating the worth of continuing their...healthy debate. With a scoff, Levi came to a decision and turned on his heels, exiting the room and slamming the door behind him.

The noise rang out into the otherwise silent room and Erwin slumped forward, resting his head in his hands and releasing a sigh. For all Levi affected disinterest, he could not hide the obvious fire beneath cold grey eyes. He was the most fierce soldier that Maria had to offer and was worth keeping around just for that. He affected such authority that even Sina’s soldiers couldn’t help but obey, Erwin had noticed.

Since Maria conceded defeat, both Levi and Erwin had somehow gravitated toward one another, and had been in one another’s confidence for months. Erwin hesitated to call the man a friend, given that they had gone to war with one another not so long ago. He couldn’t help but respect Levi for his skill and admired his honesty and passion, even if that passion was often violent. He recalled the way Levi had stolen battle plans from Sina and damn near won that particular battle because of it. Still, he hadn’t accounted for Erwin’s own contingency plans. Erwin could not always be on the field, and as the battle waged further and further from home, Erwin had been forced to finally remain in the capital and send Reiner in his stead. Strategy had never been Reiner’s strong suit, so Erwin often wrote battle plans, and with many variations, to account for terrain, enemy numbers, supplies and armaments.

Erwin had met Levi on that battlefield in Maria during one of his excursions to meet with his armies. It was unconventional, but Erwin knew that wars could not always be won from behind a desk. Besides, it would not do for a King to allow his people to sacrifice while he remained safe in the capital. Levi was unquestionably the better swordsman, but Erwin out-manoeuvred him at almost every turn, sometimes only by the skin of his teeth. He had taken more than one potentially fatal hit from the man. That battle had been the one to end the war. When it became apparent that the day had been won, Levi was obviously hesitant to concede defeat, but was smart enough to know better than to fight when word of the surrender spread across the battlefield.

Maria’s Queen had fallen, and it finally belonged to Sina.

Erwin suspected that he would have fallen to Levi if the battle had gone on much longer. His movement had begun to slow as he tired, and he also knew that Levi could see that. Still, after that, Levi had chosen, for whatever reason, to stay beside Erwin. The respect they had for one another had grown on that battlefield, but they were still learning to trust one another. He could trust Levi not to kill him when they were alone together, but there was certain information he did not believe Levi would react well to. The last thing he needed was for all his work to be undone. Whether Levi would react favourably or not, there would come a time when he would have to trust him enough speak the truth, but for now, there needed to be more trust between them.

Reiner sat in his room, the night had come swiftly, much to his relief. He had heard that Berholdt was finally lucid. He hadn’t seen him since he had been moved to the guestroom from the dungeons. His breathing had been nothing but a painful rattle - or it had sounded that way. He sweat more than usual and he was pale as death save for the deep flush of his cheeks. Apparently, Mina tended to him well enough, but save for taking an impulsive moment to feel the heat of Berholdt’s forehead when he was finally settled, Reiner had not taken the time to visit Berholdt. Honestly overseeing the transition was unnecessary of him, but he mostly wanted to make sure that Berholdt went where he was supposed to, and nowhere else. Who knew whether his friends would try and make a break for it with the fever addled boy.

At his desk, Reiner had lit a candle, which illuminated the room in a faint glow - offering just enough light that he could read the letter he found waiting for him one his desk, left there by a servant at some point during the day. It was obviously not urgent, given that no-one had sought him out, but he would have liked to know he had correspondence waiting for him. It did not take a moment for him to recognise the Bodt family seal, which was designed upon Marco receiving his fortune for his service to Reiner. He recalled the many conversations they had together on the subject, almost designing it together. Marco was no noble, but he lived in comfort as a reward for his services as a whipping boy to the prince. A reward that Berholdt might have received one day had things not turned out the way they had.

Breaking the wax seal on the letter, Reiner opened it, eyes running over the text slowly, taking in every word. Marco’s letters were less frequent than he would have liked.

My dear Prince, the letter began. Reiner half smiled at the formality of it, but then h knew that was just like Marco. Polite to a fault.

I heard about your return, and I am more than happy to hear you have returned home safely. I imagine my letter will have taken some time to reach you, and you have no doubt settled in by now.

King Erwin wrote to me, an invited me to the castle. I accepted of course, and I can hardly wait to see you again. I am packing to leave even as I write this. Honestly, I believe this letter should arrive a few days before I do all things going according to plan. I sent my best rider on my fastest horse.

I was so worried about you. If I had not taken such an injury I would have stayed with you to the end of the war and come riding home with you. I know, no sense in dwelling on the past when neither of us could have done anything about it. But I can’t help but think there were times you needed someone. I felt it in my bones.

Reiner lingered on the words for a long moment, scoffing a little incredulously. Truthfully, Marco was not wrong. There were time when he wanted more than anything to have Marco beside him. I will see you soon, the letter finished. Your Marco.

So, his father had taken it upon himself to reunite old friends, Reiner thought, sardonically. He supposed he had not intended to reunite him with other old friends, however. That said, Erwin was renowned for his excellent planning. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought Erwin to have orchestrated Berholdt’s return to the castle. Yes, he had obviously made manoeuvres to do so, but Berholdt’s return had been almost as much of a surprise to Erwin has it had to Reiner. Of course, Erwin already knew some things that Reiner hadn’t to soften the blow.

After a moment Rener lowered the letter, folding it closed and lacing it off to the side, amongst a stack of other opened letters, and stood. He yawned, and moved to pull his shirt over his head, and tossing it to the floor carelessly, where a servant could pick it up in the morning. Kicking off his boots and trousers as well, he meandered over to bed, but not before blowing out the candle on his desk. Darkness fell over the room, and Reiner fell into bed, smiling a little to himself. Marco was coming. It had been long enough since he had seen the other boy. It would be a relief to be with someone who wasn’t cold like his cousin, or pseudo-captives like Prince Armin or Princess Historia. As kind and good as the pair obviously were, they had been take from their homes, and Reiner was smart enough to know that they were not happy about it, despite their geniality.

Besides, with Marco, he might even be able to forget the fury that lingered in the back of his mind. Maybe he might even be able to sleep through the night.

Chapter Text

It was a few days before Bertholdt was well enough to be moved. Erwin had not found the time to return to his side as he promised, but Bertholdt had not truly expected him to. He was the King, with important work to do. How could Bertholdt hold him to a promise like that? But it also made him wonder if he could hold King Erwin to his other promises - his promise of protection in particular. He had been lucid enough to remember that the King had told him he’d been aware of Bertholdt’s reputation, and the thought made his cheeks burn. He had not, however, been present enough to ask what he meant. Or, perhaps he had thought he did not even need to protest the truth. Erwin was sharp, and not to be taken for a fool. Bertholdt knew that, and supposed that is why he ultimately didn’t argue. 

In the morning, he woke to find curtains being pulled open, the sudden light jarring him awake and felt a sudden pain exploding from behind his eyes. He groaned. Someone he didn’t recognise was opening the window to air the room. Above him, a familiar face. Sasha peered down at him, smiling brightly as she pulled his sheets off him. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said, voice muffled. She was clearly chewing on something. 

Bertholdt winced at the pitch of his voice, her usual cadence too much for his aching head. “Sasha…”

Sasha was wearing new clothes, a pale blue pinafore and an apron. She was dressed as a palace servant, although the bonnet was missing. Her messy head of hair still clearly on display. “We’re here to move you,” she explained, watching him curiously. She stood back a bit as Bertholdt sat himself up with some effort, and Sasha helped him throw his legs over the side of the bed, so he could sit upright properly. 

Bertholdt made to respond, but found himself stunned to see Sasha being pushed aside with more force than was strictly necessary. A soldier stood before him, and Bertholdt swallowed, watching him kneel in front of him, fetters in hand. Without a word, Berholdt watched the palace guard clamp the fetters around his ankles. He did not protest. Erwin had mentioned he would not be able to move with complete freedom.

“Rude,” Sasha muttered. When the guard was done, she approached Bertholdt quickly, bumping the soldier aside with her hip as she grabbed Bertholdt’s hands to help him up. The only reason the soldier stumbled was his evident surprise at the passive-aggressive assault. He scowled at Sasha but said nothing. 

Bertholdt smiled blearily at his friend. He was tired, frayed at the edges and for now, too out of sorts to feel anxiety for his friend. Normally, Bertholdt thought to himself, he would be climbing the walls with concern for his friend’s blatant disregard for authority. But he also recognised he would feel resigned to the fact that he had never been able to stop either her or Connie from doing anything they wanted to do.

The floor was cold against his bare feet. He found it difficult to put one foot in front of the other, but after a few false starts, Sasha had him securely by the arm, and the two of them making their way down the richly decorated corridors of the guest wing of the palace. Bertholdt’s fetters clanked tellingly as he walked, breaking even the smallest illusion that he might have belonged there. It was a wonder he thought he ever had. He swallowed, eyes roaming the corridors and the hallways as they moved, drinking in his past and present. He dared not think about his future. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked suddenly, throat dry and hoarse. 

The stairs came into view and Sasha didn’t respond until Bertholdt was situated by the bannister and able to take the steps one at a time without tripping over his irons. “Well,” Sasha said, catching him as he stumbled. “After you passed out, we followed when the guards took you away.”

Bertholdt tried to move carefully, one hand on the bannister and the other holding Sasha’s arm tightly. He watched his feet, feeling lightheaded. “O-oh?” he pressed, unable to voice an actual question when his heart leapt into his throat upon a second stumble. 

Sasha hummed affirmatively. “Yeah,” she said. “Took us a few days to actually get an audience, but we managed to break in just enough times that they thought it was just better to let us in.”

This time, it was not the clumsiness of illness or the challenge of maneuvering in fetters that made him stumble. It was shock. “W-what?!”

Sasha caught him in her arms, and even she struggled for a moment to remain balanced on the stairs. “Gosh, Bertholdt, will you calm down?” She admonished, pausing to right them both. She sounded like she was exasperated that he’d taken the news of a new lover poorly. Like she didn’t understand the gravity of her admission. 

“Sasha,” Bertholdt said, feeling his conspicuously absent worries rush back to him. “That’s dangerous, y-you need to go…”

“Go where?” Sasha asked, pulling something from the folds of her dress - a small chunk of bread which she shoved into her mouth quickly. “I’m supposed to be here, Bert,” she said, waving his concerns away even as she reached up to place a hand on Bertholdt’s sweaty brow. 

He blinked and looked at her. He spotted her clothes again, realising he had noticed them earlier, but never thought to question them. “You…w-work here?” he asked, watching Sasha wipe her hand on her new dress, banishing the crumbs on her palm.

“Me and everyone else,” she said, giving him a smug, but playful grin. The expression fell into one of concern though as she pulled her other hand away from his forehead. “You’re still really sick, though, huh?” She asked rhetorically around the food in her mouth.

The room was beginning to spin and Bertholdt did still feel quite exhausted, and it was clear from the conversation that he still wasn’t thinking completely straight. “I think…” Bertholdt said quietly and Sasha nodded to herself, taking hold of Bertholdt securely again. 

“Finally,” they heard from behind them. Bertholdt tensed. He hadn’t realised they had been being followed the whole time. The guard who had clamped the irons around Bertholdt’s ankles stood several feet away, looking quite bored with them. He clearly hadn’t been expecting borderline delirium to hold up the escort he needed to provide. 

Sasha huffed and regarded the soldier like an angry chipmunk stared down a food thief. The thought made Bertholdt smile dumbly. He felt the weight of this short journey in his bones and Bertholdt was suddenly overtaken with the desire to sleep. They started moving again with Sasha’s gentle guidance, making sure to take things slowly. For her part, Bertholdt noticed a look of intense concentration on her face, like she was working doubly hard to make sure they didn’t both tumble down the stairs. 

It was a relief for them both when they reached the bottom with one last stumble.

“Phew,” Sasha said loudly, wiping her brow with an exaggerated gesture of her hand. Bertholdt nearly laughed. “Let’s get you back in bed,” she said. “You’re starting to look a little pale,” she observed as she took his arm again. Together, they made their way to the servants quarters, their escort not far behind them.

They moved until they found a corridor tucked away out of sight and slipped into it. One of the many servant’s corridors, unfrequented by those of higher standing. Bertholdt, even half aware of his surroundings, seemed to move on muscle memory, turning one way after a moment toward a door that he knew led down into the servant’s quarters. Sasha gripped his arm tightly and tugged him in the opposite direction.  “Sa-Sasha…the-”

“I know,” she said. “You have a room on this floor.”

The room, he realised as they walked, was not so far from the kitchens, or even the stables. This corridor held one of the few doors that led outside that didn’t require the servants to take the scenic route to the stables. It made things simple for the stablehands who lived in the castle, although when Bertholdt was a boy, they usually didn’t. The stink of horse usually sent them home to their families if they had them.

Tucked away was a single room, which Sasha and the guard led him into. It was simply decorated, with plain functional curtains on the only window in the room, and a bed large enough for one. The bedding was nothing special, brown linens and white sheets. A single somewhat thin pillow. A single candle sat upon a bedside table. A rough carpet, which seemed like a luxury even for a servant, to protect feet from the cold stone floor. There was a was and chair in the corner of the room, although Berthold could not think why he would need one. On the table was a wash basin and a cloth, and an unadorned chamber pot beneath it. A single shelf and a small dresser for the few clothes he possessed. 

Bertholdt found himself a little floored by the room as a whole. The King has said he was a servant, but the fetters suggested otherwise. The room suggested…Bertholdt didn’t even know what. Growing up with Reiner, he didn’t even have his own room. He had always shared in Reiner’s wealth and comfort. They shared a bed. Sometimes, they even cuddled at night if one of them had a nightmare. 

He felt a hand on his back suddenly, and he was pulled from his thoughts by Sasha guiding him gently to the bed. He sat, and in that moment felt the pulsing pain in his ankle. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out of it, but he had been able to walk, fine. Clearly the fetters were agitating his barely healed injury. 

“Get some rest,” Sasha said, straightening up once Bertholdt was settled. “When you’re better, you get to work with me in the kitchens,” she said with another little grin. “I’ve got to get back to work,” she explained. “I’ll be back later with some food,” she told him. “I promise I won’t eat half.”

Bertholdt tried to respond, but found his voice caught in his throat, gaze catching that of the silent soldier as she turned and exited the room. There was silence between them until Sasha’s footsteps faded away and the guard closed the door behind her, leaving the two of them in the room alone. Bertholdt suddenly felt the familiar sense of apprehension lurch into his throat. 

Before Bertholdt could even stand, the guard closed the gap between them, and clutched Bertholdt’s neck tightly, forcing him back down onto the bed. His armoured hand was unforgiving around Bertholdt’s throat. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he said, watching Bertholdt’s face. Fear, but no real recognition. “Don’t remember me?” he asked. He supposed he hadn’t seen Bertholdt since the winter, and the strumpet had probably had so many men they blurred together. His grip tightened on Bertholdt’s neck for just a moment, causing Bertholdt to choke. He grinned, one leg perched on the bed beside Bertholdt to keep himself steady as he loomed over the young man beneath him. 

Bertholdt had gone so still he might have been a corpse in the throes of rigor mortis. 

“Don’t worry, whore,” The guard said, his hand reaching down between his own legs, palms his cock through his trousers demonstratively as he watched Bertholdt. He felt Bertholdt swallow beneath his hand and saw his gaze drift downward. “You’ll know me again soon enough.”

As quickly as he had climbed atop him, the guard was off, and walking toward the exit. “Rest well,” he said, opening the door. “You’ll need it for tonight.”

With that, the guard left. Bertholdt remained as still as a statue until he heard the click of a key in the lock on the door. Even in his dulled mind it made sense. Of course, even out of a cell and in fetters, the potential murderer would be locked away. Even if he did have work within the castle. Bertholdt slumped back down onto the bed. Of course the guard watching him would recognise him. Have a key.

Bertholdt scrambled further onto the bed, pulling his knees to his chest as he watched the door, laying on his side. He tried to adjust his fettered feet into a comfortable position, but with limited success. He watched the door for as long as he could keep his eyes open, but soon his exhaustion from the short trip from one room to another caught up to him, and he fell into a restless sleep.

He didn’t know when, but he found himself awoken by a hand on his shoulder, and he shot upright. “Oh!” the person above him shouted in surprise. Bertholdt breathed heavily as he looked about, feverish and afraid. His eyes quickly found Sasha, who was adjusting a bowl in her hand so she could take a finger to her lip. Evidently his reaction had been violent enough to have made her spill the contents onto her hands. 

“S-sorry,” he said. “I-I was…” expecting someone else, he thought. 

“It’s fine,” she said, putting the bowl on the bedside table and depositing the spoon gently within. It looked like a simple but hearty stew. His stomach lurched, both gratified to see it and nauseous at the thought of eating it. But, Reiner had wanted him to eat…so eat he would. Erwin had gone through the trouble of making sure he received medical attention, so he would not let those efforts go to waste. 

Berthold slid his legs over the edge of the bed and sat upright, facing Sasha. She had her hands on her hips, loosely fisted. “See,” she said triumphantly. “I kept my promise.”

It was true. The bowl, he noticed, was conspicuously full. He had been so used to sharing his food with Connie and Sasha in particular that he honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if he got no food at all. He wasn’t even sure he could even manage a full bowl of food like that anymore.

He reached out and took the bowl in both hands. The sensation burned, and Bertholdt winced but did not let go. This was the hottest meal he’s had in a long time, and he wanted to feel the heat in his hands for as long as he could. He was so cold. Chilled to the bone and in his heart. He felt tears spring unbidden to his eyes. He wasn’t sure what he expected from his life since the hanging. But it certainly wasn’t a hot meal, a glorified prison cell and the looming threat of uninvited and unwanted intimacy. 

“Hey,” Sasha said gently, kneeling in front of him from where he sat on the bed, a warm and comforting hand on his knee. “What’s with the crying?”

“I-I need to speak to the K-King,” Bertholdt said quietly, eyes glancing toward the door. He couldn’t tell if the guard standing just beyond the door was the same one from earlier, partially obscured by the wall of his room. He stood against the far wall of the hallway and Bertholdt could not see his face. 

Sasha frowned. “You can’t,” she said.

Bertholdt tense. “W-what?” he asked incredulously. “B-but he said-”

“He had to leave on sudden business,” she explained, her brows furrowing in concern. “Unrest in Rose…” she explained.

“W-what about R-Reiner?” he said, stumbling over his name. Bertholdt felt his breathing increase. He was desperate enough now to invite Reiner’s ire. “C-can I talk to him?”

“No…?” Sasha asked, curious now and deeply concerned. “He left with King Erwin,” she explained gently. “What’s wrong?”

He noticed the guard shift from one foot to the other, and Bertholdt swallowed. He wondered if they had been heard. He wondered if, in his panic, Bertholdt had failed to watch the volume of his voice, and Sasha evidently did not seem to sense the need for discretion.

“N-nothing,” he said. He would have told her. He really would, but he knew the types of people he had catered to in the past, and if they thought there might be some danger to themselves, he knew some of them wouldn’t be afraid to protect themselves, their reputation, or their goings-on. He couldn’t risk putting Sasha in danger. “I-it can wait…really,” he said, giving her a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

Sasha tilted her head. They weren’t the closest of friends, but she was one of his dearest and only. With half of them away, Bertholdt knew he had to keep Sasha and Connie out of trouble more than ever, even if it meant taking people into his bed.

Sasha looked at him like she was searching for something, but after a moment, frowned. “Okay…” she said slowly, and stood. “Just…call me if you need me,” she said and turned. He tried to bid her farewell, but the words would not leave his mouth. He wanted to sleep again. 

He watched the guard close the door behind Sasha as he left, and the twist of a key in the lock. He watched for a moment before the sensation of burning on his palms drew his attention. He put the bowl aside and waved his hands in front of him, trying to cool them. His palms were red, but the bowl had not been hot enough to blister. It was a few more minutes before he tried to eat. 

He had been right. He managed half a bowl.

He woke to the sound of a door creaking open, from fevered but strangely lucid dreams. His body was sweaty and he already felt too hot for his own skin. He was aware that he felt better than he did when Erwin visited, but he suspected he had a few more days before he might be able to function like a normal human being.

Groggily, he turned his attention to the door as he heard the sound of it closing behind him. Another clank of the lock. Bertholdt closed his eyes to the soldier whose back was still toward him. His helmet was absent, as was his armour. He wore civilian clothes, easier access, more comfortable. When he opened them again, the soldier had put the key to one side, and was approaching the bed. 

Bertholdt sat up, although he clutched his blankets tightly to his chest. “Please don’t,” he whispered. He knew he couldn’t run, legs chained as they were. “Please…”

“Well,” he said, running a hand through short dark hair with one hand while he yanked the blankets out of Bertholdt’s feeble hands. “I might have considered that,” he said. “Since you asked so nice,” he continued, already unlacing his trousers. “But I heard what you said,” he told Bertholdt, and he watched as the guard reached into his trousers, hand stroking his own member, slowly. Bertholdt understood that he was performing. So many men did, proud of their dicks like they were a gift Bertholdt didn’t deserve. “Want to squeal to the King, do you?”

Bertholdt watched his hand, seeing his cock slowly spring to life.

Suddenly, the guard grabbed his hair roughly, and yanked his head forward, leveling Bertholdt’s face with his crotch. “You really think he cares?” the guard asked, and Bertholdt’s jaw tightened. The truth was, he didn’t understand what Erwin wanted from Bertholdt. He didn’t know if he could trust Erwin to hold to his word. “Maybe you need reminding that no-one listens to filthy-mouthed whores.”

Almost as if to emphasise his words, he grabbed Berthold’s face, prying his mouth open and shoving his dick into Bertholdt’s mouth. Bertholdt didn’t have the strength to fight back, but his hands shot forwards, hands gripping the soldier’s thighs tightly as he gagged on the meaty intrusion in his mouth. The whole thing made his eyes burn with tears of disgust, despair and pain.

“Suck,” he practically commanded. There was a pause long enough that his grip tightened in his hair. Bertholdt whimpered and he took the opportunity to thrust pointedly into Bertholdt’s warm mouth. Bertholdt gagged again, but after a moment, obeyed. Bertholdt took a moment to breathe through his nose, adjusting his head to accommodate the soldier’s cock. Berholdt’s head bobbed back and forth, tongue massaging his shaft as best he could. Bertholdt closed his eyes. He tried to imagine he was working back at the brothel, where he worked in the winter. He tried to imagine the chill in the air and the comforting warmth of a body next to him. Even if it was a body he was paid to share intimacy with. 

The soldier wasn’t particularly large or thick, but he had impressive length. Bertholdt found it somewhat of a struggle to take him deep into his mouth without gagging, which he seemed to enjoy, judging by his chuckling between breathy groans.

“You know,” he said, as he watched Bertholdt pleasure him. “You should have worked all year round,” he said, unable to keep from thrusting into his mouth and holding Bertholdt there as he gagged around his dick again. He watched Bertholdt struggle to collect himself again with a choked groan. He moaned at the sensation of Bertholdt’s moan around his cock. “But, I guess I can have that now, huh?”

In a moment, the guard tensed, holding Bertholdt’s head in both hands now as he thrust in and out of his whore’s mouth and Bertholdt’s throat tightened around him as he felt the soldier’s release in his mouth. He pulled out enough to release the remains of his cum into Bertholdt’s mouth and pulled away. He watched Bertholdt choke on his cum, and pushed him down on the bed, clamping a hand over his mouth, seeing that he was beginning to cough, trying to force his release from his throat. “Swallow, whore,” he growled. 

Bertholdt obeyed only because he had no choice. 

“Fucking beautiful,” the guard said, wiping cum from the corner of Bertholdt’s mouth once he pulled away. For some reason, that is what brought tears to Bertholdt’s eyes. A little bit of hollow praise. Without warning, the soldier’s hand was on Bertholdt’s crotch, yanking the laces on his trousers loose. “Oh,” he observed with a smirk. Bertholdt wasn’t erect, but he wasn’t completely flaccid either. It had helped to imagine he was working. Clients liked it when Bertholdt was hard, and he wanted this all over quickly. If he could finish this sooner, it felt less likely that Bertholdt would get hurt. “I knew you liked this.”

Suddenly, Bertholdt found himself flipped onto his stomach, fetters clanking violently against the stone floor. He found himself being propped up, and Bertholdt steadied himself on his feet, bending down over the bed, ass in the air as his trousers were pulled down and his legs were kicked further apart. The fetters allowed only a little bit of give, and the metal strained against his ankles. Bertholdt grunted, the pain shooting through his still recovering ankle, the iron digging into his skin. “Never thought I liked my whores chained up like this,” came the soldier’s voice from behind him. “Or maybe it’s just you,” he said with a laugh.

Bertholdt couldn’t bring himself to speak, heart in his throat, hand clutching the sheets tightly. His grip tightened when he felt warm palms on his behind, spreading his cheeks. “Been a while has it?” the guard asked, as he forced a thumb inside Berholdt. 

Bertholdt gasped and squirmed. “P-please…!” he meant to say more. Meant to ask him to stop again, but his throat was tight with fear. The way the guard laughed suggested he knew that, but chose to see it as him asking for more. 

Another thumb. For a while, that was all that happened, no taunting, no moans, just Bertholdt being fucked by someone’s thumbs, stretching him. Soon, those thumbs were swapped for searching fingers. In and out. “I want you to know you love this,” he said, spreading the fingers of his hand inside Bertholdt as he pushed deeper. It hurt. His hand was dry as he prepared Bertholdt. Then, Bertholdt’s eyes widened as those fingers brushed a sensitive bundle of nerves. He moaned even as the horrifying thought that the soldier’s cock would be just as dry. “There we go,” he said, thrust his hand into Bertholdt again. Another moan.

Bertholdt’s cheeks burned with shame and pleasure. He hated that he had done this so many times before and never quite felt so helpless. But, he’d never been trapped in a room with a man with the only key before. More movement, fingers thrusted inside him almost violently. Bertholdt couldn’t muffle the surprised moan.

“Good boy,” The soldier said, removing his fingers. 

Bertholdt had grown harder and his arms and legs were beginning to tire. He looked over his shoulder, feeling the soldier move, lining himself up with Bertholdt’s entrance. The first thrust burned, and Bertholdt cried out, tears finally falling. “N-no, please…!” 

The guard didn’t stop, thrusting again, deeper. Bertholdt breathed out sharply, knuckles whitening where they gripped the sheets tightly. He felt a hand around his member as the soldier pulled out almost completely, before he thrust sharply back in. He pumped Bertholdt’s member, and he moaned despite the pain. “Good boy,” he said again and Bertholdt quivered in pain and pleasure. He began to thrust, the movements surprisingly gentle after such violence. His hands moved, both settling themselves on Bertholdt’s hips, holding him steady on shaking legs as he thrust in and out, settling himself deeper and deeper inside Bertholdt. 

Bertholdt found himself frazzled by the entire affair. It wasn’t often clients switched between causing pain and pleasure. Most liked one or the other. They liked the idea of providing one or the other. Most didn’t get off on the game of handing out both. 

“I feel selfish,” the soldier said after a pointedly deep thrust, holding himself there, making sure Bertholdt was overwhelmingly aware that he was being impaled upon his cock. “Maybe I shouldn’t keep you to myself like this,” he pondered allowed, pulling out and in again, languid and slow. Pleasure spread throughout Bertholdt’s body, tingling and fiery. Bertholdt moaned breathlessly. 

He listened, although he didn’t really want to hear the end of the thought. 

“Why don’t we go into business together?” the soldier said almost conversationally, with a deep and leisurely thrust. Then, he pulled out suddenly. “You take the cocks,” he said, thrusting back in, hard. Bertholdt had expected it, tried to muffle his cries, but the soldier had aimed carefully, impaling that bundle of nerves. “And I’ll take their money,” he grunted.

He was relentless after that, thrusting as though he were aiming a spear into the weak point of enemy armour. “God, I could watch them fucking you,” He groaned, leaning further over Bertholdt now as he thrust into him over and over. His movements were erratic now, but no less powerful. “One at a time,” he grunted and Bertholdt cried out in pain and pleasure.

For a moment, some sick part of him thought about agreeing. The part of him that thought it was just easier to be used, not to think. Wait for someone else to stick their cock in his mouth. It’s not like he never felt pleasure during sex. It was so much easier than trying to ignore his past, dismiss his dirty deeds and try to live a modest life. One where he wasn’t accused of killing someone he’d cared about. 

“Two at a time,” the guard said, oblivious to Bertholdt’s train of thought. “A-anything..!”

The soldier thrust into Bertholdt, and while Bertholdt struggled to remain standing on shaking legs, straining on the tips of his toes, he thought for a moment that he heard voices. He tried to quiet his moans, trying to focus on the noise. 

A few things happened in quick succession then. He speared Bertholdt, hand yanking Berthold back onto dick as he thrust forward. Both of them moaned and Bertholdt felt his leg go weak, unsteady with pleasure. The door to the room burst open and Bertholdt’s seed spoiled the sheets and his trousers. His cock twitched even at the sensation of someone cumming inside him. 

“Grab him,” someone shouted, as several people entered the room. Before he knew it, Bertholdt was empty of everything but seed, and the soldier was rushing to put his cock away. Without support, Bertholdt collapsed weakly onto the bed. He struggled with his own trousers, trying to protect what remained of his modesty.

Sasha rushed into view, looking frantic and scared. She grabbed the sheets on the bed and threw them over Bertholdt as he struggled to dress himself. “I’m sorry, Bertholdt!” she said. Bertholdt could see she was shaking. 

Behind them, two armed guards held Bertholdt’s rapist against the wall, face pressed into the wall as his arms were pulled behind his back.

In the doorway, Princess Annie surveyed the room with stern indifference, but Bertholdt knew her well enough to suspect the twist of her lip indicated her profound displeasure. Her hair was mussed with sleep in nothing more than a night dress and no shoes. Sharp blue eyes found Bertholdt where he had curled up on the opposite side of the room, Sasha still holding the sheet around him, despite Bertholdt having successfully redressed.

“I-I’m sorry, Bertholdt,” Annie watched Sasha apologise. “I should have listened better. I-I…”

Her attention shifted. She gestured for the soldiers to haul the guard from the room. “Detain him,” she ordered simply, and it was done. She ignored the guard’s protests and instead busied herself in the room while the servant fussed over the prisoner. 

Soon enough, Annie had poured water into the wash basin and soaked the cloth a little, hanging it over the rim. She turned and cleared her throat. She waited for a moment, watching Sasha trying to dry her own tears and Bertholdt continued to look like a lost deer. 

“When you’re ready,” she said, her tone severe. It made Bertholdt and Sasha look at her, both tensing. Bertholdt vaguely wondered if Sasha had finally met someone she was afraid of. “Clean up and come with me.”

Bertholdt and Sasha’s gaze followed her out of the room, which she swung shut behind her. Bertholdt didn’t hear the click of a lock.

Chapter Text

Princess Annie’s exit filled the room with a heavy silence. The kind she often left behind. It took a moment for either remaining occupant to move. Sasha pushed the blankets to one side as Bertholdt made to stand. With some hesitation, and not knowing what else to do, Sasha gathered the sheets carefully.

Bertholdt was in pain. In the moment before he’d pulled out, the soldier, who has stretched him, and fucked him dry had given him absolute pleasure. He had not wanted to be entertainment for the soldier, but he had made it feel good. He supposed that was his goal. Make him feel the pleasure in the violation and leave him wanting. Ashamed to want more. Although it had never consciously crossed his mind, this felt like a violation unlike anything he had felt before because he had never associated the palace with sex. Even though discussing his reputation with Erwin had felt wrong, it had been spoken of vaguely, inexplicitly. 

This made everything tangible, like everything that was said and could have been dismissed was now true and undeniable. That man had brought filth into the castle and destroyed Bertholdt’s already fragile sense of safety. It felt strange to have felt even remotely safe in fetters, as though he had been punished enough. That it was over. Settled. That he could atone in peace for things he hadn’t done, and the things he had.

“I-I’ll be back,” Sasha said into the quiet room, bedding in her arms. “I-I’ll get you some fresh clothes,” she said, looking at Bertholdt’s cum-stained trousers. She left without another word, the door clicking shut behind her. As he closed, he saw Sasha speaking quietly with Annie, but he did not catch their words. 

Bertholdt moved them, slowly, limping not only because of the soldier’s violent intrusion on his person, but the strain he had forced Bertholdt to make against the fetters had rubbed his skin raw. It hurt to put one foot in front of the other, and he wasn’t totally sure if any skin had broken.

He moved to the wash basin, part of him still riding the wave of release that hit him when he’d cum, and felt the soldier’s seed. Bertholdt pulled down his trousers again and his face burned with shame. He’d pulled out so fast he’s gotten seed all over the inside of Bertholdt’s thighs as well as inside him. He realised quickly the fabric had smeared the fluid all over his skin. Berholdt reached behind him, fingers finding his entrance and he slid them into his used hole, feeling filthy fluid on his fingers. Sex-addled, feverish and raw, Berholdt closed his eyes against the residual pleasure of the encounter.

The truth was that Bertholdt liked sex. He had learnt over the years to take pleasure where he could find it. This was not his first encounter with rape, but this was the experience that left him feeling the most shame, because he had been made to feel such pleasure. The few other times it had happened, people had taken what they wanted and left. Didn’t talk except to threaten, didn’t praise. They fucked and they left and Bertholdt picked up the pieces. They left him in tears every time and every time, Bertholdt recovered as much as he could. 

This time, he felt almost claimed with the sticky fluid slipping down his thighs and fingers. 

The thought made him retract his hand quickly and shove his hands into the wash basin in front of him. He glanced around, finding a bar of soap, and he grabbed and dripped into the water, lathering his hands quickly, washing them thoroughly. When that was done, he took the wash cloth that Annie had already wet for him and thrust it between his legs, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of some stranger’s seed inside him. He rinsed and repeated, making sure he had wiped the guard off his body completely and tried to get rid of any potentially lingering smells. 

There was a knock at the door, and Sasha’s voice reached Bertholdt’s ears. “Berty?” she called awkwardly. “A-are you decent?” she asked through the door. 

He didn’t have it in him to tell her not to use silly nicknames. He had pulled his trousers down, and they settled around his ankles. He hadn’t been able to kick them off, because of the fetters, but his shirt was long enough to cover any intimate areas. 

He’d never really noticed that he was no longer wearing his ill-fitting pauper’s clothes. He’d been dressed in loose knee length trousers and a loose white shirt with long sleeves that gathered at tanned wrists. He adjusted his shirt to make sure the shirt didn’t reveal anything unintentionally. “Y-yes,” Bertholdt said, and a moment later, Sasha let herself in. 

She held fresh clothes in her arms, which she brought to him without fanfare. She put them on the table, and Bertholdt blinked. A key sat on top of them. “Sorry,” she said. “It took a while to recover the key,” she said and knelt in front of him.

The fetters fell to the ground as the key released the lock. Fresh air stung the raw wound around Bertholdt’s ankles, but it made Bertholdt smile. It felt like freedom. “Thank you…” he said, and helped Sasha to her feet. “I’m really glad you listened at all,” she said, leveling Sasha with a look of such sincerity that Sasha seemed to resist the urge to cry more. Her lower lip trembled, and she inhaled heavily through her nose. “Really…”

Sasha flung herself into his arms, and he wrapped his around her in return, his state of undress disregarded. Sasha and Connie had always been the most physically affectionate of them all, and Bertholdt felt he needed the sincere touch and comfort. It was some time before they pulled themselves apart, Sasha wiping her face free of tears and Bertholdt trying not to feel as though he shouldn’t touch something and someone so innocent. Sasha had made a mistake, but she had corrected it, and for that he was grateful. He didn’t want to think what else may have happened if they hadn’t arrived when they did.

“Thanks,” she said softly. “I-I’ll be outside with the Princess when you’re dressed.”

Bertholdt waited until Sasha left the room again before he turned to his new clothes. They were not dissimilar to his current outside, clearly standard wear for the servants. The length of the trousers clearly indicated the need for stockings, but they were absent. So, he redressed into clean clothes and padded his way, shoeless, into the corridor, where Annie and Sasha waited. Bertholdt made sure to bow his head low. “Thank you, P-princess,” he said, stumbling over the wood as a brief spell of vertigo hit him. He righted himself quickly, and tried not to think too much about it. He felt better than he had that morning, but it seemed he was not yet fully recovered. 

“You are welcome, “ Annie said simply. She had clearly not left the door since she deposited herself outside of it, even to get a nightgown to throw over her shift. She must have been cold at this time of night, for it was Bertholdt realised, very late indeed. Outside of the commotion caused earlier, Bertholdt had heard nothing since the soldier had first visited his room. “Follow me,” she said, and turned without another word, gesturing for them to follow with a wave of her hand. 

At the bottom of the stairs, she turned and regarded Sasha seriously. “You are one of those I heard about from the hanging?” she asked, although her tone suggested the question was somewhat rhetorical. When Sasha nodded, Bertholdt watched as Annie took stock of the servant, looking her up and down before seeming to draw some unspoken conclusion. “You may return to bed,” she commanded monotonously. “Leave Bertholdt with me,” she said. Bertholdt was surprised. 

Later, Bertholdt found himself upstairs again and in the Princess’ own bedroom. Inside was finery unlike anything he remembered ever seeing in Reiner’s room. Jewels, rings, hairpins kept in pincushions to keep them safe. A bottle or two of perfume. Of course, not all her finery was on display, but it was enough to suggest how very wealthy Annie was, and what luxury she lived in. 

“Sit,” Annie said, gesturing behind her toward her bed as she searched through her vanity’s large lower drawer. Bertholdt obeyed, sinking into the lush mattress  and silken bedding. His rear still ached even with the excessive cushioning and his ankles stung, but he didn’t complain. He knew he’d rather be on such soft bedding than trapped in his room cold and alone on a thin mattress, waiting for some stranger to come into his room. 

She retrieved a sizable, wooden box. It didn’t appear heavy, but it required two hands to hold. Without a word, she walked over to him, footsteps muffled by a large plush rug. He was shocked when she knelt in front of him. She didn’t look at him, just opened the box and pulled out a small bottle and a cloth. 

Medical supplies, Bertholdt realised.

“Why do you have those?” Bertholdt asked, too curious to feel self-conscious about speaking so openly around a member of the royal family. It was as though Bertholdt had never been even remotely afraid of Annie. 

“I ride a lot,” she said simply, and wet the cloth in her hands with the content of the bottle. Alcohol, Bertholdt judged by the smell. His suspicions were confirmed when the cloth stung sharply on contact. He winced and his ankle twitched. Her grip wasn’t painful and allowed him to pull away for just a moment before he quelled his knee-jerk reaction to pull away. “I got annoyed having to waste the physician’s time every time I got a little scrape,” she said, continuing to treat his wounds.

“Oh,” he said as she began wrapping gauze around his ankles. She did it with practiced ease and she tried to gauze in a firm knot. She stood then and put the box on her bedside table and sat on the bed next to him. Bertholdt’s face went red and he looked at his knees. He couldn’t remember a time he had ever been so close to Annie. He had been taught years ago not to be within an arm’s length of her. It was a gesture of respect. He was a servant and it would have been inappropriate for them to stand so close. It still felt inappropriate, especially since Annie was still in nothing but her shift. 

They were silent for a time, simply sitting and adjusting to each other’s company. 

The silence allowed Bertholdt time to process what had happened. He already knew he felt violated. Some part of him wondered if he really did deserve what had happened to him. He invited it all into his life three years ago in a moment of weakness, when he was cold and hungry. He had barely been mature enough to make the decision he did, but he thought he was doing it for the right reasons. The whore house had started a whisper campaign. Some sweet young thing, a virgin, had come to them. People came to the brothel specifically for him.

His first had been a graying older man, fat around the middle and with a cock that felt too big for his little body. Bertholdt hadn’t known what to do with his hands. The man had been gentle. He went slowly, prepared him well and was generous with the oils the brothel had provided. Bertholdt didn’t know at the time that he should have been grateful for that, because the man had said such dirty things that it had made Bertholdt’s skin crawl. He remembered a vague promise of bringing a friend next time. That never happened, but he did see that man again, and every time he did, he made the same promise. He had once even heard him ask the madam if he could have Bertholdt exclusively.

Tempted as she was, she had told the man that he was not a permanent resident of the brothel, and a deal like that was to be settled with Bertholdt himself. Bertholdt had run before the man could find him again, and didn’t go back to the brothel for the rest of the year. More than the acts he made Bertholdt perform, he couldn’t take the man’s affectionate words and lewd promises. He only regretted his choice later that winter, because he, Ymir, Mikasa and Eren had never eaten so well, even when Bertholdt went back in the years after. Even Sasha and Connie had benefitted at the time. The food and money dried up quickly. He saw that man one more time but then, nothing. Looking back now, Bertholdt wondered if his growth spurt had had something to do with that. He remembered he hadn’t quite grown into his body at the time. For a long while, he was unable to keep from thinking what it might have felt like to take two people on at the same time. Those promises lingered and haunted Bertholdt. He still wondered. In all his time working, that wasn’t something he’d experienced. Bertholdt counted himself lucky, because by now, he knew that whatever experience he would have had depended entirely on his bedmate’s disposition. 

He didn’t know exactly when he’d started crying, but he felt the tears when he felt a hand on top on his own, where it clutched the sheets of the luscious bed beneath him. He wiped his face with his free hand as he adjusted his other one, turning his hand and lacing his fingers through Annie’s own. 

She didn’t say a word as she guided him by the hand, and together, they scooted further onto the bed and lay down, facing one another, half sunken in the sheets, their clasped hands between them. She met his teary gaze with a softness he had never seen before from her, although there was a surety in it that he was very familiar with. Perhaps she pitied him, but he did not see it in her eyes. It was just them. 

He felt safe. 

They stayed like that for a while, in companionable silence. Bertholdt wasn’t sure for how long, but he was beginning to feel the events of the night catch up to him. He was tired, emotionally and physically, but somehow sleep still eluded him. “He said he wanted me to remember him,” Bertholdt admitted, filling the silence. 

Annie replied after a beat. “Do you?”

“No,” Bertholdt said, the word catching in his throat. The silence rushed back like a tidal wave, swallowing whatever else Bertholdt might have thought to say. 

When morning came, Bertholdt was laying on his back, sprawled across the expanse of the bed like he owned it, heedless of his usual restless sleeping habits. For her part, Annie had seemed unperturbed, unconsciously moving with Bertholdt until she found herself with her head on his stomach, so deeply asleep she awoke to the sound of a commotion outside of her room and drool on her chin.

She sat up languidly, wiping at her chin with her sleeve, disregarding her unruly hair entirely. Her eyes were still heavy and she watched the sun peak through her window with bleary disdain. She was not a morning person and there was far too much noise coming from the hallway for that hour of the morning. Limbs still heavy with sleep, she nudged Bertholdt, who did not respond to her touch.

She looked down at him. He was dead to the world. She took a tired breath and raised her hand, delivering a pointed shove. “Eh,” she groaned, apparently incapable of speech so early in the morning. Still nothing.

Deciding that she didn’t have enough strength in her arms, she sat back, bringing her legs out from under her, and braced herself with her hands behind her and she delivered a swift jab to Bertholdt’s side with tiny, pale bare feet. “Ehh!” she said, eloquently.

This time, Bertholdt groaned and curled in on himself, laying on his side as he looked up at Annie with sloth-like confusion. “Ow,” he said hoarsely, although he did not seem to be in any actual pain.

Annie sat, her face in her hand, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “People,” she whined tiredly, lamenting the inevitable disruption. She gestured vaguely to the door where the noises were getting louder. Voices and the clank of armour.

Bertholdt blinked at the door, taking a moment to register the sounds. “Oh,” he let out a groan which developed into a yawn. Unable to bring himself to stand, Bertholdt rolled to his other side and flung his legs over the edge of the bed, practically sliding to the floor as Annie climbed out of bed herself on the other side. 

Gracelessly, Bertholdt crawled to a nearby chair where he found Annie’s thick dressing gown and grabbed it, pulling himself to his feet using the chair as leverage. He meandered over to Annie as she rounded the bed to meet him, taking the gown wordlessly and throwing it on. 

She had just wrapped it around herself when there was a rapid knocking at her door.

“Enter,” she sighed, resigned. 

Bertholdt was just rubbing the sleep from his own eyes when the doors burst open without further adieu. He flinched at the noise and lowered his hand quickly to his side upon seeing who had come to the door. 

Erwin stepped into the room, Reiner not far behind. Behind them, Levi, Petra and Hange waited at the threshold of the room, but did not enter. Bertholdt bowed his head respectfully, although he did not have time to bow before Erwin began to speak.

“We came as soon as we heard,” he said. It was clear to Bertholdt that they had just arrived from their excursion to Rose, armoured as they were, their swords still at their sides. Bertholdt felt himself shrink back. He did not want to be the centre of conversation. “Miss Braus told me what happened.”

Bertholdt felt his face redden, so she raised a hand to his face, the other folded against his face as though trying to hide further. It was all he could do to try and hide the shame and embarrassment of the situation. 

“The perpetrator is in the cells,” Annie said, seeming to have shaken off the desire for sleep. 

“He will be dealt with in due course,” Erwin nodded. It seemed Sasha had told him that, too. He didn’t seem surprised by the information. 

“Speaking of,” Reiner said, coming forward, gaze moving rapidly from Annie to Bertholdt. “Why isn’t he in his cell?” He asked, and gestured to his feet. “And isn’t he supposed to be manacled?”

“I felt it best he spent the night with me,” Annie said, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly at Reiner. “After an attack like that-”

“In your room?!” Reiner said. It was a shock at the best of times to discover a man in a lady’s room without a chaperone, but to leave oneself with a murderer? “He could have hurt you!”

“Oh please,” Annie said dismissively, still holding her gown to her chest, for modesty. “Look at him,” she said, and Reiner did. His gaze pinned Bertholdt to the spot. 

Bertholdt was taller, taller than Reiner and looked like a sickly beanpole. Criminally underfed and unhealthily skinny. Reiner was already aware of old injuries, a cut to his thigh and a sprained ankle. He also took in the new injuries. Bandages around both ankles, clearly from the manacles he was no longer wearing. He supposed that explained that. It seemed fair to assume Bertholdt likely wouldn’t have been able to win even a minor scuffle with Annie. In many ways Reiner thought she was tougher than he was. 

“I wasn’t going to leave him with some other random guard,” Annie said sternly.

You could have at least restrained him,” Reiner said, gesturing to Bertholdt pitilessly. “Or left him restrained in the servant’s quarters.”

“Reiner,” Erwin interjected, but Reiner continued.

“I wasn’t about to leave him vulnerable,” Annie argued, tone level, unintimidated by Reiner’s obvious ire. Bertholdt felt something in his chest tighten at the thought that Reiner did not seem to care for his safety. Or even seem to remember that he’d cared about that once upon a time. Bertholdt remembered how many times Reiner went out of his way to avoid getting Bertholdt punished.

“So you let him sleep in your room?!”

Annie nodded. “It was the logical choice.”

The safest. No-one would dare attack Bertholdt when he was in the company of royalty. 

“What does it matter?” Reiner asked, and the shift in the room was immediate. “He’s a whore anyway,” Reiner continued, and Bertholdt’s stomach dropped. “He should really expect that sort of thing.”

Something inside of Bertholdt snapped, like a string too tightly wound. 

Erwin turned on his son. “Reiner-”

Bertholdt laughed. 

It was a short, mirthless and mildly hysterical sort of thing. It was a sound so foreign to everyone in the room that all eyes fell on Bertholdt immediately. Even Erwin seemed perturbed. “You know what?” he said, approaching Reiner with a purposeful stride that no-one had ever thought Bertholdt capable of. “I’m sick of this,” He said, meeting Reiner’s gaze. “And I’m sick of people like you thinking it’s okay to hurt people you think are less than!”

“You’re a murderer,” Reiner snapped. “You are less-”

“Except I’m not,” Bertholdt challenged, hands fisted at his sides, so furious he had forgotten to be afraid of Reiner. “And I’m tired of apologising for something I didn’t do!”

Reiner scowled. “Don’t deny-”

They were so absorbed in their argument that they did not see Erwin and Annie exchange looks. This felt like a discussion that was a long time coming, and both seemed loath to interrupt, but felt as though the situation might escalate at any moment. Petra and Hange looked uncomfortable to witness the argument, but kept their hands on their weapons, just in case. Levi simply watched Reiner, eyes narrowed.

“God,” Bertholdt said, hand running through his hair. “It’s not my fault you can’t see the truth-”

Bertholdt felt pain explode in his cheek before he even knew what happened. He stumbled back, hand finding his cheek, wincing at the pain that radiated from the impact. Annie caught him reflexively, but Bertholdt found his feet quickly. He glared.

“What happened to you?” Bertholdt asked, frustration and hurt boiling up inside him, making tears spring to his eyes. “You pig!”

Erwin had seized Reiner before he could advance further on Bertholdt, aided this time by Levi, who had dashed into the room so quickly that no-one had seen him move in the chaos of the moment. 

“You’re nothing but a worthless whore!” Reiner shouted, showing off his rarely seen temper and straining against the hold the other two men had on him. “You’re nothing!”

“That’s enough!” Erwin shouted, working with Levi to drag Reiner from the room. Annie placed a comforting arm on Bertholdt’s arm. Petra spared Bertholdt a quick glance, but said nothing as she closed the door upon Reiner’s ejection from the room. 

In the abrupt stillness that followed, Bertholdt felt himself begin to shake, and his knees gave out from under him. Annie caught him. He managed to find enough strength to keep his feet long enough for Annie to guide him to a nearby chair - the same one Bertholdt had retrieved her dressing gown from. Rose pink and plush, Bertholdt sank into it, not even registering the soft velvet upholstery. 

His heart was in his throat and his chest felt full to bursting with nervous energy. He felt it, the come-down from the adrenaline rush of the confrontation Bertholdt never wanted. He tried to breathe, but all that came out was some estranged, ugly thing. 

Annie knelt down in front of him, hand resting on the arm of the chair, not sure if he wanted to be touched. 

Bertholdt leant forward, elbows on his knees as he sobbed into his hands. 

There was no chance in Hell that they could ever be what they were.

Not anymore.

Outside Annie’s room, Erwin waited until they were a good distance away before releasing Reiner. He had calmed down enough now that he wasn’t liable to go marching back into Annie’s room to finish what he had started. Reiner was shoved against a wall by Levi. Erwin didn’t protest. He had a hand on his chest with enough force that the touch seemed to firmly suggest Reiner didn’t move. Reiner obeyed. 

There was a long, tense moment of silence in which Erwin seemed to be gathering his thoughts. Unlike Reiner, Erwin had a kind of viciousness that he had to keep well under control. As the ruler of a nation, and an unstable one at that, he could not afford to lose his temper. Even with his own son.

“Do you feel better now?” Erwin asked, eyeing his son with blatant displeasure. There was a coldness to it that Reiner rarely saw. He remained silent.

When he received no response, Erwin turned his attention to his knights. They watched him expectantly. “The prisoner is hereby stripped of his authority and banished from Sina and all our lands,” which of course meant Rose and Shinganshina as well. He would be banished to the wild lands beyond until he found some other Kingdom to take him in. “Levi,” he continued. “Take him to the outskirts with basic provisions and make sure he leaves.”

Levi scoffed. “Make Hange and Petra do it,” he said, watching Reiner. “I’ve got business here.”

Erwin watched Levi for a moment and released his hold on Reiner. He waved at the woman dismissively and nodded, understanding the wordless order. They left promptly, Hange with a curious glance over his shoulder. “Very well,” Erwin said, leaving Levi to his own devices as he turned and made his way back toward Annie’s bedroom.

Levi hauled Reiner into a nearby room, slamming the door shut behind him the moment Erwin was out of line of sight. “You little shit,” Levi hissed. Reiner had barely regained his foot before he was punched squarely in the jaw. He fell to the ground unceremoniously. The room was a guest room, plush furnishing covered with cloth to protect from dust and the bed unadorned and bare. The walls were an opulent gold and silver, painted intricately and framing barbarism in beauty. 

Reiner got to his hands and knees. “You can’t talk to me like that,” he said, wiping blood from his lip with his sleeve.

“I’ll talk to filth any way I want,” Levi said, looking down at Reiner as though he were shit under his shoe. “Call yourself a fucking prince,” he said, delivering a swift kick to Reiner’s vulnerable midsection.

Reiner wheezed and curled in on himself, pain shooting through him like a stake through dirt. 

“I don’t care what that kid did to you in the past,” Levi scowled, his next kick, blocked by a protective arm. “You knew him,” He hissed. “He was a friend, wasn’t he?” he asked, although the question seemed more rhetorical than anything else. 

“He’s a murderer,” Reiner groaned, feeling queasy from the pain. 

Levi moved forward, yanking Reiner up. Reiner grabbed hold of Levi’s wrists, attempting to pry them off him. “So you think he deserved rape, do you?” Levi retracted his hand and delivered another swift punch to Reiner’s face. Reiner was fast enough to block the worst of the impact but it was still disorienting. 

“He’s the one having sex for money!” Reiner protested, shoving Levi away and scrambling to his feet. “Hazard of the job isn’t it?!”

“Disgusting,” Levi disparaged, and lunged, knocking Reiner to the ground again and clambering on top of him. Reiner tried to swing for Levi’s face, but he dodged with practiced ease. He wasn’t Lance Corporal of Shinganshina for nothing. “What he does, he does for survival,” he growled again, delivering yet another punch.

Reiner turned his head, spat blood and tried to shove Levi off of him. “How’d you know he’s not doing it because he likes it?!”

Levi wrestled with Reiner, trying to keep the advantage. “Because I’ve seen shit-poor kids like him,” He hissed. “I’ve seen poverty,” he leaned down, silver eyes narrowed dangerously. “And listened to you rich fucks long enough to know you’ve been playing that kid like a fucking fiddle!”

He pulled back long enough to make Reiner fumble his hold on Levi, and Levi struck again.

“You pretend to care about your people, but you’re an arrogant little shit,” Levi said, pushing off of Reiner and taking several steps back. He knew he could have taken the beating further, wanted to. But he also knew, he couldn’t beat Reiner to a pulp without actually having to answer for it much longer. “Erwin plays with that kid’s life like he’s a fuckin’ chess piece and you,” Levi said, leveling Reiner with a look as he came to his feet. “You think he deserves rape just for trying to survive when you’re the one who forced him into that situation in the first place!

Reiner could feel his face swelling from Levi’s assault, and still struggled to stand completely upright without quivering from the pain. He didn’t seem to have the words to respond. 

“You turned him into what he is,” Levi hissed, turning his back on Reiner as he made for the door. “Don’t you fuckin’ forget it.”

He opened the door and slammed it shut behind him as he left, leaving Reiner in his tainted splendor. 

Erwin knocked calmly upon Annie’s door. After a moment, he heard Annie call her permission to enter, and did so. He closed the door quietly behind him and approached the pair. He tilted his head, watching Bertholdt. He watched Bertholdt’s body shake with the violence of his grief and hurt. He didn’t even acknowledge that Erwin had entered the room, and wondered if he even noticed. 

He withdrew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and reached forward, pressing a hand gently to Bertholdt’s arm. The boy jerked away from his touch and sat up, red-eyed and fearful. Erwin wasn’t surprised. The boy had exploded at the prince. No-one had ever dared speak to Reiner like that. Not once. 

Erwin met Bertholdt’s gaze and reached forward, tilting Bertholdt’s head up  gently with a finger under his chin as he used the handkerchief in his other hand to wipe away the tears that streamed down Bertholdt’s face. Erwin was not surprised to see the complete and utter devastation on his face. Of all the things that could have broken him - finding out his life and been played with for years, Ymir’s betrayal, being beaten and abused, touched and fucked - it was Reiner’s blatant cruelty that did it. 

Bertholdt had felt the sting of Reiner’s hate, Erwin had been that many times already, but he supposed that Bertholdt had felt that one day, Reiner might see sense. Lived in tentative, fragile hope. 

“Where’s Reiner?” Annie asked from her place beside Bertholdt. 

Erwin watched Bertholdt’s gaze flicker to the door, tensing as though he expected Reiner to burst into the room and come at him again. He sighed and tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Don’t worry,” Erwin said, permitting himself an ambiguous smile. “I believe Levi is using this time to have a teaching moment with Reiner,” he said by way of reassurance.

And raised a brow but stood, knees sore. 

Erwin ignored Bertholdt’s confusion at the remark, and stood up straight as he turned to Annie. He placed his hands upon her shoulders and smiled down at her. “Thank you,” he said. “For looking after Bertholdt overnight,” he praised. Although she tried to remain impassive, Erwin did not miss the little smile at the praise. “You exceed expectations as always, my niece.”

Annie nodded, but didn’t say anything as Erwin turned his attention back to Bertholdt.

“I’ll take it from here,” he said. Bertholdt watched him like a frightened animal. Erwin simply held his hands out for Bertholdt to take. “Come,” he said to Bertholdt softly. “Come with me,” he urged again.

Bertholdt hesitated, but put his hands in Erwin’s own and found himself gently guided to his feet.

Erwin smiled and said nothing as he released one hand and guided Bertholdt out the room with the other. His grip was soft, allowing plenty of room for Bertholdt to take his hand back should he wish. 

Bertholdt did not pull away as he was led elsewhere in the castle, leaving Annie behind.

Chapter Text

Reiner’s face burned, not from embarrassment or shame, but pain. It hadn’t been that long since the war ended, but it had been some time since he had received wounds such as the ones decorating his face now. He could taste the blood in his mouth, bleed seeping from a wound on his brow and could feel the sting of the air on his split slip. He didn’t want to think about how he actually looked. He could sense a good amount of swelling coming on, though. 

From where he sat on the floor, Reiner turned his head and spat again, watching his blood splatter violently against pristine marble floors. He’d have to take a trip to the physician and avoid public appearances for a while, although the latter wouldn’t be particularly difficult. There was nothing at present for him to deal with outside castle walls. 

A few days ago, he, his father and a troop of their soldiers headed to Rose to quell unrest in the region. The mission had been simple, and frankly, Reiner had enjoyed getting away from the castle and doing a simple task. Stop the peasant revolting. Escape the truly revolting peasant recovering from a fever in a room that he did not deserve to occupy. It had been delightful simply to ride in, say some words and flash a blade where necessary. Intimidation and reason, two things that wouldn’t necessarily go hand-in-hand but between Erwin’s regal presence and useful word and Reiner and Levi’s imposing countenances, they dealt with the issue pretty quickly. Thankfully, all without bloodshed, for the most part. It wasn’t long before they were headed back. 

Now, he was back home, and he felt as though he was surrounded by Bertholdt. Reiner made a point to avoid him as much as possible, but immediately upon entering the courtyard, Reiner knew there was something different in the air. They met Sasha running toward them as they entered the courtyard, obviously distraught. That was when they learnt of the apparent rape. Because of course Bertholdt couldn’t keep himself out of trouble, even inside the securely locked room they had transferred him to while they were gone. 

He had probably invited that guard in, in an attempt to escape the cell. It clearly wasn’t a thought that had entered anyone’s mind. Not even his really, until now. He supposed getting beaten up offered a sort of clarity. Fuck him, get the key, leave. He wondered how many times Bertholdt had pulled tricks like that. But that plan had clearly backfired. How anyone could buy Bertholdt’s innocent act was beyond him. It was only a shame it was too late to talk to that guard now. Find out what really happened. 

He didn’t even seem that distraught when they found him in Annie’s room. It was clear looking at them both that they had just woken up, but there was something about Bertholdt’s demeanour that seemed wrong. Like he was expecting something. Reiner just didn’t know what. He hadn’t said a word until Reiner challenged him, forcing his facade to crack. He had admitted he’d stop apologising for what he’d done, owned it the way Reiner wanted him to. Confessed to it. But he was the monster, somehow. He was the pig. 

Reiner didn’t go to war to get beaten like a dog when he got home because of some lying whore. 

He closed his eyes tightly, wincing a little at the pain in his brow when he did so. The sensation was somewhat grounding, and helped him stem his fury long enough to stand and make his way from the room. He stewed silently as he walked, playing over the events of the morning, trying to see what everyone else saw, but he couldn’t. 

He stopped short when he reached the end of the corridor, seeing Erwin leading Bertholdt by the hand in the main hallway, headed toward his father’s wing of the castle. Bertholdt stood a few inches taller than Erwin now, Reiner realised. But his hand in Erwin’s looked so much smaller. Bertholdt had always been skinny, even when he was being fed well as a child. No matter how much he ate, Bertholdt’s body never seemed to change. 

Now though, poverty had thinned him out, he was bonier than Reiner remembered and cheeks a little shallower than he recalled. But that could just have been adulthood and growing out of baby-fat. He looked somehow more delicate, breakable as though his bones were hollow as a bird’s own. He was sturdy, though, if the punch he’d delivered to Bertholdt earlier was anything to go by. He was cleaner now than he had been in the cells. He supposed Erwin had ordered Bertholdt to be washed during his fever when he’d been recovering in the bedroom. But there was still a thin layer of dirt on him. A bed bath wasn’t the most thorough process. 

As they turned the corner to disappear into Erwin’s wing, Bertholdt turned his head, and he faltered in his step, green eyes meeting golden brown, shock clear in his expression. He saw Bertholdt’s mouth move, but didn’t hear the words. It could have been Reiner’s name, he judged, from the way his lips moved. He watched Erwin pause long enough to draw Bertholdt’s attention back to him and carry on their way. 

Reiner felt a certain amount of satisfaction seeing the slight swelling of Bertholdt’s cheek.

Bertholdt felt as though he was in somewhat of a daze, his hand warmed by Erwin’s touch as they moved through the castle. Erwin hadn’t said where they were going, and when he turned his head to ask, Bertholdt caught sight of someone in the corner of his eye. It took him a moment to recognise it was Reiner, bruised, beaten and bloody. Bertholdt’s brain seemed to stall for a moment, as did his legs. It had only been a few minutes since they’d last seen each other. “R-Reiner-”

“Come now,” Erwin said, squeezing Bertholdt’s hand gently and drawing Bertholdt’s attention back to him. Erwin’s touch felt suddenly too hot, but he did not pull away, but he obeyed and continued to walk with Erwin without another word between them. 

It took a while for Bertholdt to register where they were going, but when he did, he recognised the area almost immediately. The King’s designated private rooms. A large wing of the castle for the King’s own particular use. He’d seen the inside of it a handful of times growing up with Reiner, although he’d never been allowed to explore every room, but the corridors, he remembered well. Well-lit with rich green wallpaper, white marble covered by a push green run carpet that ran the length of the hallway, muffling the sound of their steps. 

Eventually they came to a room with the door already open, leading into a private sitting room. This room, Bertholdt remembered, having spent many a day here with Erwin and Reiner when the man had time to spare to spend with his son. It hadn’t changed at all, the green theme was still a theme throughout the rooms that Bertholdt was aware of. 

Erwin led Bertholdt into the room and guided him to sit on the plush green sofa that occupied the middle of the room, opposite of a fireplace and surrounded by a handful of other sofa furnishings, including a chaise lounge in the far corner of the room. Bertholdt remembered taking a nap on it once or twice with Reiner when they were especially little. 

He remembered Erwin lying on it and holding him for hours after his mother had passed away, soothing him as he cried, cradling his little body in a warm, but all-encompassing embrace. 

Erwin only released his hand when Bertholdt settled in the chair. “Stay here,” Erwin said, drawing Bertholdt’s attention once again. He watched Erwin, mildly perplexed and overwhelmed. His heart hurt and his eyes burned, but here Erwin was with him, instead of Reiner. Reiner, who had clearly been physically assaulted. “I’ve got some things to attend to, but I’ll be back.”

“R-right…”

“I’ll have the servants prepare a bath for you,” Erwin continued.

Bertholdt blinked, trying to focus on any thought other than Reiner. “What?”

Erwin watched Bertholdt for a moment, and it seemed clear to Bertholdt that he was being assessed. “A bath,” Erwin repeated. “I expect you’ll want one… after last night.”

Bertholdt tried not to look puzzled. He had already cleaned himself. He couldn’t feel that man’s touch on his skin anymore, didn’t feel semen between his thighs. Bertholdt wondered vaguely if he still smelled like sex. Perhaps it was sweat, but Bertholdt tended to sweat a lot regardless. 

It made Bertholdt’s face flush to think Erwin thought him unclean. He brought a hand to his face and bent his head to stare fixedly into his lap, unconsciously pressing his thighs tightly together. This man who held him as a child was talking to him about sex - well. Rape, he supposed. Or, the aftermath. Bertholdt realised of course that he was trying to help, to make him feel better. But another smaller part of Bertholdt, in the back of his mind wondered, perhaps irrationally, if he should feel offended. 

“Okay…” Bertholdt said, voice small.

There was a brief pause in which neither moved or said anything more. Then, Erwin was gone. He had given his warnings and instructions and it was up to Bertholdt to obey them. It wasn’t long before Erwin’s footsteps faded and Bertholdt was left alone. He leant back in the chair and brought his knees to his chest, arms curling around himself tightly. The morning was bright, birds were singing and Bertholdt could hear the general hubbub of life in the castle through the window in the castle grounds, but the King’s quarters was filled with a heavy, dead silence that Bertholdt didn’t know what to do with, and so filled it with the sound of his weeping.

The story of The Prince and Prostitute spread quickly over the next few hours. It began with guards whispering in the hallways, overheard by servants going about their business and out into the courtyard and the stables where Connie and Jean were attending to the new arrival, who had rolled onto palace ground not minutes before. It spread even to the ears of the palace guests.

Connie was chuckling to himself as he went about tending to the horses still attached to the carriage that contained a precious guest. Jean opened the door and held out his hand, assisting the occupant out of the carriage. He seemed stiff, eyes narrowed in concentration, unsmiling. His hand was taken in a gentle but firm grasp as they exited the carriage, struggling on the step. Jean reached out with his other hand, hand automatically going to their new guest’s waist. When they balanced their weight on Jean’s shoulders, he lifted them and gently lowered the new arrival to the ground. 

“Thank you, Jean,” Marco said, offering a soft and genuine smile. He turned on his feet, reaching back into the carriage to retrieve his cane, which he held on his left side to support his right side. “How are you?”

“I-I,” Jean cleared his throat, watching the sun hit Marco’s pale skin and freckled cheeks. “I’m fine,” he said, glancing away. He hoped the heat on his face wasn’t as visible as it felt. “How’s…” Jean hesitated, looking Marco over.

Connie, curious about the conversation, slowed down, and peered from behind the horse he was tending to. He watched Marco look himself over, clearly noticing Jean’s reluctance.  

“I’m okay,” he said, although he shifted the walkingstick a little self-consciously. “Just…not as strong as I used to be.”

“Sorry,” Jean said. “I’m actually really glad you’re here,” he said honestly, but rather than stand a chat, chose to busy himself unloading Marco’s belongings from the back of the carriage. 

“Oh?” Marco pressed, blushing faintly. He walked slowly around the back of the carriage, following Jean. 

There was another brief pause. “I just…” Jean sighed, lifting a chest and lowering it onto the ground. “I think you should know, going in. Reiner’s a mess.”

“Prince Reiner,” Marco corrected gently. Jean rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue, continuing to unload. “Just came back from war. Of course he’s a mess. Anyone would be.”

Connie, unable to contain himself, snorted. 

Marco’s gaze turned sharply toward the sound, and smiled brightly at Connie, as though noticing him for the first time. “I’m so sorry,” Marco said. “I didn’t see you. I don’t think we’ve met,” he observed politely. “I’m Marco.”

Connie paused, the frown on his face almost suspicious. “Marco Bodt?” He asked. 

“You’ve heard of me?” Marco asked, tilting his head a little, although the gesture was interrupted with a wince. A hand went to his neck, massaging it gently for a moment. Some strain or another. 

“Yeah,” Connie nodded, glancing behind Marco at Jean, who stiffened when Marco followed Connie’s gaze. “You’re Reiner’s old whipping boy, right?” he asked, bluntly. 

“Yes,” Marco said with a small nod. He had to smile. It was refreshing not to be treated with such formality. Since he’d been given his title, he’d felt a gap between him and the people he used to feel equal to. “You are?”

“Connie Springer,” he said. 

“So what was so funny?” Marco asked, genuinely curious. 

“Eh?” Connie asked, “Oh. Reiner.”

“Excuse me?” Marco asked, brow furrowing in confusion. 

Jean sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his own against a rapidly approaching migraine. “Bertholdt’s back,” Jean said, turning to Marco seriously. 

Marco stood up straighter. “Bertholdt?” He asked. “The Bertholdt?”

Jean nodded grimly. Marco had never met Bertholdt, but when he was employed to be Reiner’s new whipping boy, he had heard stories. Stories of Reiner’s friends, one hit by a cart and the other accused of pushing him into it. He knew of Reiner’s struggle and the way he struggled with his grief at the loss. “Reiner lost his shit this morning,” Jean admitted after a moment.

“So did Bertholdt,” Connie said, grinning. 

“Supposedly, blows were exchanged,” Jean continued, taking note of Marco’s quiet shock. It wasn’t often anyone heard of Reiner losing his temper. It was rare, but a handful of people could now attest to witnessing it at last over the past few weeks. 

Marco glanced between them. “I don’t understand,” he admitted, incredulous. “Why is that funny?”

Connie laughed. “You don’t know Bertholdt.”

Marco’s expression turned serious then, but he didn’t seem angry. Jean knew concern drove Marco to turn from them and begin walking away. “Sorry,” he said, “I’d love to catch up later,” he said, stopping briefly to wave over his shoulder at Jean, who waved back weakly, as though afraid to show any interest in the prospect. He blushed.

Marco made his way toward the castle.

Connie watched Marco go, and when he was comfortably out of earshot, he turned to Jean slowly. Jean watched Connie watch him with a smug, knowing expression on his face. “What?” Jean snapped, scowling.

Connie puckered his lips. “Kissy, kissy-”

“Shut up!” Jean shouted, cheek burning. “Put the fucking carriage away, asshole,” he growled, turning and hauling one of Marco’s chests into his arms. “I’m taking these in,” he said, and stomped off without another word. 

Bertholt wasn’t sure when exactly it was that he’d fallen asleep, but he awoke to a hand on his shoulder and the gaze of a blue-eyed bespeckled woman upon him. He jerked away from the woman, taking in her stern countenance. “I am Rico. Apologies for the disruption,” she said, although Bertholdt thought she didn’t sound sorry at all. “Your bath is ready,” she finished and stepped away from him and moved to the door, where she watched him until he realised she was waiting on him. 

He unfurled himself with a small groan, muscles stiff from the hours of inertia, and stood. She waited until he was nearly at her side before she moved and led him down the hallway into another room. The door opened and a wall of steam wafted into his face. The room itself was simple, smaller than other rooms, but no less grand. The room contained a large wooden tub that had towels draped within, so that when Bertholdt emerged, he had something to protect his modesty with until a servant could reach him with a dry towel. 

It was a more elaborate bath than he had been expecting. But it had been prepared as though it was for the King himself. Bertholdt could smell the scent of lavender wafting through the air and could tell that the water had been treated and infused with the bathwater. “Uhm,” Bertholdt hesitated aloud, and took a step back. There had to be some mistake. 

The bathroom was large enough that besides himself, it could comfortably fit the three attendants who occupied the room now.  “Come,” Rico said as she turned to him, gesturing him forward. “Don’t be alarmed,” she said, her tone almost gentle. Bertholdt wondered how much effort that took. “Your attendants are all going to be women from here on,” she said, as if that explained anything at all. “No-one here is going to hurt you.”

“Attendants?” He asked, although he found himself taking hesitant steps forward until he found himself in Rino’s waiting arms. She took him by the shoulders. 

“Yes,” she said. “You and I,” she began, and then glanced at the other two women in the room, who stopped to watch the exchange. “We,” she corrected. “Have much to learn as we go through this process,” she said, as though beginning to lecture a student. “We’ve had to dig a few things out of the archives, but everything will be alright.”

“What-”

“Raise your arms,” she ordered.

“What, no,” Bertholdt protested, obviously confused. I-”

Wordlessly, she seized his arms, albeit gently, and forced them above his head. Bertholdt tensed instinctively as he felt her reach for the rim of his shirt to yank it from the waistline of his trousers and pull it over his head.

Bertholdt felt the brief rush of cold before the steam from the hot bath began to lick at his skin. He felt exposed. “I-I can do this myself-”

“There’s no need,” Another woman piped up from behind Bertholdt. He turned his head to look at her. She smiled a little timidly at him as she poured a drop more lavender oil into the water of the bath. 

Bertholdt’s cheeks flushed. “I don’t-”

“This is a new experience for everyone,” Rico said sternly, although that did not seem to deter her from reaching for Bertholdt’s trousers and unlacing them. She did so with care as though to telegraph her movement, glancing away respectfully when she pulled his trousers down. “Out,” she said, nudging Bertholdt’s ankle with a finger even as her hand held onto his clothes. 

Bertholdt obeyed, stepping out of his trousers thoughtlessly, too bewildered to do anything else. Rico handed Bertholdt’s clothes to the third woman, who set about folding his clothes and setting them aside. 

With Bertholdt finally undressed, Rico gestured toward the bath. “Get in,” she said. “Before it goes cold.”

Very conscious of his nakedness, Bertholdt didn’t hesitate to turn and settle himself down into the bath, although he was forced to lower himself into it slowly, tentatively. He’d never had a bath so hot before - not even when he was a child already living under the palace roof. The sensation of the towels against his skin felt strange. He couldn’t quite determine if they felt like clouds or vines lurking beneath, sinister and waiting to wrap around his limbs to pull him beneath the water’s surface. 

He curled around himself again, pulling his knees to his chest, watching the women flutter about the room, setting this straight now that he had deposited himself safely in the tub. He watched Rico roll up her sleeves and turn to him, a flannel in her hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly as she knelt beside the bathtub. He decided not to argue when she gestured silently for him to give her his arm. He allowed her to take the limb as she dampened the cloth and began to wipe down his skin. “I-I don’t mean to be rude or anything,” he said. “But I…”

“Don’t think on it,” Rico said dismissively, “It’s been about seventy years since we have had a p-” she hesitated. “One… such as yourself, here.”

Bertholdt raised a brow.

“Seventy-seven, actually,” the woman at the back of the room said, inspecting pots on a shelf nearby. She opened one and sniffed it, then glanced at Bertholdt. She shook her head and opened another, doing the same thing again.

“Risha,” Rico admonished, rolling her eyes a little. “She’s more excited than anyone about this, I swear.”

“I don’t know,” the third woman said, coming over and adding another dash of some liquid into the bath that Bertholdt couldn’t identify. “This is practically a promotion for me,” She said a little too gleefully for Bertholdt’s comfort.

“Rina,” Rico reproached, but she turned to Bertholdt again. “I promise you, we are the very souls of discretion,” she reassured him. There was a certain sense of trepidation that came over Bertholdt hearing that. What would they need to be discreet about? “Even if Erwin hadn’t instructed it,” she said.

Rico’s ministrations moved to Bertholdt’s upper arm and shoulder. “I-I can do that on my own, r-really,” he said, squirming, just a little, in her grasp. 

“Don’t be silly,” Risha said, slightly plump fingers undoing yet another lid. “People like you don’t need to do these things by yourself,” she said, and then nodded. “Lavender and lemon,” she said, more to herself than to anyone else. 

“Oh, perfect!” Rina chimed in cheerfully, bustling across the room on short legs and quick steps. She took the pot from Risha and gave it a sniff. “Oh, he’ll smell just edible!”

“Excuse me?” Bertholdt said, stunned. He was quite used to being ignored, but it was another experience entirely to be treated as though he wasn’t even in the room when he was being spoken about. 

“Forgive them,” Rico said, wetting the flannel again before she brought it to his face. “They’re just excited,” she explained. Bertholdt made a point to try and ignore the delighted whispering coming from his other two attendants. Bertholdt felt himself a little stunned to have had the thought. His attendants? 

Rico scrubbed one side of Bertholdt’s face quite vigorously. He felt like a child whose mother was cleaning muck from his face after falling in the mud. He winced a little when her hand went to his other cheek. She hesitated for a moment, but continued much more gently. His face still stung from Reiner’s assault, although he couldn’t tell if his face had swollen like he thought it would earlier. 

“What did you mean when you said attendants?” Bertholdt asked. He had to know. He ignored the trickle of bitter water that got into his mouth as he spoke. 

“Was I not clear?” Rico asked rhetorically. “We are your attendants,” she said. “Erwin has tasked us with looking after your needs,” she said. “Which includes thorough bathing,” she finished, as though expecting another protest. 

Bertholdt tensed a little. “What do you mean by thorough?” he asked. 

Rico’s hand paused. “Have you heard of douching?” 

Bertholdt recoiled visibly, shocked, water sloshing violently over the edge of the tub. The matter-of-fact way she asked the question was more shocking than anything else. Bertholdt was not ignorant of the process, but he had heard of it largely in the context of women, and those who kept a certain level of hygiene below. He had also heard of women in the brothel using vinegar to clean themselves of the men who spent themselves within their bodies. Bertholdt shuddered a little at the thought.

“What’s going to be in it?” Bertholdt asked, dread clear in his voice.

Rico was quiet for a moment. “Don’t think on it,” she said, simply. 

There was a gentle knock at his door that felt out of place in the castle of late. Reiner opened his eyes, eye twitching a little as pain shot through his brow at the moment. “Who is it?” Reiner asked from his place on his bed, in no way eager for company.

“Reiner?” Marco’s voice drifted through the door.

Reiner shot to his feet, ignoring the pain of his various wounds as relief flooded through him. He was across the room, flinging the door open before Marco could say another word. 

Marco’s right hand was poised to knock, although it shook with the effort to hold it there. “Reiner,” Marco gasped, his right hand falling to Reiner’s arm. He stumbled a little and tried to catch himself. Reiner caught him reflexively. Marco examined Reiner’s face critically. “Reiner what-” he started, too stunned for a moment to form a proper thought, let alone a sentence. “Did Bertholdt do this to you?”

Reiner huffed, but patiently led Marco into the room, allowing the young man to use him as support. He didn’t respond until Marco was settled comfortably in a soft chair. “No, he didn’t,” Reiner reassured.

“Then, who-”

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” Reiner said grumpily, although he moved forward to kneel in front of Marco. “I missed you,” Reiner said softly.

Marco smiled sweetly. “I missed you too,” he replied as Reiner swept him into a gentle, but firm embrace. Marco raised his shaky right hand to Reiner’s bruised cheek. Reiner reached up, clasping that pale hand in his own larger one, and held it there. Marco pressed a kiss to Reiner’s forehead affectionately and Reiner did the same, brushing his lips against quaking fingers. 

Marco watched Reiner’s face searchingly, gaze intent, but void of judgement. “Tell me what’s happened,” he requested. 

Reiner frowned, but shifted in his place, sitting back and crossing his legs in front of him, although he did not release Marco’s hand. Marco’s fingers twitched as though trying to give Riner’s hand a reassuring squeeze. Reiner returned the gesture, knowing that his injuries in the war left his right side significantly damaged. Reiner knew it was his job to make sure Marco did not feel the inadequacies of his condition. “It’s… complicated.”

Bertholdt sat still while Risha emptied a bucket of warm water over his head, washing the suds from his hair. The water was murky with dirt he hadn’t realised he had been wearing all this time. He had given up trying to argue, or question the goings-on around him. These women were determined to do as they were told, and Bertholdt didn’t blame them. When one’s King gives an order, one obeys. 

“Oh, look at you,” Rina said, smiling. “There’s a thing of beauty underneath all that dirt,” she said, and Bertholdt recalled the way his attacker had held his face and called him beautiful, while wiping evidence of his deeds from Bertholdt’s face. She meant it as praise, real praise. But it made Bertholdt’s stomach churn.

Rico turned to face Bertholdt from where she stood at a nearby table, closing a book with one hand and putting it aside while she held a small circular device in her other hand. “Okay,” she said, seeming to steel herself for what was to come. Bertholdt recognised the douche.

“I-I can’t,” Bertholdt said, clutching at the sides of the bathtub, as though trying to root himself to the spot. 

Risha sighed. “Oh sweetheart, what’s the matter?” She asked, coming over and patting Bertholdt’s white-knuckled hands in what he assumed was meant to be a comforting gesture. “I thought you were beginning to relax.”

Rico frowned. “I’m very sorry,” she said. She examined him, seeing the mild panic in his eyes and the fear in the way he clutched the bathtub. “This is to…” she paused in an attempt to choose the right words. “Erwin's orders were to make sure that man wasn’t…” she hesitated. “A-anywhere he shouldn’t be.”

There was silence for a long time. Bertholdt felt as though he had been dropped in a frozen lake. Erwin had ordered all of it. The bath, the soaps, the women. The douching. It wasn’t as though Bertholdt had never had autonomy within the walls, but after so long outside the palace, he was beginning to realise how little choice he’d actually had. Everything he had ever been allowed to do, he did because Erwin said he could. Reiner may have been the Prince and had more freedoms, but he lived under that expectation as well. 

So now, here Bertholdt was, returned once again to the castle. Only he wasn’t the boy he used to be. He was a strange anomalous thing that Erwin has had to make allowances for. Someone he felt couldn’t even clean himself. “He…” Bertholdt began, looking at Rico. “I disgust him…don’t I?”

Risha and Rina gasped, and even Rico seemed surprised by the question. She stepped forward and Bertholdt tensed. She did not touch him as she knelt at his side, douche still in hand. “Quite the opposite,” Rico said, her voice firm and her gaze steady. “Think of it this way,” she told him. “Once this is done,” she said. “You can rest knowing he has no more claim on you,” she reasoned, “That’s what the King wants for you,” she said. “To be free of him.”

There was another long stretch of silence. By now the water was beginning to go cold. Berholdt looked away from Rico, slowly releasing his grip on the sides of the bath and taking a long slow breath. 

“Okay,” he said so quickly it may as well have been another breath of air. “B-but…you don’t all need to be here, do you?”

Rico gestured for Risha and Rina to leave. Risha nodded and guided Rina from the room by putting her hands on the other woman’s hips and pushing her gently from the room. 

When they closed the door behind them, Bertholdt looked at Rico. “Did…” he started hesitantly. “Did you just read about how to do this?”

“Yes,” Rico admitted, raising the douche in her hand. “Please turn around.”

Chapter Text

Reiner relayed to Marco all that had happened. Bertholdt’s sudden reappearance in his life, from the way he quite literally fell back into it to the events of this morning. Marco listened quietly, leaning back in his chair as he brought a hand to his face, hand fisted gently under his chin as he let the details of the story wash over him. 

“I just…don’t understand how nobody can see it?” Reiner said, looking at Marco questioningly. 

“So,” Marco began, sitting forward in his chair again. “Bertholdt got arrested for trying to kill you,” Reiner nodded. “But you established that in the end, he…wasn’t trying to do that?”

“Yes,” Reiner said, willing to allow Marco to work through the whole sworded story in his own way.

“So you spared him…and he developed an infection from a wound he’d sustained the day he…didn’t attack you?”

“Yes,” Reiner said again. 

“So, King Erwin took him from the cells and put him in a guest bedroom to receive treatment?”

“Yes,” Reiner confirmed, dutifully.

“And as far as we understand it, when he recovered the intention was to have him held here in indentured servitude from…today?”

“Yes,” Reiner said. “As a way for him to…pay for his crimes.”

“Even though he killed Berrik?”

“Yes,” Reiner said, smiling with relief. It seemed to Marco that Reiner was pleased to have someone see his side of things. The only problem was, Marco had yet to decide where he actually stood. He wanted to stand with his Prince, but he couldn’t say he knew enough to judge the situation fairly. “Thank you.”

“...Why didn’t he just get returned to his old goal cell?” Marco asked, genuinely confused. 

“Oh my god,” Reiner breathed out, throwing himself backward to lie on the floor. “That’s what I can’t figure out!”

Marco rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his good hand. “But he got raped in his new…room?” Marco asked. “Last night?”

“I swear to you,” Reiner said, sitting up abruptly again. “He planned that.”

Marco hesitated at that. “Are you sure?”

“Not you too, Marco?” Reiner questioned, honey-gold eyes narrowing in disappointment. He felt his jaw tightening. His most loyal friend, questioning him like this? After all this time? 

“Please don’t be like that,” Marco said reasonably, smiling at his prince. “I only mean to question why someone would do that to themselves.”

“He did it to get to me,” Reiner said, running a hand through short blond locks. “He knows. He knows all he needs to do is tug at father’s heartstrings and he’ll get whatever he wants,” Reiner said, thinking of the way Erwin always seemed to dote on Bertholdt as a child. “He thinks he’s untouchable. He’s in father’s rooms right now.”

Marco seemed genuinely surprised to hear that.  “Did he say why?” 

Reiner shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to him all day,” Reiner scowled. “I’ve never known my father to be so gullible,” Reiner said. “It’s getting really difficult to even spend time with the man.”

“Reiner,” Marco said softly, drawing Reiner’s attention from his bedroom door, where his gaze had drifted. “Can I ask you to consider one thing?”

Reiner hesitated. “What?”

“...A locked room is a locked room,” Marco said. “Even if Bertholdt had planned anything, that’s a really dangerous plan.”

“So, I guess he can count himself lucky for having the right guard on duty,” Reiner said with a scoff.

Marco frowned. He had always admired Reiner’s resolve and his belief in his convictions, but it also meant that any lessons Reiner learnt tended to be hard ones. Reiner wasn’t perfect, and Marco did not judge him for that. Nobody was, not even his prince. But, Reiner’s rigidity seemed like it had caused the prince many an issue of late, and there was obvious fiction within the castle walls. 

“Don’t you think he could have been killed?” Marco asked. “If things had gotten…violent?”

“I suppose,” Reiner said, looking away again, gaze fixed thoughtfully on a nearby chair, looking but not seeing. “But anything to get out of punishment, right?” he asked, although he didn’t seem to expect an answer. “He’s been on the streets for years,” Reiner reasoned. “No way he couldn’t slip one guard if he wanted.”

Marco supposed he was right about that. Marco had had a fairly fortunate life. His parents were steadily employed in the castle, or they had been at one time. He never really struggled. But he’d heard of the struggles of those less fortunate, and knew that to survive without a support network… to survive without family and home. That had to make people wise-up. Marco wondered about Bertholdt’s wiliness, how much he possessed, how he used it. Who he used it for. Marco had never met Bertholdt, but he would have to. Before he could pass any kind of real judgement, he needed to get a measure of Bertholdt, and his strength of character. 

Marco hummed, thoughtfully. “Didn’t you say he was in fetters?”

Bertholdt was out of the bath now. Rico had finished her work with the douche and had put it away. She currently had her back to him as he stood, Risha and Rina toweling him off. “There we are,” Risha said, cupping one side of his head with her hand as she dried off his hair with the other, towel in hand. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” She asked, smiling as though he were a child who’d scrapped his knee. Like he had been crying over spilled milk.

He couldn’t bring himself to speak. He’d felt the sting of the vinegar against sensitive skin and he wondered if he was left more damaged than he’d realised by the assault. He supposed he was grateful to have been cleaned so thoroughly, but the whole thing made his stomach roil. He felt sick with the humiliation of it all. 

Rina, who was patting Bertholdt’s back dry with her own towel, sighed. “It’s okay,” she assured Bertholdt, noticing his silence. “I’m sure you’ll get used to it,” she said, which made Bertholdt’s shoulders tense. Why was this something he’d need to get used to? “We’ll have plenty of time to figure out how to make all of this okay in the end.”

“Isn’t it wonderful,” Risha said, switching to the other side of Bertholdt’s head, and starting on his hair again. “We’re like a little team.”

“Ladies,” Rico said as she turned to face them all, holding a tray of items that Risha had picked out earlier. “When you’re done here, take Bertholdt to his room,” she said, turning and stepping out herself. 

Rico had been with him since the beginning of all of this, and for a brief moment, panic shot through Bertholdt’s entire being. He was left alone with Risha and Rina who wittered on about one thing or another. Bertholdt had stopped listening. Everything they said, however innocuous it may have been, set Bertholdt’s nerves on edge and it bothered him more than anything that he didn’t understand why.

He made a concerted effort to remain still. As much as he wanted to get out of his current predicament, he was naked and vulnerable, and he would have nowhere safe to go. So, he did the only thing he could do and focused on what Rico had said. ‘His room’, she’d said. She said it like it was nothing. They couldn’t mean after all this time to return him to his cell by the kitchen? Back to that room where he’d been left so defenseless. Did they mean to put him back in fetters, too?

The treasury resided deep within the castle, or at least the part of the royal treasury that contained the most precious of personal belongings to the Kings and Queens of old. Erwin had decided long ago that most of the Crown's wealth be stored in various locations throughout the city. That way, if ever one was compromised, the crown would not be without the wealth required to rule a city comfortably. If the castle were ever to fall, they would still be able to fund armies to retrieve it. 

Beside him, Erwin watched a soldier digging through chests of clothes, pristinely kept. He watched him pull a robe from the chest and sigh. “Too short again,” he sighed. Then, he sniffed the fabric. “It would need washing like the rest of them.”

“Thank you, Mike,” Erwin said, frowning thoughtfully. “Give up the search,” he said. “It appears nothing down here will fit Bertholdt.”

“I bet the jewelry would,” Mike said, folding the robe again and returning it to its chest before he closed it again.

“I think so,” Erwin said, searching through a number of smaller boxes by torchlight. “See if you can help me find what I’m looking for.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to leave this to me, Sire?” Mike asked, moving over to a pile of smaller boxes set upon a shelf. “Don’t you have King stuff to do?”

Erwin couldn’t help the huff of laughter that escaped him. “I do,” he said, but his mirthful expression soon fell into something more serious. “But this is too important.”

“Yes,” Reiner said. “So?”

“Wouldn’t that have been noisy?” Marco asked, brows furrowing a little. Reiner turned to look at his friend critically.

“What?”

“Well, think about it,” Marco said, shifting a little in his chair. His muscles were beginning to ache. It was difficult to move, but he often felt the need to stand and move around. These days, his right side tended to become sore and painful if he sat too long in one position. “If he escaped, how far do you reasonably think he could have gotten if he was making a racket?”

Reiner stood and moved toward Marco, seeming to read his body language enough to help him from his chair. Marco sighed with relief and took his walking stick in hand again. “You okay?” Reiner asked, frowning.

“Yes,” Marco said, as he began to walk about the room, stretching his muscles. “Just a little stiff,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Reiner said, stepping up to Marco, who watched him with surprise. “If I hadn’t been standing there…”

“It’s okay,” Marco said, offering a left-shouldered shrug. “I will never regret saving your life,” he said with so much conviction that Reiner couldn’t help but believe him. He reached forward and took Marco into his arms again. Marco allowed it, smiling patiently as he, too, embraced Reiner. 

When they pulled away, Marco stared at Reiner for a long time, although Reiner looked away after a moment. There was something in his gaze that made Reiner feel self-conscious. “No more fighting, Reiner,” Marco said, and Reiner looked at him again, frowning.

“But-”

Marco reached up, cupping Reiner’s face gently in a shaking hand, although he could not hold it there for long. “I know you’re a soldier,” Marco said. “But you are a good and wise man, too…”

“M-Marco…”

“I think that one day, you’ll make an excellent Ruler,” Marco continued, ignoring the way Reiner’s cheeks flushed faintly. “But right now,” Marco continued, his voice becoming more concerned. “You aren’t level-headed enough to hold a candle to King Erwin.”

That made Reiner tense. “Excuse me?”

“I spoke with Jean and Connie on the way in,”  Marco admitted. “Jean sounded… really worried for you.”

“Jean?”

“Exactly,” Marco said. “I’m not sure if you know him very well, but I do,” Marco said. Before Marco had become Reiner’s whipping boy he had been a regular servant within the castle, just like Jean. “And if he’s worried… I think you’re really starting to scare people.”

Reiner raised a brow. “Isn’t he kind of a coward, though?”

Marco chuckled softly. “Maybe,” he said. “But he’s never steered me wrong in the past,” then, his smile turned sombre. “He’s always been able to get a good grasp on most situations. He’s smarter than he gets credit for.”

It wasn’t that Reiner didn’t believe Marco when he said these things, but he had never really spoken to Jean, outside of getting him to prepare the horses. He couldn’t attest to much about Jean’s personality. “I can’t be that frightening.”

Marco sighed. “You just admitted to me you’ve attacked Bertholdt twice since he showed up,” Marco said, and although he tried to keep from sounding upset, Reiner could hear the concern, and could see the disconcerted look in Marco’s eyes. “You tell me who people are going to be more concerned about, him or you?”

That seemed to strike a cord with Reiner, who visibly flinched at the words. He sighed and turned his back on Marco, walking over to his bed and taking a heavy seat. The bed creaked with the weight of the impact. He leaned forward, head in his hands. “He just…” he muttered. “I can’t even look at him without feeling angry.”

Marco limped over, cane tapping on the floor with every step. “Have you even considered trying to talk to him?”

“Once,” Reiner said, thinking back to the time he’d visited Bertholdt in his cell after the failed hanging. “Although I…” Reiner hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t really think that was what I wanted at the time…” he admitted. “I didn’t even really know why I went down there except to just… look at him, I guess.”

It was easy enough to see that Reiner was confused. Angry, of course, but he had been close to Bertholdt once. It was natural to feel such a mix of emotions that it wasn’t surprising that it all seemed to be accumulating into such terrible rage. “Try again,” Marco said.

“Are you-”

“Not right now,” Marco interrupted, although he did not raise his voice. “Take all the time you want, but it doesn’t sound like Bertholdt is going anywhere any time soon,” he said reasonably. “So, you have all the time in the world to figure out what you want to talk about.”

Reiner’s shoulders slumped. 

 Bertholdt was confused. 

He had been expecting to be led from the King’s Quarters to his room nestled near the kitchens. But instead, he sat upon a bed in one of the guest rooms reserved for high-ranking officials and dignitaries which were situated in the King’s private Wing. These rooms were for people that Erwin wanted to keep close, for whatever reason. 

The bed was plush and the rooms continued with the green colour scheme of the place. The bed was plush and the duvet covers were golden with emerald green embroidery that he honestly could have got lost in trying to trace the pattern of the stitch. 

He was chilly, with nothing but a towel draped over his shoulder and back. Rina was rubbing lemon scented balm into his hands and arms, and Risha was doing the same to his legs. He hadn’t said a word since the douching. He thought it might be sick if he tried to speak. His confusion had only increased and he was running out of ways to justify his current treatment. Prisoners didn’t have people bathing and lotioning their bodies for no reason. 

“I’m afraid it looks like we haven’t been able to find you appropriate clothes,” Rico said, looking through a large wardrobe set against the far wall of the room, beside an even bigger window. “We had really been hoping for some to be brought up before you were finished with your bath,” she said. Bertholdt just watched as she closed the wardrobe door and turned to a nearby vanity table, upon which his clothes sat, neatly folded. “Such a disappointment.”

Then, she turned to him and looked him over, his clothes in her arms. Rina was now gently rubbing lotion into the skin of his face and Risha was focusing around his mid-section. He really did smell of lavender and lemon, he realised vaguely. When they were done Rico stepped forward, taking his forearm and guiding him to stand. 

Together the women set about redressing him, and when he was done, he was deposited on the stool at the vanity table. Rico had a comb in her hands and was running it through his damp, but rapidly trying locks. 

“I’ll work on getting you some food, sweetheart,” Risha said, wiping her hands on her apron. “You must be starving, I can tell just from looking at you.”

Rina nodded. “Rico will look after you,” she said. “I’m going to see if anything can be done about your clothes situation.”

With that, the two women bustled from the room, leaving himself and Rico alone together. She didn’t speak, which Bertholdt was grateful for. He took the time to examine the vanity table, made up of deep dark wood, so finely crafted Bertholdt found himself afraid to touch it, as he was with most things in Erwin’s rooms. But besides that, he took note of the few bottles that appeared to be perfumes, a number of powders and what looked to be a small collection of charcoal. 

Timidly, he reached out, taking a bottle of perfume in his hand, looking it over quickly. “Th-” he cleared his throat. “This is…my room?” he asked, at last.

In the mirror, he watched as Rico opened her mouth to speak, only to be interrupted.

“It is,” Erwin’s deep timbre sounded from the doorway.

Betholdt shot to his feet, reflexively slamming the perfume bottle down on the table as though he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Rico startled and jumped back, to avoid being knocked over just as the stool had been. Bertholdt tensed at the sound, but bowed his head in Erwin’s direction anyway.

“Thank you, Rico,” Erwin said dismissively, without missing a beat, apparently unperturbed by Bertholdt’s sudden reaction. She took the hint and hurried from the room. “Bertholdt,” he said once she had left, although he did not bother to close the door behind him. Bertholdt had to wonder if that was a conscious voice. Perhaps Erwin meant to tell him that he wasn’t trapped, but if that was the case, why did Bertholdt feel so rooted to the spot?

Reluctantly, Bertholdt raised his head, at last taking stock of Erwin. He was no longer clad in armour, although he stood just as proudly as he had before. He held a small wooden box in his hands, wide and flat. Upon it, the sigil of Queen Sina was engraved. He watched Erwin move forward until he stood next to Bertohldt, but he did not touch him. Instead, he leant down long enough to right the stool that Bertholdt had knocked over, still holding the box in one hand as he did so. “Sit,” he said, and Bertholdt did. He watched in the vanity mirror as Erwin stood behind him, reaching forward to place the box on the table in front of him, over Bertholdt’s shoulder. 

The latch on the box was a simple hook that Erwin undid with ease, opening it without much preamble. Bertholt gasped. Inside lay a necklace of pearls and silver. The pendant formed the shape of a shield with Sina’s crest of the majestic unicorn shining with a pearlescent gleam.  Iridescent White and green pearls were inset into the silver which held it all together. It was the most beautiful thing Bertholdt had ever seen.

Erwin took the silk ribbon into his hand and lifted it from the box. Behind him, Bertholdt watched Erwin’s other arms reach around him, taking the other end of the necklace in his grasp. “Do you know what this is?” Erwin asked, holding the necklace against Bertholdt’s neck now. It was short, a choker, Bertholdt realised. He felt the chill of the silver on his neck and he swallowed. Erwin had not simply meant to show him the jewelry. He intended for him to wear it. 

“No…” Bertholdt responded, a little breathlessly. 

Erwin’s fingers disappeared behind his head as she fastened the clasp around his neck. Bertholdt’s reflexively brought his hind up to touch it, fingers brushing the large pendant. It was heavier than he thought it would be, and the ribbon was thick enough to accommodate it. The clasp must have been hefty as well.

“This is a shield,” Erwin said, placing his hands on Bertholdt’s shoulders as he met Bertholdt’s gaze through the mirror. 

“I can see that…” Bertholdt said quietly, fingers brushing the white pearl that formed the unicorn’s neck. 

Erwin smiled a little at that. “No,” Erwin said. “I meant that in a very social context.”

“What do you mean?” Bertholdt asked, brow furrowing. 

“Please don’t think less of me for this, but,” Erwin started, making Bertholdt frown, suspiciously. His whole morning had been one surprise after another, and he hadn’t really liked any of them. He suspected this revelation would be no better than the others. “This is the mark of the Paramour.” 

Bertholdt stopped breathing. “Exc…” he tried to speak, but words failed him. He felt his fingers creeping toward the clasp at the back of his neck.

Erwin gave Bertholdt’s shoulder a squeeze with one hand, using his other to halt Berthold’s hand. “Please don’t misunderstand,” Erwin started, registering Bertholdt’s obvious discomfort. He pulled Bertholdt’s hand away from the necklace gently. He could feel Bertholdt shaking. “I don’t intend to do anything,” Erwin assured. “I promise you that.”

“Then…then what?” Bertholdt asked. He did not bother to pull away from Erwin’s touch. People had been touching him all day however they liked. Why should he reject Erwin’s now, when they were approaching ground that Bertholdt understood, but couldn’t believe.

“Imprisoning you has done more harm than good,” Erwin said, and it was true. Bertholdt had been victim to infection and rape while in the custody of the King, much to his chagrin. “So, I have decided to take advantage of your reputation.”

“I don’t…fully understand you,” Bertholdt admitted.

“This necklace is a symbol of a centuries old tradition,” Erwin explained. “Although it’s been three quarters of a century since it has last seen any use,” Bertholdt, who still did not understand, remained silent, allowing Erwin to continue. “The paramour is untouchable by anyone but the King,” he said. “Or Queen of the era.”

“Oh,” Bertholdt said, seeming finally to grasp the situation. 

Erwin nodded. “Anyone who hurts you from here on,” Erwin said. “Will be severely punished.”

Bertholdt pulled away from Erwin then, and placed his hands in his lap, contemplatively. Bertholdt looked up as Erwin pulled away, taking a step back. Through the mirror, Bertholdt watched Erwin turn and make his way out the room. Bertholdt frowned. 

“Why are you trying so hard to protect me?” Bertholdt asked, standing suddenly and turning to face Erwin, who turned to look at Bertholdt. 

Erwin frowned. “I promised your mother,” he said simply.

Bertholdt’s shoulders stiffened, and the frustration of the day seemed, at last, to have boiled over within Bertholdt. “No,” he said, raising a defiant hand to point at Erwin accusingly. “You had some random woman shove vinegar up my ass,” he growled. “I think I deserve a little bit more of an explanation than that!”

For his part, Erwin didn’t seem surprised by the profanity, even coming from Bertholdt. He had enough of it from Levi that he felt like a child could swear at him and he wouldn’t blink. 

“The vinegar was not for nothing,” Erwin said simply. “That was for your own health and safety. But, you are not ready for the rest of it.”

“That’s not-"

“Enough,” Erwin said sharply, making Bertholdt flinch. 

Without another word, Erwin turned and left, leaving Bertholdt alone with not only his thoughts but the weight of the implications hanging from his neck.

Chapter Text

Erwin didn’t speak until he reached his private office, away from the guest room, aware all the while of the presence behind him. He moved to his desk and gestured at his second shadow. “Rico,” he said, taking a seat. 

She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. She seemed to hesitate a moment before speaking. “I don’t mean to question your judgement,” she began. Erwin thought she was going to question him anyway. “But do you think this is best?” She asked. “He seems… confused.”

“That will be because this is the first he’s hearing about all of this,” Erwin said, although he did not look ashamed of the fact.

Rico looked decidedly unimpressed. “I know you told us not to use any telling language,” she started. “But I thought you might have at least hinted as to your expectations before leaving him in my care.”

“He knows now,” Erwin stated. “I need you to get his measurements tomorrow, so we can put together an appropriate wardrobe.”

“You’ll get them,” Rico agreed, watching Erwin sternly. “He’s a boy with feelings, Sire,” she added. “He’s like a frightened animal. You saw him.”

“I know,” Erwin said, expression tightening. “Regrettably, his feelings in this instance don’t matter,” he said. “I did charge you with managing him. Do as you are ordered.”

“So, when you say manage,” Rico asked, shoulder tensing. “What do you mean?”

“This all needs to look convincing,” Erwin said. The last thing he needed to be accused of was protecting a criminal. It would tarnish his reputation and make people question his judgement, perhaps even invite speculation from less savoury individuals who would try to take advantage of what they would perceive to be a corrupt monarch. 

“What does he know?” Rico asked.

“As far as I’m aware,” Erwin said, looking down at his desk, eyeing the unread documents that had not been there when he’d left for Rose. “He knows how to have sex.”

Rico scoffed. She had expected as much, knowing that he had a reputation for whoring, not entertaining. It was a job with simple expectations, and required no special training, as far as Rico was aware. “So he will need full instruction as to what will be expected of him?” 

“Certainly,” Erwin said. “I think it best to focus primarily on his health for now,” Erwin added, picking up a quill. “Should he sleep with anyone,” he said, looking up to Rico once again. “Inform me and douche him, whether he wants you to or not.”

Rico’s brows furrowed. “You expect him to violate your exclusivity agreement?”

“I find him to be a handsome young man,” Erwin admitted, as though speaking out an exotic bird preening in his gardens. “I expect others will think as well,” of course, he’d had evidence enough of that already and Rico knew it. “The hope is that this will deter any unwanted advances.”

Rico paused. “And if they are wanted?”

“Inform me and douche him,” Erwin said again, to which Rico nodded. “I do give him leave to pursue his feelings.”

“Does he know that?”

“No,” Erwin said.

“Should he?” Rico asked, raising a brow.

That made Erwin pause. “No,” he concluded. Bertholdt knew how to have sex, and maybe he had had to pretend once or twice, to satisfy a customer, but. “I am uncertain of how good an actor he is.”

Rico hesitated. “Understood,” she said, turning to leave.

At the door, Erwin stopped her. “One more thing,” he started. “I have assigned Petra to watch and guard him,” he told her. He hoped that a female guard would ease Bertholdt’s mind somewhat, but he did not know if Bertholdt would appreciate the presence of the guards at all, all things considered. 

It wasn’t uncommon for the King’s consort to have some protection, especially during particularly busy periods, such as balls or other social events. So, Rico nodded and stepped out of the room when Erwin waved a dismissive hand at her. 

By the time Rico returned to Bertholdt’s room, Risha was back, a plate piled high with cold meats, olive, cheese and bread. Bertholdt was not sitting at a window in a chair by the window beside a small table. He was gazing out the window, chin in his hand with his elbow on the table. The food looked untouched, but held the stem of a goblet between his fingers, thumb caressing the stem up and down absentmindedly, exploring each groove and curve. Risha was straightening the bedsheets, as though not quite sure what to do with herself. Her chubby-cheeked face was twisted in concern. 

“I’ve spoken with King Erwin,” Rico said. That made Bertholdt turn his head, finally acknowledging her. “He recognises, of course, you have been through a lot this morning,” she said. “So, we won’t be preparing you any further for your new future today,” she said, although she didn’t smile. “Rest, eat… we’ll pick up again tomorrow.”

“You hear that, sweetheart,” Risha said, turning to look at Bertholdt with a small smile. “He’s not angry with you.”

Bertholdt nodded, but shifted in his chair, turning to focus his attention on Rico. “What exactly am I allowed to do?” he asked. 

Rico paused, thoughtfully. “He hasn’t restricted your movements,” she informed him. “You can go anywhere you like,” she said. “But he has assigned Petra to keep you safe,” she informed Bertholdt, not wanting that piece of information to come as a surprise for the poor boy. 

“Oh,” Bertholdt said, expression shifting for the first time since Rico entered the room. He remembered seeing her brief when he was first brought before the King, when he was charged with Treason and again that morning. Rico wasn’t sure what to make of the look on his face, but she decided it wasn’t entirely negative. 

“Did you want to go somewhere, dear?” Risha asked, tilting her head. 

Bertholdt sighed. “No,” he said. “I think I should probably lay low for a while,” he said. Rico thought he sounded tired. 

“Very sensible of you,” Rico said, she didn’t smile, but she did relax slightly.

There was a brief knock at the door, but it opened without an invitation. Quick-footed Rina stepped into the room and closed the door. “I found a few things,” she said, smiling. “Bertholdt, you’re so tall I had half a mind to ask King Erwin if you could borrow his clothes until you got you a new wardrobe,” she said, giggling a little to herself.

She didn’t see Bertholdt’s flush as she flitted across the room, opening a set of drawers and putting what looked like a few pairs of trousers and shirts inside them. She also appeared to have pairs of stockings and a vest. He was glad for it, because he couldn’t imagine sharing shirts with Erwin. He supposed the informality of the idea felt strange.

Over the next few days, life went on in the castle without incident. Marco distracted Reiner enough that he was not quite so brooding and volatile as he had been, although Bertholdt remained a sore spot. People had already learnt not to speak of him when within earshot of the Prince. His face was healing nicely, cuts scabbed nicely and the swelling in his face had gone down significantly, although the bruising was obvious and ugly. Although Reiner’s attitude had been improving, some servants were still reluctant to approach, doing so with uncommon timidity. 

Without his rage to hang on to, with Marco tempering his mood, Reiner watched the behaviour of the servants carefully, even his fellow nobility. Armin would stare at him like he was a snake about to strike, and look away quickly when Reiner noticed. Historia seemed reluctant to look at him at all. Annie had not sugar-coated Reiner’s behaviour when rumours started circulating in their circle. It wasn’t the violence that shocked them, but the cruelty. Even as Sina’s wards, taken from their home, they believed Reiner to be honourable and kind. They couldn’t imagine speaking to a friend, even a former one, the way Reiner had allegedly done so to Bertholdt.

Bertholdt, to his credit, remained out of sight, although it did not go unnoticed, even by Reiner, that he had not left the King’s quarters. Sasha, who was unendingly curious and concerned for her friend, had tried to approach each of the servants who had been seen going in and out of those rooms frequently about Bertholdt.

Risha smiled and seemed to talk around all of Sasha’s questions, leaning against the door when Sasha tried to duck behind her and breach the privacy of the King’s quarters until Petra arrived. When Sasha attempted to approach Rina, all she would do was shove this or that into Sasha arms and coerce with inane chatter into following her around the castle. It seemed to be an almost deliberate attempt to exhaust Sasha by making her do all of Rina’s heavy-lifting, and taking what Sasha was beginning to suspect was the scenic route around the castle as Rina did her errands. Her strategy consisted largely of not allowing Sasha to get a word in. Rico, for her part, did not bother with either of these strategies. She seemed to opt for pretending Sasha did not even exist, simply allowing her to trailer behind her everywhere she went, or simply stared until Sasha went away, because she was never the first to blink. 

On the one occasion Connie managed to slip away from his duties at the stables, he bypassed the servant completely and went straight for Petra. Quick-footed as he was, Connie’s slow-wit had him knocked on his ass before he knew what hit him. It didn’t help that he had no military training to speak of to combat Petra’s swift reaction. 

Days after that and couriers started to arrive, parcels in hand. Once or twice a notable tailor was seen entering those rooms. The kind of tailor that had been dressing nobility for decades. On those occasions, Levi escorted the tailor to his carriage, to keep the rabidly curious at bay while he reminded the man that he had been generously paid, and that his discretion was much appreciated. 

That didn't stop the rumour mill turning. There were whispers of a mystery guest in the castle, whom no-one had seen, and speculations as to who had the King’s attention, because no-one had seen him, either. Of course, the more unsavoury rumours were that he had been kept abed by a whore so talented as to bewitch his senses, although no one could put a name to them. No-one counted their favourite harlots missing. Not in the Autumn, at any rate. 

“Oh, you’re like a little doll,” Rina cooed, smiling with that little mouth of hers, lips closed and expression pinched with almost childish delight. She dipped her finger into a small jar and dabbed at Bertholdt’s lips gently, applying his make-up sparingly. They had been doing this for days, practicing make-up combinations, staining his lips in various shades of reds and pinks. 

They had discovered already that while darker shades suited his skin tone better, they tended to make him look more sultry and seductive. Lighter shades needed to be applied lightly, but they made him feel more approachable, less like a thing used for sex and more like someone you wanted to shower with gifts and who would shower them with affection in return. 

It all felt very controlled. Calculated.

Bertholdt’s biggest enemy was his own two hands. His make-up was easily smudged, and he kept touching his face. The sensation of being made-up felt odd. Logically, he knew couldn’t just adjust things on his face, but he would get the kind of itch you get when you have to resist the urge to do something, or feel as though he needed to just rub something in a little more. 

More than once Rico had grabbed his hands and pressed them firmly but gently into the table of his vanity. “You are now a stranger to the ‘itch’,” she said. He scratched his cheek when her back was turned and when she turned around she’d have to clean it and start again.

They did discover, though, that Rico was very good with charcoal. Light application accented the olive-green of his eyes, framed them, but didn’t take away from the overall innocence they were aiming for. Thicker lines, or Rico’s favourite, the smoky eye, made his eyes the focal point of his face, people sought them out. Risha had clapped cheerfully the first time she’d seen it. Said people could get lost in him when he looked like that. Bertholdt’s stomach twisted at the thought, but he felt strangely delighted someone thought he could have that power in him. 

He had resigned himself quite quickly to the fact he would have to wear make-up, although he was pleased to learn he likely would not have to wear it at all times. Unless Erwin said otherwise, but he hadn’t. In fact, he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Erwin since he’d given Bertholdt the choker. Rico said he was busy catching up on his duties, Bertholdt didn’t argue with that, but whether there was something else to it. Rico and Risha had reassured him at the time that Erwin wasn’t angry for snapping at him, but Bertholdt hesitated to believe it. 

Still, he tried to remain positive. He let his attendants, though he still had trouble comprehending the thought, play with his hair and make-up. In truth, Bertholdt was not a total stranger to make-up, although he’d never applied it so liberally. When he worked during the winter, when he was hungry and pale, he would rouge his lips a little, bringing some attractive colour to his face. Or, if he was feeling cold and pinching his cheeks was not enough to return colour to his face, he might apply some to his cheeks. Never much, but enough to attract attention. No-one wanted a sickly looking whore.

Not that much could be done about his hair, but Rina liked to try. One afternoon she had even spent a good few hours experimenting with small braids, wondering if getting some small accessories might help. Bertholdt told her not to bother.

Rico had explained the morning after he had been given the choker what his role was to be. As much as it was about satisfying the monarch sexually, it was about more than that. Bertholdt had to be beautiful, entertaining and available. He needed to endear himself not only to the King, but to his friends and at times, even his enemies. Rico had said, rather bluntly, that Bertholdt was a tool. A weapon, or an olive branch. Bertholdt’s attention was now, essentially, a sign of favour. But, she did remind Bertholdt that, of course, any intimacy was exclusive to the King. Bertholdt didn’t have to use his body in a way he didn’t want, or in a way that was not agreed.

He didn’t have to use his body at all, if the King kept to his word. Although Bertholdt did not know if the women knew what he had said to Bertholdt. They had been alone at the time, and Bertholdt thought it best not to break the King’s confidence, at least for now.

Everything Rico said sounded stressful. It sounded like a responsibility that Bertholdt wasn’t ready for. Any nobility he’d ever interacted with either dismissed him as a child, or paid for him as an adult. He did not know how to make people actually desire him in the sophisticated way Rico described. Trying to picture navigating society kept Bertholdt up for hours on several occasions. He decided that letting people dress him and have fun with his appearance was a small price to pay for some levity. 

Suddenly, Risha bustled into the room. “It’s here,” she said, holding a large box in her hand. “Your first outfit!” she cried, bustling over to Bertholdt’s bed. He stood and moved to stand beside her as she set it down. “Now, it will be a little different to what you’re used to, sweetheart.”

“What do you mean?” Bertholdt asked, genuinely curious.

“Hm. It,” she hesitated, but then hummed again. “Let’s just see!”

She took the lid off the box and revealed the clothes inside. “Well, you’ll have several types of clothes eventually,” Risha said, watching Bertholdt reach for the fabric as though afraid to touch it. “Your formal and casual wear, of course,” she said. “Tunics, trousers, robes, shawls-”

“Shawls?” Bertholdt asked, turning his head to look at Risha, ignoring the fabric in his hands.

“Oh yes,” Risha said. “Some of your clothes, well, a lot of your clothes are likely to be more feminine-leaning,” she explained. “Although, we’re working closely with the tailors to try and sort of modernise things a little bit.”

“Well,” over the centuries, the role of paramour has changed significantly,” she began to explain. “We’ve done a bit of reading, you see,” she said. “Like I said, this is all new to us all, remember?”

“I remember…”

“It really was more…just about sex when this all started.” she explained, but hastened to add. ”Centuries ago.”

“Some monarchs were easily bored of the spouses,” Rina said from where she stood, neatening up the vanity now that Bertholdt was not there to practice on. They had been working on one of his softer looks when Risha had walked in, and if she did say so herself, she’d done a rather good job.

Rico stood near the door, supervising the whole thing, always at the ready in case Bertholdt wanted something. “Honestly, it started as a clever, but…very transparent way of allowing the current Monarch an excuse to have a…readily available source of entertainment.”

“You…can just say ‘whore’,” Bertholdt said quietly. He’d noticed that they tended to dance around the word, likely in an effort to be polite now that he apparently held some status in the castle. “I won’t be offended.”

Rico’s brow seemed to twitch briefly. “I dislike the word.”

“Anyway,” Risha continued when Bertholdt nodded, but said nothing more. “Over the years, according to the various accounts of these paramours,” she began. “The whole position has evolved from that, to an excuse to keep a genuine lover, or a political ally or some such thing,” 

“Political ally?” Bertholdt asked.

“Oh yes,” she said. “Some of these paramours were members of the nobility. Well, most.”

“Really?” Bertholdt asked, dropping the clothes in his hands, turning to the women now. Risha was glad to see Bertholdt finally taking more than a shallow interest in the things going on around him. The poor thing was so reserved. So nervous.

“Absolutely,” Rico nodded. “Sometimes nobility would actively seek the title because they believed it would benefit their entire family.”

“Elevate status,” Rina said, smiling. “Better positions in government, that sort of thing.”

Bertholdt frowned. “So…they used the position to manipulate the King?”

“Or Queen,” Rina agreed. 

“Well, that’s horrible,” Bertholdt said. He had trouble manipulating his way into getting a shirt from a stranger, so it was hard to imagine someone trying to outwit the monarch. He especially had trouble imagining he could do it to Erwin, or even having the motivation to do so. Erwin had never been anything but kind. But, he supposed it was good that Bertholdt had no family to worry about, or any reason to even try. “I couldn’t bear to do that to him…”

“Oh,” Risha gushed, reaching up and cupping Bertholdt’s face in his hands, careful to avoid his make-up, which was still in danger of smudging. “I knew you were a sweetheart from the moment I met you!”

“But you see what I mean when I said you were a tool,” Rico spoke, her voice a little dire. “The King may have his uses for you,” she said. “But you best make sure you don’t find yourself being used by others.”

There was a brief pause as the seriousness of the statement settled into the atmosphere of the room. Risha cleared her throat pointedly. “Well now,” she said loudly. “This was about your clothes,” she said, clapping her hands together sharply as if to banish the gloom. “Come and see, sweetheart!”

Risha reached into the box and pulled the item out. She turned it around in her hands and held it against Bertholdt’s frame. Bertholdt looked down. It was a robe, a pale green chiffon and white muslin with gold embroidery. He blushed. Risha was right. This was a lot more feminine than he’d imagined, but it also didn’t look like something he would be expected to appear in public in. It seemed all together more like something he would lounge in, or entertain in. 

Rina practically hopped over. “Oh my goodness,” She said, in awe of it. Rina started to untuck Bertholdlt’s shirt. She lifted it, in an effort to pull it over his head, but found herself too short. Hesitantly Bertholdt obliged, and pulled his shirt off for her. Rico moved across the room to help the shorter woman, and together they undressed and redressed Bertholdt like he was their very own doll. When they were done, they took him over to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room and let Bertholdt confront himself.

Although most of the material, including the muslin which each on their own would leave little to the imagination was quite sheer, it was clear to see that when put together the tailor had done a remarkable job of shielding more intimate areas covered. It seemed to increase the allure of the outfit. That much became obvious when Bertholdt could see the silhouette of most of his upper body through the fabric, but the weave of the fabric seemed to thicken the further down it went, at least until it reached mid-thigh, at which point the weave became looser again, revealing the curve of his legs and calves. 

“Oh, you look like you could sleep in that,” Risha said. Bertholdt expected that was the intention. 

Bertholdt examined himself. He’d never been dressed so finely, and he had never felt so strange. Although the fabric was plentiful, Bertholdt was very aware that it was a two-piece. The chiffon looked almost like a dressing gown and the muslin shift-like in construction. A very breathable outfit that was meant, quite clearly, for easy access. 

The thought made Bertholdt’s stomach twist in knots. 

Rina nearly squealed, although she did an admirable job of choking down the noise. “Oh, he looks so wonderful,” she cried. “Why not go and show King Erwin,” she said, patting Bertholdt on the arm eagerly. 

Bertholdt blanched. “I-I couldn’t.”

Rina frowned. “Why not?”

“H-he’s working…”

“He’s always working,” Risha said, coming to stand at his other wise, patting his own arm. “He’s the King.”

Rico sighed, eyeing the ceiling as though it could help her contain her colleagues. “He’ll see sooner or later,” Rico reasoned. “Why not get it out of the way?”

In Erwin’s office, Levi placed a leather folder on the desk in front of Erwin, who untied it and dutifully looked over the paperwork. Levi closed his eyes against the sound of a cry from elsewhere in Erwin’s quarters. “It’s here!” Levi had been one of the few allowed in and out of Erwin’s private rooms. Reiner was one of the others, although he’d had yet to exercise that right. He’d grown familiar with the sounds of Rina and Risha’s enthusiasm and voices. Risha had evidently just arrived back from god knows where.

“How do you even cope,” Levi asked, the sound of Risha’s voice grating on his last nerve. 

“I quite like the noise, actually,” Erwin said, not looking up from the report Levi had delivered. “It hasn’t been this lively for years,” he admitted.

“It’s been like this for nearly a week,” Levi said, scoffing. 

“ I dealt with it for years when Reiner was a boy,” Erwin responded, eyes scanning over the document in his eyes, lips turned down slightly. “But I suppose you have no children?”

“No,” Levi said, eyes narrowing. “They’re so…gross.”

Erwin looked up then. “Gross?” he repeated. It seemed like an awfully childish word coming from Levi.

“Messy,” Levi said. “And anyway, I’m not even married.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean you don’t have children,” Erwin said, evidently choosing in that moment to play devil’s advocate.

“What?” Levi frowned. “You think I’m scum or something?”

Erwin shook his head, “No,” he said. “Merely pointing out that sometimes… accidents happen.”

“I don’t make mistakes,” Levi said tersely.

“That you know of,” Erwin said, smiling a little.

Levi looked away with a scoff. “You’re doing that on purpose,” Levi grumbled. “You have a shitty sense of humour.”

“No-one has ever accused me of being funny,” Erwin admitted, although his smile did not lessen. “Honestly.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Levi responded, moving to take a seat, uninvited, on the chairs in front of Erwin’s desk. “Well?” Levi said, gesturing to the report.

Erwin turned his attention back to the papers and continued to read. They lapsed into silence, the only noise in the room was the sound of paper against paper and he went over each page. 

Their silence was interrupted, however, when a knock came at the door. “Sire,” a voice called. Levi rolled his eyes. Rina. He watched the door with a languid sort of interest. “A-are you free?”

“Enter,” Erwin called, closing the leather bound report as he did so. 

Rina stepped into the room. “Come on, Bertholdt!”

Around the corner of the room, out of sight, came Bertholdt’s voice. “N-no, I really don’t want to bother-”

“Come on, Sweetheart,” Risha said patiently from around the corner. “He won’t mind.”

Levi begged to differ, but he remained silent, wanting to see how…whatever this was, panned out. He glanced briefly at Erwin, who watched the door with a quiet sort of curiosity. He put his elbows on his desk as he brought his fingers together in front of him, lacing his fingers together. 

Rina stood in the room, starting to look a little nervous.

“That’s enough now,” Rico's voice came, stern but not harsh. “You’re wasting the king’s time.”

Bertholdt let out some noise of discomfort that Erwin didn’t think he had ever heard before, but eventually, he did appear in the doorway. Rico’s hand on his back, urging him into the room. 

Levi watched Erwin’s expression change. Although half his expression was now hidden, he did see the king’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, before he school his feature again into one of impassivity. 

“O-Okay, stop,” Bertholdt muttered, stepping away from Rico, although his shoulders were tense and he stopped immediately, spotting Levi. Bertholdt flushed, evidently not having planned on Erwin having company. 

“Ta-dah,” Rina said, gesturing at Bertholdt as she stepped aside, allowing Erwin a clear view. 

There was a long silence as Erwin took in the sight of Bertholdt. Silhouette hidden in lush and expensive fabrics, tastefully constructed. He was tall, which seemed to add a natural sort of elegance to Bertholdt’s overall appearance. Blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He thought Bertholdt’s figure would only improve once he started putting on weight.

The look, however, did nothing to relax Bertholdt, who stood in the tense silence like he wanted the ground to swallow him. Of course, Erwin watched his face carefully, his make up was light, complimenting the airiness of the material. Lips pinker and more inviting that Erwin thought they could ever be.

“You…you can’t really tell,” Rina said, evidently trying to lighten the atmosphere. “But when he moves, it’s like he’s floating,” she said. “It’s really beautiful. You’ll see,” Erwin supposed she was trying to assuage any potential doubts in his investment in the clothes, or perhaps even Bertholdt himself. Had Erwin forgotten to order shoes made? he thought, absently noticing Bertholdt’s bare feet.

Erwin lowered his hands at last, apparently done with his appraisal. “Very good,” he said simply. “You may go,” he ordered, waving a hand.

Risha and Rina frowned, looking visibly deflated at the reaction. Bertholdt, who seemed thoroughly mortified, rushed to obey, turning on his heels abruptly and practically fleeing the room. Erwin noted that he did, indeed, seem to float. Rina and Risha rushed to follow him.

Levi did not miss the somewhat reproachful look in Rico’s eyes before she too left, closing the door behind her.

The silence that stretched on after they left was palpable. There was some wittering to be heard after the door closed, but no words could be heard. Erwin watched the door as though he expected it to open again any moment, at the whim of a put-off servant, or Bertholdt, come to make his opinion known with a choice word or two. 

“Hey,” Erwin heard, vaguely, deep in his thoughts. “Got any orders?”

Erwin couldn’t help but think he should have handled that scenario better, but he hadn’t really expected to be confronted with the transformation of his paramour in the middle of the afternoon. Nor could he believe that Bertholdt had been ready for that reveal either, judging from the look on his face alone, nevermind his earlier protests.  

Fingers snapped in front of his face. Erwin’s eyes shot to Levi as he came back to himself. “What?” Levi questioned, frowning. “He make your dick twitch or something?”

“Levi,” Erwin frowned, expression narrowing into one of displeasure. 

“Titan sightings in the mountains have been increasing,” he said, eyeing the report sitting innocently on Erwin’s desk. “Your orders?”

Erwin cleared his throat. “Increase military presence in the outposts,” he said.

Levi stood without a word, already moving to enact the command.

“And fetch Ymir.”

Chapter Text

Bertholdt’s legs had stopped working almost as soon as he left Erwin’s Study. He felt them give way beneath him, shaking too much to carry his weight. Rico caught him in her arms and Risha rushed to his other side. Together they steered him back into his room. 

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Risha said, although she seemed almost as upset as him. Bertholdt didn’t have the wherewithal to decide whether she was upset with him, about him or about something else entirely. “You just breathe, okay?” she cooed. “In and out.”

Rina hurried behind them. “I-I’m sure it’s fine,” She said, although she didn’t sound convincing even to Bertholdt’s stunned mind. 

Soon enough he was back in his room, and deposited on his bed. He found himself scooting back against the headboard and pulling his legs to his chest in the middle of the bed. Rico looked at his pale face and frowned, moving over to his bedside table where she poured him a glass of water from a jug placed there that very morning. She handed it to him and she took it blindly, although he did not drink. 

“I think he’s in shock,” Rico said, placing a hand on his forehead and then moving to press the back of her fingers to his cheek. He felt clammy. “Or just…”

“Scared out of his mind?” Rina supplied, unhelpfully. 

“I can’t believe we did that,” Bertholdt choked out, apparently struggling to speak.

“M-maybe he liked it?” Risha said, bringing her hands together, watching Bertholdt with a level of concern uncommon on her face. “He didn’t say he didn’t.”

“Why would we do that?” Bertholdt continued, the question directed at no-one in particular. He was staring ahead of him like he was staring down the portal to hell. Rico wordlessly rubbed his back in an effort to soothe him.

“Mm,” Rina started, voice uncertain, “Do you think we should have tried something more…conservative?”

“He had company,” Bertholdt muttered, mortified.

Rico just continued to rub Bertholdt’s back, although he didn’t seem to be helping much at all. “He would have seen it all eventually,” Rico said. “We just…mistimed things.”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon,” Bertholdt said to no-one.

“I still think he liked it,” Risha tried to reassure the room. “I-I think…”

“He was working,” Bertholdt’s lips curled downward squeamishly, embarrassed. 

“V-very good,” Rina piped up, stepping up to Bertholdt and adjusting his clothes slightly, fanning them out across the bed, for no other reason than to keep her hands bust. “Th-that’s what he said.”

“Levi saw everything, too,” Bertholdt said, voice tight. He seemed too dazed even to feel the embarrassment of it.

“He’s always working,” Rico reassured Bertholdt, squeezing his shoulder. “Levi won’t say anything to anyone.”

“Did you see the look on his face?” Bertholdt asked, mild hysteria rising in his voice. “What was that?”

“I-I don’t know,” Rina said. 

Bertholdt’s hands were beginning to shake so violently that Risha took the glass of water from him, frowning. “Don’t worry,” she said, “He’s always been hard to read…”

Bertholdt inhaled sharply. “I can’t do this,” he whispered, reaching for the choker, both hands scrambling for the clasp at the back of his neck. The weight of the pearlescent prison around his neck suddenly suffocating.

Rico tensed, her hands quickly finding Bertholdt’s pulling them away from his neck, lacing their fingers together and holding tightly. “Stop,” she said sternly. “This is a hiccup,” she told him. “Nothing more.”

Bertholdt squirmed and tried to pull his hands away from hers. “No,” he whimpered,finally tearing up. “I-I should just go back to the cells,” he argued. “I-It’ll be easier,” he said. Although he was teary, Rico could see resolve on his face. “R-Reiner will be happier…”

Rico scowled, and released her hold of Bertholdt suddenly. Before he could even react, Rico was on the bed beside him, pulling himself toward her in a tight embrace, pinning his arms to his chest and his head resting under her chin. He strained against her touch with a groan, but soon found himself with another set of arms around him. Risha, on his other side, holding him tightly. The bed bounced. Rina had hopped onto the bed in front of him. She couldn’t hug him properly, but he found himself with arms wrapped around his legs and a chin resting on his knees. 

He could hardly breath and he felt too warm, but the sensation was strangely fortifying. 

“Never you mind him, sweetheart,” Risha said, cooing in his ear. 

Rina nodded, chin bumping against his knees. “It doesn’t matter what Reiner wants.”

“Don’t think on it,” Rico said, her usual mantra not so comforting, but familiar. Grounding.

“Erwin regrets this,” Bertholdt said, voice tight. “He regrets me,” he tried to tell them. “His face…”

“I think he was just stunned,” Rina said, cheerful voice quiet, reassuring.

“Mm-hmm,” Risha nodded. “You’re so beautiful, I bet he had no idea what to say.”

Bertholdt closed his eyes. “Please don’t,” he whispered. Erwin had said that he wouldn’t touch Bertholdt. Promised he wouldn’t do anything. But these women, his attendants, had impressed upon him that he was supposed to be useful to Erwin. Supposed to attract people to him. To make himself a prize worth winning. It felt perverse - wrong to think it, but how was Bertholdt supposed to do that when he couldn’t even seduce the man whose insignia he wore around his neck? It was counter-intuitive, Bertholdt knew, but if he could lure in the King despite his own words, then…surely he could do his duty to Erwin? Be useful. “I look ridiculous.”

“You do not,” Rico said, frowning. Bertholdt wondered if she was offended that their hard work had been put down so harshly. “You’re just not used to it.”

“And don’t forget,” Rina said. “You’ll have other clothes,” she told him. “If you don’t like these…If he doesn’t like these…we can fix it.”

“Right…” Bertholdt said, but did not bother to mention that they were working on the assumption that Erwin would not terminate their agreement sooner, rather than later. 

Slowly, Rico loosened her embrace and pulled away, Risha following suit. Rina eventually sat back. He had to admit, he felt better now, although he still couldn’t shake the feeling that he had disappointed Erwin in some way. Still thought they shouldn’t have interrupted. Got in his way. 

Maybe it wasn’t so bad, Bertholdt thought. What had he been expecting Erwin to do? Drop everything? Break his word and take him then and there? Bertholdt frowned, too used to people simply taking what they wanted from him, it felt like he had no idea how to take it when people acted with restraint. 

All his life he had been told what to do, how to do it and when. Reiner told him to stop being a baby, come here, play this game or that one. He let Mikasa and Eren do whatever they wanted, let Ymir steal from him and allowed Sasha and Connie to eat his food. It was his fault for not biting back. He had never had a back-bone. Not really. Ymir knew that, and sometimes even tried to tell him. She took advantage all the same. 

He even let Reiner hurt him. 

He bent over backwards to make Reiner happy in childhood, even now, when Reiner loathed the sight of him. Wanted him dead. He apologised over nothing, said sorry for existing. Ymir was right, and always had been. He was pathetic. Even Annie said so. Maybe this really was all he was good for? That being the case…it seemed he wasn’t even very good at it. 

“Thank you,” he said, quietly. “But…can you all just go?” he said. The first real demand he had made of any of them. They looked surprised by the order, but not upset. Like they knew it would come eventually. “I’ve…had enough of people today.”

“Of course,” Rico said, standing. She turned and gestured for the other ladies to follow, which they did without a word. “I will be around if you need anything,” She told Bertholdt.

“I’ll see about some food,” Rina said, slipping out of the room. 

“And I’ll follow up with the tailor,” Risha said, waving goodbye to Bertholdt as she rounded the corner. Rico closed the door behind her, finally leaving Bertholdt on his own. 

When he was satisfied that no-one was planning to burst back into the room, he sighed, shifted and fell sideways onto the bed, clutching his knees to his chest. 

Later, Ymir slunk from Erwin’s office, her face the picture of aloofness. She glanced around, and seeing no-one, roamed the hallways, peering into rooms as she went. She had been here once or twice before, but had usually had an escort or too many witnesses to get away with exploring freely. 

“I’ll follow up with the tailor,” she heard someone say, making her freeze in place. She peered around the corner to see 3 women exiting a room, two headed in one direction, and the other headed in her direction, a severe look on her face.

Ymir ducked back and crouched behind a plinth upon which sat a large bust of some royal or another she did not recognise. The serious-looking blond woman passed her in the opposite corridor. After a few moments, Ymir stepped out from her hiding place and peered around the corner again. Seeing that the woman was gone, Ymir, curious, moved over to the apparently occupied room.

She knew, like everyone else, that Bertholdt had been taken into the King’s quarters and hadn’t been seen since. Reiner had been very vocal about it until his freckled friend shushed him with a few choice words. Marco. He seemed to have a gentle nature, but Ymir had yet to decide if he was mild-mannered to the point of being boring or not, yet. It didn’t seem as though she would have time to decide on that for a while yet, given her recent discussion with Erwin. Even so, if she was going to be leaving, she would damn well be doing so after she discovered what had happened to Bertholdt. 

She approached the door quietly, and carefully tried the handle. Thankfully, the door did not creak as she pushed it open to peek inside. Her eyes widened a little, spotting a large bed with a figure in the middle of it, clad in what she could only describe as an extravagant nightgown. The familiar head of brown hair was all she needed to see before she slid into the room soundlessly and, without word or warning, leaped onto the bed. 

Bertholdt startled, crying out as the bed dipped sharply with Ymir’s added weight, and her hands landed either side of his head, steadying herself above her. He lay frozen, staring up at her as she grinned down at him, eyes narrowing in satisfaction at the expression on his face. “Berty!”

“Y-Ymir…!” he frowned. “Don’t-”

She grabbed his chin with one of her hands and turned it side to side, eyes roaming over the clear evidence of make-up. Bertholdt was still too stunned to do much about it. “So,” she said, conversationally. “How was the rape?”

Bertholdt tensed and pushed her hand away with his own, frowning. “Uh,” he said. “Rape-y?”

She grinned then, looking further down Bertohldt’s body, plucking briefly at the fabric of his outfit. “What is this?” she asked, somewhere between bewilderment and delight. She never thought she’d live to see Bertholdt in what basically amounted to being a dress.

Bertholdt’s cheeks burned. “I-It’s a gift,” Bertholdt said. “From the King…” he admitted, trying to sit up. Ymir lowered her hand again, effectively blocking the motion. Bertohldt slumped back down on the bed again, still frowning. 

“What,” she started, gasping. Bertholdt was quick to realise her gaze had fallen to his neck. He reached up to cover it with his hand. “Is that?” she questioned. Even she seemed astonished by the fine quality of the jewelry. If it were possible, Bertholdt’s face darkened further with embarrassment. 

She watched his face carefully when he hesitated. Tilting her head, she waited, the mirth slipping from her face. He looked somewhere between embarrassment and resignation, but she could see frustration there as well. “What are you doing here?” he asked her eventually. “No-one’s allowed in here,” he said. 

“In your room?” she asked. “This is your room, right?”

“N-no,” Bertholdt protested. “I mean, yes it is, but…I meant the King’s quarters.”

Ymir shrugged her shoulders. “Got asked to come,” she said. “I’ve got work to do.”

Bertholdt’s eyes narrowed. She could see the bitterness behind them. 

“Still mad at me?”

There was another long stretch of silence. Bertholdt wished he could say that he was, shout for Petra and have her escorted out. But, the reality of it was that he couldn’t be angry with her…not really. She had been hired to do a job, which she did. As much as he wanted to hate her for it, she was only following her orders. “No,” he said, eyes falling away from her face. “Not really…”

Her expression narrowed. “Really?” 

“You were doing your job,” Bertholdt said, although she could hear the upset in his voice. “You’re still a bitch, though.”

She smiled then, the smug expression Bertholdt loathed so much spreading across her face. She sat back, finally allowing Bertholdt to sit up. “I knew you’d forgive me.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Bertholdt said, expression dour. 

“Ymir rolled her eyes. “Don’t be a wuss,” she said. “You’re alive, you’re doing…” she gestured vaguely at all of him. “Whatever this is,” Bertholdt raised a brow. “What is this?” she pressed when Bertholdt’s hand moved unconsciously back to the choker, fingers brushing over the face of the unicorn. She appeared genuinely curious. Nay, confused.

Bertholdt sighed. He reasoned that although he did not want to spread this around, he knew everyone would find out eventually. “It’s…the…”

“The…?” she asked, eyes falling once again to the necklace. 

“The…” Bertholdt cleared his throat, unable to look at her as he forced himself to continue. “Mark of the…p-paramour.”

Ymir’s reaction was immediate, and loud. She let out a bark of laughter that made Bertholdt want to die on the spot. “T-the what?” she wheezed, clamping a hand over her face in an attempt to stifle her laughter.

“You heard me,” was all Bertholdt could say in response. He knew better than to repeat himself, especially when Ymir got like that. The last thing he wanted was to give her more fuel to work with. She had always had a blatant disregard for his feelings, and he always tried, desperately, never to give her a reason to laugh at him. 

Ymir rolled over onto her side. “O-oh my god,” she cackled. “Reiner is going to shit himself with fury,” she wailed, apparently finding the thought endlessly amusing. Bertholdt winced. He thought about Reiner’s reaction many times, although he knew whatever he thought would never match up to the real thing. Bertholdt expected not so much a punch in the face, but a full-on beating. 

Reiner would never let it stand. 

“I-I cahh-” she laughed again, apparently unable to form words. Bertholdt waited for her to calm down, allowing her to work through her amusement. Eventually, when her laughter did die down, she cleared her throat and sat up quickly, the bed bouncing a little beneath the weight of her knees. “Bertholdt,” She said, suddenly serious.

Bertholdt raised a brow. “What?”

“Did you fuck good old King Daddy?”

Bertholdt’s cheek flared once again with embarrassment, but he thought better of trying to tell her Erwin wasn’t old. “Daddy-”

“And here I thought you were Reiner’s little bitch,” Ymir said, eyes wide. “I’m impressed.”

“W-what?” 

“When one royal proves unavailable, you go for the other one?” She supplied, almost smirking. “I didn’t think you had that sort of thing in you, you minx!”

“I-It’s not like that!” Bertholdt protested. 

The amusement on Ymir’s face died then, and she watched him like a cat watches a mouse. “What’s it like, then?”

“Ymir,” came a voice from the door, deep and stern. Bertholdt and Ymir sat up quickly, attention snapping to the doorway, where Erwin stood, Levi behind him. “I believe you have your orders,” he continued casually.

Ymir tutted and frowned as she moved back, climbing off the bed with uncommon grace. “Fine, fine…” she said, fixing her face in a neutral expression as she stepped around Erwin and out of the door. Erwin’s eyes met Levi’s, who nodded and followed after her, leaving Bertholdt alone with the king. 

The silence that stretched between them was, at least in Bertholdt’s opinion, awkward. “How much of that did you hear?” Bertholdt asked, at length.

There was a beat of silence. “Enough,” he said. 

Levi and Ymir walked in silence, until they reached the exit. Ymir’s hand was upon the door handle when Levi’s hand covered her own, gripping it tightly. She winced, but said nothing. “Hey,” Levi started. “If I hear the word paramour floating around out there-”

“You’ll know it was me,” Ymir said with a roll of her eyes, although her jaw tightened. 

“I’m serious,” Levi warned, watching Ymir carefully. “Erwin doesn’t want it out yet.”

“I figured,” she snapped back, yanking her hand out from under his. “Do you mind?”

Ymir and Levi watched one another for a long time before Levi acquiesced, and opened the door, allowing Ymir to step out into the main landing. He slammed the door behind her.

The slam of the door alerted Sasha, who had situated herself, as she often did, by the entrance to the King’s quarters, finding an excuse to work near the area. By now of course, most people knew why she did it, and chose only to impede her progress when she got too close to achieving her goal of sneaking inside. Of course, Sasha had been trying to get in long enough that she knew they knew, and even if she was lurking, she was still working, so they did not have a legitimate reason to expel her entirely from the floor. 

Sasha unceremoniously dropped her mop, and sprinted toward the door like freshly boiled potatoes depended on it. She spotted Ymir immediately, who saw her too late to keep her from flinging her arms around her, holding tight. Even Petra, who stood guard at the door, seemed surprised. 

“Ymir!” Sasha cried. “B-Bertholdt-”

Ymir scowled. “Would you-” she struggled to get her arms up enough to push Sasha an arm’s length away. “Let go!”

Like a limpet, Sasha held fast, her hands now gripping Ymir’s upper-arms in a vice-like grip. “Did you see him?!”

“Huh?” Ymir scoffed. “That’s what this is about?!”

“Please, Ymir, I haven’t seen him since-”

“He’s fine,” Ymir supplied, grabbing one of Sasha's hands and yanking off her arm. “He’s not a sobbing mess or anything, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“B-but then why-”

Ymir pulled away from Sasha, who allowed it easily. “Not my business,” Ymir said, despite the fact that even Sasha knew that everyone’s business was Ymir’s business. He was her whole thing. Frankly, Sasha couldn’t believe she’d been duped, same as all of Bertholdt’s other friends. She’d heard of what she’d done to Bertholdt, how cruel it must have been for Bertholdt to find out that way. Ymir had always been a tough nut to crack, but it was hard to believe she was capable of such deceit. Yet, it was still difficult to dislike her, really. Sasha really couldn’t tell where she stood with Ymir. “And none of yours either.”

“Actually, I-”

“No,” Ymir said. “Just because you helped him out one time, doesn’t mean you get to know all his business.”

Sasha blinked at that and gasped. “Oh, like you can talk,” She said snippily. “You didn’t exactly help him out.”

Ymir’s eyes narrowed. “I helped him out lots of times.”

Sasha put her hands on her hips defiantly. “You also screwed him over lots of times,” Sasha said, matching Ymir’s tone mockingly. 

“I did what I did,” Ymir said dismissively. “Get over it.”

Sasha bristled. “Did you at least apologise?!”

“Why would I bother doing that?” Ymir asked, although she stepped around Sasha like she did not expect an answer. Sometimes, it was just not worth apologising. Even if she wanted to, Ymir knew that an empty apology meant nothing, and a heartfelt apology landing of deaf ears meant even less. She wasn’t about to beg for Bertholdt’s forgiveness like he begged for Reiner’s. 

“Don’t you care about him even a little?” Sasha asked in disbelief.

Ymir shrugged, walking away. “Doesn’t matter how I feel.”

Sasha did not pursue Ymir, much to her relief. She could hear Sasha now entreating Petra for entry, evidently deciding it was worth trying strategy number one again.

She sighed loudly and schooled her expression into one of dry disinterest, surveying the area as she moved to the stairs. Then, she caught sight of Reiner emerging from his own set of rooms, headed toward the stairs himself, his little friend hobbling behind him. She felt her chest tickle with rising laughter, although she managed to suppress it. Reiner looked better, his facial swelling had disappeared and all that remained was some faded bruises, almost completely healed. 

It was all over when he glanced her way and caught her eyes. 

She burst out laughing, startling the hair of them and even some nearby guards. “Y-Ymir,” Reiner said, confused. It only made Ymir howl, tears springing to her eyes. She grabbed onto the bannister and began making her way downstairs, unable to keep from laughing now that the floodgates had opened. 

“Ymir,” Reiner said, calling down at her from the top of the stairs now. “What’s so funny?” The look on his face told Ymir that he knew he was being laughed at, but couldn’t figure out why. 

Ymir wheezed. “Y-you’ll find out,” she said, cackling.

Reiner and Marco shared a look, both equally perturbed as they watched her walk away, shoulders shaking as she tried to gather herself, and failing miserably.

Chapter Text

For what felt like the first time in a long time, Bertholdt was left alone with Erwin. Of course, realistically Bertholdt knew it had been roughly a week since he had been given his new status as paramour. But, looking at Erwin from where he stood in the doorway, it felt longer than that. He felt like a fixed point in reality that he wanted to hold on to. A real, tangible lifeline. It wasn’t that Bertholdt thought he was going mad, but he had only a few hours before, felt like he was losing his grip on his fragile situation. With Erwin here, speaking to him, he felt both uncertain but somehow safe, like everything near him was stable. Nothing had felt truly real until Bertholdt had seen him in his office. 

The noise was gone. His attendants, Ymir, Levi. Even the mild commotion outside Erwin’s rooms was rapidly fading. Erwin was there and reality set in, and Bertholft no longer felt like he was on the peripherals, like he was ready to slip into the cracks that formed because Erwin wasn’t there to make it all solid. 

“Sire,” Bertholdt said, almost sighing. He honestly hadn’t expected Erwin to come and find him. He tried not to think about how much of the conversation Erwin may or may not have heard, but he really hoped he had missed the part about Ymir calling him ‘Daddy’. Bertholdt thought he might let the earth swallow him if Erwin ever brought it up. “I’m...sorry about earlier.”

“As am I,” Erwin said, watching Bertholdt thoughtfully. “I admit I was a little blindsided…although I should have guessed what was happening.”

Bertholdt shuffled to the end of the bed and out his hands in his lap, fixing his eyes downward as he frowned, thoughtfully. “Still,” he said. “We should have asked when you were free,” Bertholdt said. “I think the girls got excited.”

“Should it not be?” Erwin asked, making Bertholdt look back at him. “An exciting thing?”

Bertholdt blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Showing me these things,” Erwin explained. “Showing yourself off?” 

That question stumped Bertholdt to the point he didn’t even question what “showing off” even meant. “You…want me to come to you with these things?”

There was a brief pause before Erwin nodded. “I want a number of things for you,” he said. “For a number of reasons.”

When Bertholdt did nothing but raise a brow, Erwin stared thoughtfully for a moment, before he gestured for Bertholdt to follow. After a moment of hesitation, Bertholdt stood, trying and failing to pull his chiffon robe closer to his body, but it was so well-fitting, he found it already clung to his chest before it flared out at the waist, where it was tied securely, allowing nothing to slip out of place. The fabric flowed behind him as he followed Erwin into the familiar parlour.

Erwin took a seat on the sofa, opposite a freshly lit fireplace. The warmth hit Bertholdt immediately and he closed his eyes against the feeling. It had been a long time since he had been able to say he wasn’t at all cold. Erwin gestured for Bertholdt to sit, and he obeyed, sinking into the plush green seat, beside Erwin, although there was only a little distance between them, it felt like a crevasse built of propriety and insecurity. Bertholdt felt like he couldn’t have moved closer even if he wanted to.

“I am glad you interrupted today,” Erwin said as they finally settled in, and the warmth sank into their bones. It seemed to make both of them feel somehow less rigid. 

“Why?” Bertholdt asked, honestly confused. 

After a pause, in which Erwin seemed to be mulling over his words, he answered. “You are my paramour,” He said, in a tone that suggested he was merely remarking upon the weather. 

Bertholdt’s cheek flushed faintly. “But-”

“It is my duty, as your monarch, to give you my attention,” Erwin continued, holding up a hand briefly to interrupt. “Which…I have been admittedly lax in doing,” he said. “You were merely reminding me of my duty.”

Bertholdt frowned. “I don’t understand,” he said. “You said this wasn’t real.”

Erwin shook his head. “I didn’t say it wasn’t real,” he countered. “I said I wouldn’t do anything.”

“So, why bother you with any of it?” Bertholdt asked, brows furrowing, shifting on the seat to face Erwin more completely, bringing his knees up to his chest. Erwin said nothing about his feet on the sofa. 

“Frankly,” Erwin said, voice deep and, Bertholdt thought, full of humour. “I’d like to see what I’m paying for, for one,” he admitted, gesturing to Bertholdt’s clothes. 

Despite the warmth, Bertholdt felt a chill run down him, conscious of his rather risqué outfit. It felt odd to have Erwin genuinely acknowledge it directly. “Oh,” he said, frowning a little. 

Erwin watched Bertholdt’s face fall, but continued. “I also want you to find joy in it,” he said. “It is another duty of mine to spoil you,” he said. “The paramour offers company,” he added. “Sometimes even love,” he said, smiling a little when Bertholdt’s flush deepened. “It is only fair that the monarch offers gifts and affection.”

“Oh…” Bertholdt said again, at a loss for words. 

“Why do you think I have employed Risha and Rina to look after you?” he asked rhetorically. “I was hoping their enthusiasm would rub off on you.”

Bertholdt shrugged a little. “It’s sort of working…I think,” he said. “But that doesn’t explain Rico,” said. She was much more serious than the other women, but she was not terrible company because of it. 

“I placed her with you to keep all three of you grounded,” Erwin said, with an amused hum. “She also makes sure things get done,” he said. “She’s also not afraid to approach me with her concerns.”

Bertholdt blinked. “What do you mean?”

“She tells me,” Erwin said. “When she thinks I’m being cruel,” he said. “And she tells me you aren’t eating properly.”

That gave Bertholdt pause. “I eat,” he said. “I just…it’s a lot of food,” he said. 

“You don’t touch even a third of it,” Erwin said, the concern evident in his food.

Bertholdt shrugged. “It’s not that I don’t want it,” Bertholdt tried to explain, looking down at his knees. “It feels…” he paused, apparently trying to search for the right words. “Wrong,” he settled on at last. “To have it all to myself.”

Bertholdt had spent years of his life constantly sharing his food. The concept of not doing so felt foreign to him. Even if Bertholdt could fathom it, he didn’t think he could handle a whole, full plate of food. He’d asked about the portions when the food started coming, as though he couldn’t believe it was a regular plate of food, nothing piled on, or unnecessary. 

“Then perhaps,” Erwin said thoughtfully. “It is time to see your friends?”

Bertholdt looked surprised. “You mean…go public.”

“I do.”

Bertholdt touched the shield at his neck. “You’re…really serious about this?” he asked. “About me?”

“I am.”

The concept of ownership wasn’t foreign to Bertholdt. He knew what it was like to be wanted. He remembered the first time he had ever been claimed, the way the man had asked for his exclusivity, the way he’d vanished when Bertholdt wasn’t what he wanted anymore. But it felt distinctly different this time. Erwin, a man he’d known all his life, offered him a necklace, looked him in the eyes and offered him almost everything…for almost nothing. All Erwin wanted was a ‘yes’. 

Bertholdt realised, of course, he had already agreed. Sold himself for protection. Riches. Said yes to freely given, but rare smiles. Erwin made him feel wanted. Made him want to feel wanted. Maybe it was Reiner’s rejection and cruelty that made cling to Erwin’s familiar kindness, but Bertholdt didn’t care. Perhaps it was worth truly surrendering to his king, to become a thing to be owned by someone he trusted…mostly.

Perhaps, he thought, he could get used to the cage around his neck. 

Bertholdt sat forward abruptly, arms finding the back of the sofa and the armrest as he sat forward, feet finding the floor. “Sire,” He said, voice quiet, but urgent. The movement startled Erwin, who jerked back a little at the motion, although he relaxed when he realised Bertholdt wasn’t planning on lunging at him. He did, however, seem wary of the sudden enthusiasm.

“Yes?” Erwin asked, eyes narrowing with a cautious sort of curiosity.

“You said you wouldn’t do anything,” Bertholdt said.

Erwin nodded once. “Again,” he said. “Yes.”

“Saying and doing are two very different things,” Bertholdt observed, and for once, Erwin was the one struggling to find the meaning behind the words. 

“Yes…”

“If I wanted to,” Bertholdt began, voice suddenly uncertain. “Could you?”

Erwin’s eyes narrowed seriously. He didn’t answer.

“It’s not that hard a question,” Bertholdt pressed, gently. “Could you fuck me?” Bertholdt asked. “Would you?”

Erwin sighed and sat forward in his chair. It was strange, how unabashed Bertholdt had suddenly become, when moments ago, he had been blushing about the mere implication of any kind of relationship. It made Erwin frown. He had used crude language only once before, and Erwin had forgiven it because he reckoned the experience had been sprung upon him. But, this felt different. 

“That tongue of yours,” Erwin tutted once. “Don’t feel as though you need to perform for me.”

Finally, there was a bit of a blush. Bertholdt realised quickly, he had misstepped with the King. “Okay, fine,” Bertholdt said, scooting a little closer, although he made no move to touch the other man. “Could you…take me to bed?” he asked. “If I wanted?”

That question seemed to suit Erwin better. This was a boy he had had a hand in raising, comforted when he cried. But, he supposed that six years had changed them both. The distance and time between them felt somehow so vast and so small. Like nothing and everything had changed. Bertholdt was not his son, had never really been treated as such, but he had never been treated much like your average servant either. He supposed their relationship, in that respect, had not changed. 

Bertholdt was still not a typical servant. 

“I believe I could,” he said. He had been unable, for some time now, to deny that he thought the young man handsome, but it was still a line that needed to be crossed with caution, if it was crossed at all. “But I would not accept you if you thought yourself obligated in some way.”

That made Bertholdt smile a little. He reached up, aiming to take the King’s face in his hands. “M-May I?” He asked.

Erwin could only nod. 

Betholdt closed the gap between them, hands cupping Erwin’s face. Bertholdt’s felt like his fingers tingled with nervous energy when he touched him, like touching some forbidden object that might burn him if handled roughly. 

His painted lips found Erwin’s cheek, and the King smiled as Bertholdt pulled away, taking one of Bertholdt’s hands in his own as Bertholdt to a stand slowly. “Where are you going?” Erwin asked.

“I think I’ll go and see my friends,” Bertholdt said, smiling softly. 

Erwin hummed and nodded, pressing his lips to the back of Bertholdt’s hand. His lips and breath were warm against Bertholdt’s hand and the simple gesture sent a shiver down his spine. Berthold stepped back then, only breaking contact when Erwin was simply too far away to hold on to. “All right,” Erwin said. “Any trouble,” he added seriously. “Tell me immediately.”

“Yes, Sire,” Bertholdt turned and made his way out of the room. “I think I’ll change into my other clothes first though,” he said, knowing his friends probably weren’t ready to see him in anything more revealing than a shirt and trousers. 

As Bertholdt left, Levi appeared in the doorway, glancing between Bertholdt’s retreating firm and Erwin, who still sat, watching the young man leave. “Hey Erwin,” Levi said. “What’s with the stupid look on your face?”

Bertholdt smiled at that, although he didn’t turn to look. He was still smiling as he arrived at his room. It felt like enough, in that moment, to know he was wanted. 

He undressed quickly after that, hesitating for a moment before he decided to lay his outfit carefully on the bed, wanting to avoid creasing the fine materials as much as he could. He wasn’t honestly sure how his attendants would want to store it, so he would let them decide. He donned his silken shirt and trousers, the weight on his neck feeling less like a burden now than ever before. He did, however, pause when he caught his reflection in the vanity. He paused briefly before he approached and took the jug of water placed off to the side on a table in the corner of the room and poured it into the basin, wetting a cloth and wiping the make-up from his face. He suspected they might enjoy his make-up a little too much, and would rather not be the subject of teasing for the time being. 

Bertholdt dried his face, and checked himself in the mirror again before leaving, satisfied with his appearance. He padded his way toward the exit to the King’s quarters, still without shoes, opening the door slowly, and peering outside. 

Petra turned her head, to see who had opened the door behind her, and her eyes widened, clearly surprised to see him. “H-hello,” she said, turning to face him. 

“Hello,” Bertholdt said quietly. “Erwin said you’re supposed to escort me around?” 

“Oh, right,” Petra said, bringing a fist to her chest, saluting him out of habit. Bertholdt blinked, not sure if it was necessary for her to salute him at all. “I’ll be right behind you, Mr. Hoover.”

“B-Bertholdt is fine,” he said, smiling awkwardly as he stepped properly out into the hallway. 

“Of course,” Petra said, touching her fist to her chest again in acknowledgement and lowering her hand. 

There was a silence between them that stretched for a moment too long. “Do…do I just…” Berthodlt said, gesturing vaguely toward the landing. “Go?”

Petra’s expression tightened, trying to suppress an amused smile, her eyes full of mirth. “Yes,” she said, once she collected herself, but did not tease. “Lead the way,” she said. “Always.”  

Bertholdt smiled back sheepishly, but nodded and walked forward, passing Petra who fell into step a several paces behind him, keeping a respectful distance. It felt odd to have a shadow, especially one that wasn’t trying to arrest him, but he ignored the feeling and carried on. He kept his head down as he walked but kept his head on a swivel, his presence catching the attention of guards, and garnering looks. Stares of confusion and surprise. He didn’t mind them looking, supposing that it was either him or his necklace that was catching their attention. 

He only hoped he did not cross paths with Reiner.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he found himself in the grand foyer, glancing around. Truth be told, he knew this place like the back of his hand, but he had no idea where to go. He wondered briefly if he should reacquaint himself with the palace before he found his friends. Find his bearings, if this really was what his new life was to be. He had many of the same freedoms he had before. Maybe even more. He could go anywhere. Do almost anything. 

It felt surreal, without Erwin there to make it reality. Bertholdt wondered if it would ever feel normal again, the way it did when he was a child. The thought made a peculiar feeling rise in his chest and Bertholdt inhaled slowly, trying to chase the anxiety away. He placed a hand on his chest as he exhaled.

“Bertholdt?” Petra asked, tentatively.

It was only then he realised he had stopped moving, frozen in the foyer, as though paralysed by indecision. Bertholdt was beginning to regret leaving Erwin’s rooms and the safe little bubble the King had created. “I’m fine,” Bertholdt said in a small, hesitant voice. “I-”

“Berty!” Sasha's voice rang out, shrill and astonished. His attention snapped toward her voice immediately. Sasha was in his arms before he could react, his arms around her instinctively. “I’ve been trying to see you for ages.”

“It’s true,” a second voice said. Bertholdt looked around to see Rina trotting up behind Sasha, carrying a plate of food. Evidently the two had come from the same direction. The kitchens, Bertholdt realised. “It’s been quite exhausting.”

Bertholdt patted Sasha’s head absentmindedly before, he gently pried her away from him. “Don’t call me that,” He said, in a tone that suggested he had said the same thing many times before. Sasha deflated almost immediately and Bertholdt sighed, feeling guilty at having admonished her, however gently. She was clearly still upset at the role she believed she played in the attack on Bertholdt. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said, moving on quickly.

That perked her up immediately. “Oh yeah?”

“I was…wondering if you wanted to have lunch with me,” he said. “I was going to get Connie too,” he said. “You know where he is?”

Sasha grinned. “The stables, I think,” Sasha said. “Let’s go there. I know a nice spot nearby!” she added excitedly. “Go get him. I’ve got the perfect thing for lunch!”

She was gone before Bertholdt could say anymore, and the rest of the group could only stare after her for a moment before Bertholdt snapped out of it, turning to Rina. “Sorry,” Bertholdt said. “I-Is that for me?” He asked, gesturing to the plate of food in her hands. 

Rina nodded, she seemed to be scrutinising his face, her head tiled to one side. “You’ve taken off your make-up,” she said, finally landing on what was missing from Bertholdt’s modest ensemble. 

Bertholdt blushed a little. He knew how hard they worked on his face that morning. “Sorry,” he said. “I just…didn’t want to overwhelm my friends,” he said. Although, the more he thought about it, it felt like it was about protecting himself from their reactions. He knew they knew he worked, but this was a little different than whoring. “We can put it on again later?” he said, uncertainly.

Rina smiled all the same, placated. “Well, as you’ve promised.”

“Can I take that?” Berthold asked, returning to the subject of food. 

“Absolutely not,” Rina said, although she began to walk away. Puzzled, Bertholdt followed her, Petra not far behind. Seeing the look on his face, Rina continued. “You don’t carry things anymore,” she said. “At least not food.”

“Oh,” he said, resisting the urge to comment on the ridiculousness of the restriction. He fell into step beside Rina easily, her little stride no match for his own longer one. It felt as though she took two or three strides for everyone one of his. Honestly, that seemed the case for most people, but Rina was so energetic, he noticed it more. It was times like this he was so conscious of his height. 

Before long, they found themselves outside, and even as they walked, Rina tutted. “No shoes,” she said. “Oh, that cobbler,” she muttered, clearly unimpressed. “You watch your feet,” she said, glancing up at Bertholdt. “Especially around those horses.”

Bertholdt raised a brow. “I’m sure it will be fine,” he said. 

“You never know,” she said. “You could be perfectly fine standing at the wrong end of those things and suddenly,” she gasped. “There it is.”

Horse manure, Bertholdt realised quickly with an amused smile. “I don’t plan on standing behind any horses,” he said.

“Doesn’t matter,” if you don’t watch your feet-”

“There it is,” he said, smiling.

“Exactly!”

As they approached the stables, Bertholdt held up his hand to stop them and turned to Rina. “I’ll take it from here, please?” Bertholdt asked. 

Rina hesitated but handed him the plate of food. Bertholdt was sure that Sasha would be back soon, but he saw no sign of Connie, and could not hear him either. “I’ll come and find you later,” Rina said, nodding to herself. “Watch those feet,” she said, glancing down at his toes, which he couldn’t help but wiggle self-consciously. She turned abruptly and nipped past Petra quickly with a polite wave goodbye. 

Well, Bertholdt supposed. If he was going to meet them here, he may as well make himself comfortable until at least Sasha showed up. So, without much ado, he approached the stables, Petra following loosely behind. 

He stopped abruptly.

Voices. 

“You can’t keep coming here like this, Marco,” one way saying, gruff and low. His tone suggested reluctance, but conviction.

“Jean,” another man said, voice softer, more patient. “I didn’t just come back here for Reiner,” he said.

Bertholdt stiffened at the mention of the Prince, and against his better judgement, turned to Petra and held a finger to his lips before  gesturing for her to stay. She frowned but obeyed, keeping her distance as Bertholdt edged closer to the stables, near silent now that Petra was not trailing behind him. Although she was lightly armoured, she made just enough noise that Bertholdt thought that he might have been discovered if she came with him. 

He put his plate of food on a nearby stack of crates, careful not to make a sound before he peered around the doorway, carefully so as to not be seen. 

Inside, two men stood, one with darker hair and a freckled face propping himself up on the gate of an empty horse stall. The other man was slightly taller, skinnier with a mop of light brown hair. Bertholdt could not see his face. The one with his back to Bertholdt had his hand tentatively resting on the other’s hips. 

“Well…that’s great and all, but-”

The freckled man raised a shaky hand and put it on the other’s arm. Bertholdt’s eyes narrowed in curiosity, wondering if he was nervous. “Please don’t, Jean,” he said. Evidently, this one was Marco. “We don’t have much time…” he pleaded, hand stroking the one called Jean’s arm up and down soothingly. Marco leaned forward, bringing his face to Jean’s, their foreheads meeting, noses brushing together. “Please…?”

There was a sigh before Jean closed the gap, their lips meeting. Bertholdt was shocked, his fingers finding the wooden frame of the doorway. He wondered what Marco had meant by not coming to the palace just for Reiner. Was this a friend, or lover of the prince? Was Bertholdt witnessing an illicit affair? 

Poor Reiner. 

To come home from war, have Bertholdt come back into his life and now a disloyal lover? Bertholdt frowned. Admittedly, Bertholdt’s reappearance in Reiner’s life had been an accident, but he was painfully aware it distressed Reiner to the point of violence. He couldn’t imagine what this would do to him, if this person was more than a friend and companion. 

Jean’s arms wrapped gingerly around Marco, as though he were some fragile vase. The kiss, surprisingly gentle. They seemed to flow into each other then, like two streams merging into one, their bodies flush and their hands exploring confidently, like they already knew every inch of one another, although they never sought to undress. It was different to the kind of kissing Bertholdt had witnessed in the brothels. These kisses weren’t hot or messy, not designed to inspire a hasty arousal. These kisses spoke of something softer. Genuine affection. Maybe, Bertholdt dared think, love. The thought conjured up an image of Reiner’s smile, but it was gone as soon as it occurred.

These two men weren’t necessarily out for a quick romp, but a kiss was a kiss, and those led to other things. Sex, certainly. Love? He couldn’t say.

“Bertholdt!”

Bertholdt jerked away from the door in surprise, heat rising in his cheeks, hoping he had not been caught staring. He heard a sharp curse and shuffling inside the stable. He turned on his heel and hurried to meet Connie and Sasha as they jogged toward him. Sasha had a bowl in her hands, steam rising from it. Connie waved. 

“Bertholdt?”

Bertholdt froze mid-stride, turning and looking over his shoulder, eyes wide. The freckled one, Marco, was looking at him like he was a rare bird. In a mixture of awe, surprised and poised like he was afraid of frightening Bertholdt off. He stood by the stable doors, Jean lurking behind him, eyes narrowed and blushing. He wasn’t making eye-contact, and Bertholdt could tell he seemed both annoyed and embarrassed. 

Garnering no response, Marco tried again. “You’re…the Bertholdt, right?”

Feeling distinctly trapped, Bertholdt turned, hearing Sasha and Connie approaching from behind as he watched Marco with an air of caution. He did not know this person. How did he know him? Bertholdt felt more tense than he had in a while. It felt like he was surrounded by guards, one wrong foot away from landing in the stocks for stealing bread. “I’m…” he said slowly. “A Bertholdt…”

Marco paused, dark eyes landing on the emblem resting upon Bertholdt’s throat.