Chapter Text
Bertolt is dead.
He knows that he's dead. He knows he was Bertolt. But it isn't important. Nothing was ever important. Or everything was, equally. It doesn't matter.
He moves softly through currents of dark, like a leaf in a slow, underground river. For a day—or maybe a hundred million years. Who knows. He sleeps, held close by the quiet flow of it all, and sometimes wakes up remembering that he used to be, even if he doesn’t remember what it was like.
The leaf that was Bertolt goes where the Black River takes him. Through places where lights pulse deep, deep down below. Places that hum or sing. Places where the silence is so deep that it's a river of its own. He doesn't mind. It just is.
A sound.
He doesn't know what the sound is. Doesn't need to know. It's just a sound, somewhere far away. An echo from someone else's dream.
It comes again. It has a pull to it. The pull makes him remember aching. He doesn’t ache, but now he remembers that he did. Was it a long time ago?
He remembers time.
The current changes.
The sound sings out concentric waves of memory that ripple through the river, each humming him a story he’s forgotten. A record of his life like rings inside a tree. He passes through them all, moving towards the center, and listens.
Bertolt remembers that for him being alive meant moving through the world on two legs and choosing where to go, instead of moving quietly (not needing to move but not minding moving) with the current wherever it takes him.
He remembers hearing her voice and wanting to get closer to the hum of it, taking his first determined steps. Her laughter, celebrating that he was learning how to choose where to go.
Running, jumping. The sharp surprise of his first scraped knee and the dull burn that followed.
Fleeing over cold grass, terror screaming through every sinew and vein. Leaving footprints in blood. Far away from home.
Throwing himself through the air. The thud of his heels against tree trunks. Making showers of leaves. Feeling strong. Trusting his own strength.
Wrapped around the body of another. The ecstasy of a bite or a bruise or a kiss. Skin against skin.
Surrounded by flesh and fire, craving explosion, and also feeling strange and cold. Not wanting to cause pain, but not minding causing pain. The first time he’d ever not minded causing pain. A sense of wonder at this new, clean, icy, emptiness inside himself. Stomping whole blocks of houses into the ground.
The rings that are closest to the center ache the most.
He remembers that he died hurt and incomplete, with no legs at all, not believing right up until the very moment of his death that he could end like this— so unfinished.
He remembers a name leaving his lips, carried on his last breath.
Then raw, blinding, pain. Terrible pain. Pain like a white light that swelled and grew, and consumed him, and surrounded him, and when it finally receded there was no him left inside it anymore.
And then he was moving through the dark. He’s been dead, soft and slow on the Black River, for so long. Feeling nothing but acceptance.
***
The sound insists. He has to get closer to the hum of it. As he gets closer he becomes more aware of the river around him, and aware that he's a separate thing from it. He's coalescing, trillions of diffuse particles being pulled from all around, back into a whole. A single mind planted within that whole, contained, branching through it like roots.
When he's all collected, gathered up into his own cohesive density of matter and energy, a closed circuit, distinct from everything around him, the Black River roars away and leaves him behind like a seashell on the sand.
He remembers what it feels like to be Bertolt.
***
Bertolt's surprised, waking up like this. But it feels natural to be himself. It's familiar. Nothing has changed. He's exactly where he left himself. He still fits.
He just exists for a while, content to be Bertolt, not really overthinking things.
Bertolt?
Who’s saying that?
This question makes him remember: things here have reasons, so there must be a reason that he’s here. He should probably be asking more questions. The River wouldn’t have gone through all that effort for nothing, would it? He’s no expert on the River, but he’s pretty sure this isn’t standard practice.
So, then, why’s he here? He feels around.
Something's off. Did it always feel like this? He's himself, but he’s inside something that isn't himself. He's intertwined with it, but not one with it.
Oh. He remembers this. He knows what this is. He'd forgotten. A word oozes up, bitter and unpleasant: Titan. He's inside his Titan. Is that what he's here for? If that's all he’s here for then he'd really rather not-
Wait. The Titan is moving. Why? He's not moving. Why is it moving without him? Why is it here at all? None of this makes sense.
He tries to move his mind into the Titan. He can't. He's a passenger. He tries to see with his Titan's eyes, but he can't do that either. He can only feel it—swinging, hitting, holding something alive in its hand and then crushing it, blood running down its fingers, tearing things with its teeth.
The blood in his mouth tastes like aching. It tastes like a name. Whose name? The name is the sound that reminds him of aching.
And the Titan is searching for things to hurt.
What? Why? Bertolt doesn't want to cause hurt. Why's he being used to cause hurt?
A familiar weight in his throat. A prickling, swelling pressure in his eyes. He has a throat. He has eyes. A tear runs down his face. He has a face.
One day, or a hundred million years later, even though he's dead, they're still using him for war.
Those ASSHOLES.
Bertolt opens his eyes.
He’s in the Paths. Sand and stars stretch away in all directions.
It’s not that different from the River, actually. All these little specks of sand, making ripples, gathering themselves together to form a specific thing for a while, and then dissolving again so they can go off and be part of something else. The sand isn’t all that exciting, but the sky...
He doesn’t have time to think about the sky. He has questions. He looks in every direction before he thinks to look down.
Armin?
Bertolt's not particularly happy to see Armin, but it's fine.
Armin? Hi. Do you know why we’re here in the Paths? Why are you lying all drippy and limp on the sand? Are you dead too? You look dead.
No. Not all the way dead. There's still some of Bertolt inside Armin, and Bertolt can tell that those parts of him are still alive.
Bertolt casts his mind around, like running his fingers through a sandbox.
Ugh. Zeke's here too.
Coming back hasn't been very enjoyable, so far. Not sure it was worth the trouble.
Well, nothing for it. Someone's using Bertolt to kill people, and Armin's not quite dead yet. And Zeke's here, and Zeke doesn't seem quite dead yet. Maybe they can do something out there, since Bertolt can't.
Bertolt moves the sand under Armin and brings him closer to Zeke.
Armin seems unhappy to be here, and he screams at himself for a while about it before he notices Zeke, who's sitting on the ground wallowing and building a sandcastle—probably congratulating himself on the metaphor. They talk about leaves and baseballs, and what life is. About the point of it all. Bertolt waits around impatiently, not being acknowledged.
Zeke calls others like him out of the river. Ymir, Marcel. Bertolt wants to run to them, but they look into each other’s dark eyes across the sand and all of them know there isn’t time. The Living need them, and their Titans are out there, being all wrong.
At least Bertolt didn't have to get called out of the River by Zeke. If he had, he would've told the River to turn right around and bring him back.
Armin remembers that Bertolt exists.
"Bertolt... I took everything from you. Your life. Your power. Even your precious memories..."
Okay. Thanks. Didn't hear an actual apology in there, but it's fine. I think my Titan is killing people, so...
"That's why I know, we can't just stay here!"
Armin. Zeke. Always an angle. Even when they're doing the right thing. Has to be a whole speech, instead of just asking. You two are so alike it's not even funny.
"Lend me your strength!"
You pompous blonde fucks! Lend me yours! I woke up before you did! Yes, I'll go stop my Titan from killing people. That was the point. Make it possible. Open the path. Stop yapping! Chop chop! I'm pretty sure I just felt armor in my hand.
***
Bright, clear light. Hot air pushing cool air. The weight of a body moving where he tells it to. Colors and sounds. The taste of smoke. The world! Ah. Incredible things. Being alive really was something.
Hi, world. Woah. Nice blue sky, I think I missed it, but otherwise it really looks like hell out here. What've you all been doing since I've been gone? I die for one minute and the whole world falls apart. That's a lot of titans.
There's Annie! You look like hell too. But you're alive. I'm glad. I wasn't sure. Stay still, Annie, you've got a titan on your back. Let me get it for you. Swat. Heh.
This isn't so bad. These titans are empty, like practice dummies. Kind of fun, nothing gets hurt. Whap. Whap. Knock them off this giant skeleton thing one by one, like shooting cans off a fence. Smash them to dust. Sweep them all off in one go and watch them fall all the way down. Titan confetti.
What is this anyway? Why are we all on a giant skeleton? Why are there a bunch of practice dummy titans on the giant skeleton? What’s happening? Was my Titan being a practice dummy when it was hurting people? Why are there thousands of Colossals? Why'd I get stuck being the Colossal if there were this many Colossals somewhere? Annoying.
Big explosion over there. Something just shifted. There's a fight. It’s hard to see.
Oh...
Is that...
***
Bertolt sprints over the sand. He doesn't want to go back to the Black River. He knows that if he does he won't mind it anymore once he's there. Nothing matters there. But it matters now, because he's been brought back. He knows there isn't much time, everything's winding down out in the world. Time is different here, but the hourglass is still running out. He goes to find Her. She still runs things for as long as there’s still sand in the Paths. He knows where to go.
He tells her all about it. He gives her the short version.
He asks if she can help him.
There are millions and millions of lives like yours, says the Founder, especially today, because of the Rumbling. Most people die unfinished, with unanswered questions, and unfulfilled dreams, and regrets, not believing they could end while being so very incomplete. Almost everyone. Today the Black River is full of disappointed souls. Mothers-to-be. Newlyweds. People who had just healed from deadly illness. Babies looking forward to their whole lives. Lovers just walking into each other's bedrooms. People on the very last page of a book. They died as badly as you did. Many died worse. Many lived less. Almost all not understanding why. None of the animals understood why. They would all come back if they could. If they weren't already in the River. If they're in the River then they don't mind either way. And even if I felt I should help you, I'm not sure I could.
I know, he says, but I can only speak for myself. If I'd stayed dead I wouldn’t have minded either way about anything. But since I'm already here, I have a question about Armin.