Chapter Text
Reiner was cold. The rain had worsened as he’d expected it would. The sky was grey and the rain that pelted his skin felt like ice. The weather was turning, the temperature dropping slowly but surely. Reiner felt he needed his blankets more and more, and after today, he felt as though he’d never be warm again. He could tell his short hair was plastered to his head, and Marlowe, beside him, looked like a bedraggled sailor pulled from the ocean in a storm.
Reiner looked up, blinking against the falling rain as someone above him called his name, hoisting a body up by the sheets. Reiner reached up, and grabbed hold of one end while Marlowe took the other and between them, they carried it to the far side of the grave to lay it beside the other bodies awaiting burial and the freshly dug, squelching earth. Reiner practically dropped the body, unable to hold on with his trembling hands. His bones ached with the cold, and it hurt even to move his fingers even with his heavy leather gloves.
“Careful,” Marlowe said, voice muffled by the damp cloth covering his face, managing to lower the body much more gracefully to the ground, despite his shivering frame.
“I’m trying,” Reiner protested, inhaling deeply against the waterlogged fabric against his face. It rested uncomfortably heavy against his nose and brushed against his lips with every movement. He felt as though he was suffocating. He imagined everyone else felt much the same way.
They moved carefully over the disturbed dirt, which honestly was not even dirt anymore. Mud, pure and simple. They were burying people in the mud and dirt because even if pyres were an option, the rain forbade it. It felt wrong somehow, to forge on despite the weather. For whatever reason, Reiner had always imagined people only dug holes when it was dry and the weather more forgiving. It had never occurred to him that death did not wait for the weather to turn.
“New bodies!” he heard someone call from above them, out of sight from where Reiner stood in his little world of muck and lifelessness below. “Come on, lads!”
He sighed, feeling his shoulders ache in protest. More bodies to lower into the ground. He tried to ignore the way his bitter disappointment soured the solemnity of his work.
He shared a glance with Marlowe, who looked tired and pale as a ghost in the cold and the wet. Reiner wondered if he held the same sickly pallor. They didn’t speak, but waited, taking the opportunity to rest before the work began again
Above them, movement. One by one they brought the bodies, setting them down so they could wait their turn to be lowered into the earth. He watched a pair of men fumbling with a bundle. The body within seemed like they would have been quite a tall person in life, judging by the way their feet did not even fit within the confines of the sheet. Reiner could even see the rot and pustules on the soles of their feet.
“Hey, wait a sec-” someone said, his voice going unheard. He struggled to keep hold of the body as his partner continued forward, failing to recognise his struggle.
A moment later, there was a gasp, and a scramble from those below to flee toward the far side of the grave, as the body above fell from their grasp and tumbled down like an avalanche into the pit below, bouncing dangerously against the bodies beneath it as it rolled to a stop at Reiner’s retreating form. Reiner barely caught himself as he slipped against the mud beneath his booted feet.
“Fuck!” Someone shouted admonishingly above him, but Reiner took no notice, even as the lecture above him continued.
In the chaos, the sheet the body was wrapped in had come loose, and Reiner swallowed. It was difficult to tell, because the bedding was soaked and otherwise darker than it should have been, but Reiner recognised the sheets, and remembered the patterned and somewhat rough fabric.
Reiner swallowed and approached, and found himself kneeling in the mud beside the body, a quaking hand reaching for the sheet to pull it away from the face of the body beneath it.
“Reiner?” he heard Marlowe’s voice behind him, but he did not bother to respond.
He could only stare.
“Reiner,” Marlowe said again, more firmly this time, a hand finding its way to his shoulder.
“It’s Samuel,” Reiner said, through the tightness in his throat. Reiner forced himself to turn away from his one-time companion’s rot-mottled face to look at Marlowe. “It’s…it’s Samuel,” he said again.
Marlowe was quiet for a long time, glancing between Reiner and the corpse, because that was all he was now. “Come on,” Marlowe said, giving Reiner’s shoulder a squeeze. “He can’t just lie there.”
Reiner frowned beneath his mask, scrutinising the uncomfortable look in Marlowe’s eyes. But then, he nodded. The noise above was settling down and they would not have forever to sort through Reiner’s racing thoughts. “Yeah,” he breathed, getting to his feet. “Yeah…”
Between them, they managed to wrap Samuel’s body inside the mud-soaked blanket and hoist him up and over to the line of other bodies waiting to be laid to rest. Reiner tried to ignore the lump in his throat, feeling as though that if he were to talk, he might just weep instead.
It felt so different, to be burying someone he knew. Someone he’d seen but a few days before, and to see how rapidly the disease had ravaged his face and taken his life.
Their training had to stop when the rain began to get heavier as the morning went on. Levi had tried to carry it on for as long as he could, but was forced to stop when Rico came marching up to the training ground like a woman on a mission, armed with a parasol in the increasingly heavy rain.
She practically bundled him up in his cloak as though he was a toddler and whisked him away before Petra had even begun to catch up to them. Levi took her snippy remarks with admirable placidity, but remained behind, presumably to tidy the training area.
Now, Bertholdt found himself in a nice warm bath that chased the cold out of his body and the steam prickle at the chill in his cheeks.
“We should have been consulted,” Rina said, grumpily pouring lavender oil into his bath water.
Beside him, Risha seized his hand with both of her own, and turned his palm up toward her. “He’ll ruin his skin,” Risha agreed, equally displeased. “Imagine!” Risha said, a little too dramatically in Bertholdt’s opinion. “The paramour!” she cried. “With callouses!” Risha ran her thumbs over his hand as though she could massage out the entire concept of callouses, let alone the ones that didn’t yet exist on his hands. “Oh, Honeybee, what is he thinking?”
Bertholdt wasn’t sure what to say that would make either Rina or Risha feel any better. They were his hands, ever all. He’d never thought anyone would ever feel so strongly about his hands. He chose to remain silent.
“It’s not our place to question the King’s judgement,” Rico said firmly from somewhere Bertholdt couldn’t see.
“Right before the King’s birthday too,” Rina said, quietly miffed.
“I’ll bet he never even considered!” Risha agreed passionately, reaching for Bertholdt’s other hand. He gave it to her, sensing her willingness to just sink her hands into the bath water to find it. She didn’t thank him, but instead set about inspecting it as she did the first one. “We have such plans!”
Bertholdt was beginning to feel like some kind of prized horse.
“Well-” Bertholdt tried to say, beginning to feel quite uncomfortable.
“You’ll love it, honeybee,” Risha said, nodding to herself and massaging his fingers, kneading the palms of his hand. He might have found it relaxing under any other circumstances, but being manhandled and talked about as though he wasn’t in the room didn’t really do it for him. “The tailor’s been working so hard,” he said. “You like red, don’t you?”
“Well-”
“Good,” Risha said, finally relenting and allowing Bertholdt to take his hand back, seemingly satisfied for the time being that his skin was unmarred by hard work and weapons training.
“Do you think we should try a new scent?” Rina asked, turning from the bathtub over to the shelf of oils and dried petals. “For his birthday?” She carried on, putting the empty jug back on the shelf. “Rose,” she said. “Or, oh!” she gasped. “The jasmine?”
“The jasmine?” Rico said, finally coming into Bertholdt’s view with an uncharacteristically ponderous look on her face. “It’s expensive, but…” she said. “It is a special enough occasion, I suppose.”
There was the Rico he knew,” Bertholdt thought. Concerned with practical things like the price of eggs.
“Or maybe we could try cinnamon,” Rina said. “The king likes cinnamon,” she said, a thoughtful finger on her chin as she scanned the shelf.
“In his food,” Rico tsked.
Risha waved her hand dismissively at Rico. “And here I thought making Bertholdt look absolutely edible was the point,” she argued. “Rico.”
Bertholdt flushed the deepest shade of scarlet his completion would allow, and he couldn’t help but sink further into the tub, submerging himself before he could be subjected to any more of their conversation.
What felt like hours later, Bertholdt sat in his room, clad in a pale blue dressing gown that fitted and flowed in all the right places. He could tell already that this was to be a part of his winter wardrobe. The material, although thick, was finely stitched and the tailor seemed to have taken care to make sure the outfit wasn’t bulky or unflattering. The ‘skirt’ of the fabric was many-layered and warm, some fabric he could see was thicker than others, and Bertholdt wondered if it was to make sure the robe wasn’t too heavy-looking.
Really, even he had to admit, it was a marvel.
It was the middle of the day and while Bertholdt felt exhausted already, he was dressed and his face had been made up for the day. To sleep now would practically be a crime in Rico’s book.
It was so warm in the castle that the rain beyond the window didn’t even seem real. The otherness of it felt as though Bertholdt could believe that rain was a myth, if he hadn’t been looking directly at it.
He hoped the rain would let up before it reached Shinganshina.
For a while, he couldn’t bring himself to do much of anything, except watch the rain fall against the window. It was heavier now than it had been when he’d left for training, and the sky was a little darker, but it wasn’t torrential. The sun still peaked through what little gaps in the cloud cover it could find.
He hadn’t seen Erwin yet today, and frankly, he hadn’t yet resolved whatever feelings he was having surrounding that man and his secrecy. He had thought not long ago that he could handle it - that he didn’t need to know everything - but when everything included him, the silence was so unforgivably Erwin that Bertholdt wasn’t even sure he wanted to see the King.
Bertholdt paused.
Erwin wasn’t around.
Bertholdt got to his feet haltingly, as though his legs had half a mind to keep him in place. Stop him from going forward with his plan. Erwin wasn’t around, he thought defiantly, aiming to quell his own hesitation.
It took a moment to feel steady on his feet, and an even longer moment before Bertholdt could breathe through the beating of his little rabbit heart. This was his opportunity. He had to.
“Okay,” he said to himself, before turning quickly and leaving his room, before he could change his mind. “Okay,” he said again, glancing around as he went. Guards did patrols sometimes, and Rico had a habit of popping up out of nowhere. If Risha or Rina found him they might try to feed him something and he’d never get away.
He moved quickly and quietly on bare feet, and found his way to the king’s study without difficulty and slipped inside, careful to open the door without a sound. He left it slightly ajar as he stepped inside, fearful of making a noise. It would be easier to hear if anyone approached, as well.
Rounding Erwin’s desk, Bertholdt scanned the surface, unsurprised to find no familiar-looking letters. Bertholdt followed. There were three drawers on either side of the large, and frankly imposing dark wooden desk. Even the chair looked heavy. He tried the first, and it gave way to his touch. Pulling it open, however, disappointed. Quills, ink, royal seals.
In the second, a brown leather folder which Bertholdt only briefly glimpsed inside, before seeing the words ‘Mount Helos’. That gave him pause. He bit his lip, and hesitated before opening the folder wider. It was a report of some kind, although the handwriting was either appalling or Bertholdt wasn’t practiced enough in his letters to understand much of the script, although he understood that it was something to do with the checkpoints on the mountain where the Eldia and Marleyan borders met with Paradis. All three shared the mountain, but Paradis was largely shielded from the other two nations by it. It was, quite frankly, integral to the defence of their nation. He did not know where it had gotten its name.
Curious though he was about the report, it was not what he was looking for, and not necessarily suspicious - Erwin surely had many reports on the subject of the security of the nation, even if it did involve Eldia, just as the letter did.
Beneath the folder though, papers and other documentation that meant nothing to Bertholdt. He returned the folder to its rightful place and turned his attention to the third drawer on the left. It did not give way to his touch.
Locked.
Bertholdt blinked and lifted his head to the surface of the desk, eyes searching. No keys.
He moved to the other side of the desk, searching the first and second drawers, finding no letter and certainly no keys. “Stupid Erwin,” Bertholdt muttered, lamenting the fact that Erwin probably didn’t just leave keys lying around for anyone to find.
The third drawer was also locked.
“Damn it,” Bertholdt muttered. If only Ymir was here. She could break into anything.
Without another word, Bertholdt reached for a letter opener that was sitting innocently upon the desk on top of a pile of blank parchment, weighing it down, and got to his knees before the drawer. He hesitated before taking it to the locking mechanism and sliding it inside, taking care to jiggle it carefully, hoping to hear the satisfying click of a lock, or a clunk or whatever sound it was that these locks made when unlocked.
“What are you doing?” Erwin’s voice cut across the silence that filled the room, with the exception of the scrap of the metal on metal of Bertholdt’s meddling.
Bertholdt’s entire body seized up, so much so he could not articulate the yelp of surprise stuck in his throat. His shaking hands rattled the letter opener against the lock violently. He could hear the sound of Erwin’s booted feet taking a few more steps into the room.
“Bertholdt,” he said reproachfully.
Slowly, Bertholdt forced himself to move, first lowering the letter opener to the floor and sliding it silently under the desk before he shifted on his knees and peeked over the desk like a child caught with their hands in the biscuit tin. “I’m not doing anything,” he lied, like a child caught with their hands in the biscuit tin.
“Then why are you on your knees behind my desk?” Erwin asked, looking at him like he was a child caught with their hands in the biscuit tin.
“I was…” Bertholdt started slowly. “Looking for you…?”
“...Under my desk.”
“Yes,” Bertholdt said. “No,” Bertholdt said quickly, and then grabbed the letter opener off the floor, and got to his feet quickly. “I was looking for you,” Bertholdt said, “And I…” he said, waving the letter opener at Erwin demonstratively. “Dropped this…” he finished weakly.
Bertholdt then proceeded to put the letter opener down on the desk with a pointed click that sat uncomfortably in the silence between them as Erwin looked between Bertholdt and the letter opener on the right side of the desk, and the place where it should have been on the left.
“Okay,” he said, apparently choosing not to pursue the issue. Bertholdt rather got the impression he was withholding a sigh.
“Well?” he said, after a long silence.
“Well, what?” Bertholdt asked dumbly, too focused on his rapidly beating heart.
“I’m here,” Erwin said, tone patient. Prompting.
Fuck. “Yes, you are…” Bertholdt had not at all thought about what would come next after any of the words he’d said. He hadn’t even entertained the thought of what he might say if he got caught. “I found you…” he said, his words barely words at all, and more a mortified breath of air.
Erwin merely stared expectantly.
He watched as Bertholdt slinked guiltily around the desk and across the room to stand in front of Erwin. The two of them bore another long stretch of silence.
“Hello,” Bertholdt whispered, face reddening.
Erwin blinked. “...Hello.”
There was another stretch of silence in which Erwin thought Bertholdt might faint with how much blood was rushing to his face.
“...Goodbye,” Bertholdt said at long last, finally deciding what to say.
“Goodbye,” Erwin said, after a beat of silence.
Bertholdt swallowed, and promptly fled.