#ic;; je donne ma main à l'enfer sous vos crachats ma rédition (rp)

[oncejaw]

@worstheir​ 

“It was me, you know.” A non-existent wind carries the sound of the voice of a dead boy, whose voice once only mattered to a band of ragtag children turned into war weapons. Not that it made a difference whatsoever. There was a time he had thought it would. Brotherly advice and care, encouragements, leadership and inspiration. Perhaps it had made a difference, for a short while. Since his death, Marcel can only ever come to one solitary conclusion: his voice had ever made the slightest shred of difference. Childishly, he thinks it is the same here. Whatever he whispers along the paths, whatever the breeze of his words may carry, will dissolve into the sand, that silvery, light sand from whence everything and nothing sprouts, from whence titans are scultped and come to die like elephants in their cemeteries.

Surely, whatever he may whisper to a queen in her slumber won’t make a shred of difference either. 

But eternity is very long, and very lonely, for a thirteen year-old little boy with too much to say, and no one to listen. The only visitors here are fleeting dead souls, old titans lumbering at the horizons; a little girl carrying a bucket and fallen kings. Eternity has a way of tripping you down to bare bones and quintessence. He, the child, has never been as selfish and capricious than since he’s died. 

Hollow orbs in lieu of eyes gaze over the small woman (small woman, great and golden soul, rotten to the core; not by her own design, only others and their rotten touch; do they have that in common or not? The boy can no longer tell the distinction). She’s not dead, that one; only asleep, only slipping through the cracks even when she’s not meant to. Marcel doesn’t question it (why should he?). He knows her, though; he’d seen her through the eyes of the other, every time he’d attach himself to Ymir’s soul like a jealous parasite. 

“It was me who asked her to go with them.” Asked her? Ordered her? Had he taken over for the briefest moment, or just implored her? Not even Marcel knows. Perhaps Ymir made her choice freely; but then again, is anyone ever really free in this wretched world already doomed? At his feet, a shadow born from no light or lack thereof stretches, in the shape of a many-teethed, sharp-clawed monster. He’s seen his titan erring in this wasteland before. Replaced by another... and then another. “Are you... angry?” He asks in a murmur. “That she left. That she went with them, instead of staying with you.”

[oncejaw-a]

@gerichteter​ (plotted bc we be weak)

---------- Marcel steps outside the barracks; through the glass window, he sees Connie waving him good night, and he waves back, a confident, albeit tired smile, hanging across thin lips. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to see, nothing but another night in Calaneth District, before Cadets will go to find the relative comfort of their beds. Marcel will not join them yet - there is something he needs to do before indulging in the luxury of rest. Not that he has had many restful nights since they arrived on Paradis; but at least he can indulge in the illusion.

There are many secrets places, in these parts, for young people to hide and meet in secret, should they be determined enough to - never underestimate the creativity of (un)bridled youth. Marcel has no trouble slipping past a couple of guards and sneaking just outside the camp, where he and his comrades usually meet past sunset. Tonight though, he lets Reiner and Annie rest. Tonight, Bertholdt is the only one upon whom he wants to fix his focus.

Heavy clouds partially mask solitary moon hanging above their heads; almost looks as though it has been partially eaten, with bitemarks defining its shape like a crooked smile. Bertholdt is already here when Marcel arrives, sat atop a pile of chopped tree trunks, immobile as a statue. Perhaps he has melded into the wood; perhaps he truly has opted for forever silence, after all. Marcel anxiously hopes not. Only Marcel’s footsteps upon the grass break the quiet of early night. “Bertl. Thanks for coming.” This isn’t about the mission, after all; well, not in the sense they usually mean it. 

“I wanted to talk to you.” Such words are usually accompanied by a sense of urgency, maybe even reproach; in Marcel’s voice, in this instant, they express nothing but gratitude for his friend’s time; gratitude and concern, too. Marcel props himself up and sits next to Bertholdt. Here, in the shadow of night, masks are cast, they strip themselves of their soldier disguise; warriors again, among island devils. All four of them have handled the transition in their own way; Marcel, more than wiling to admit the process has been difficult. Gaining the trust of their fellow soldiers, constantly fearing for the trust Bertholdt, Reiner and Annie put in him after his earth-shattering admission. Keep your head high. Focus on the mission. Keep them safe.

But some things change - and Bertholdt most certainly has. “I just wanted to check in on you. Everything happens so fast, it feels like we barely get the time to talk.” Amber gaze drifts to his friend, attentive, open. “How are you, Bertl? For real.” Please. There was a time Bertl, little Bertl, innocent Bertl, could tell him everything. He hopes this is a light that shines still bright. 

[oncejaw]

@austerulous​

Whenever Marcel dreams, it only ever seems to go one of two ways. Either he falls into the clutches of horrid, blood-spattered fever nightmares, the ones that wake him up with a scream stuck in his throat and exploding in a million silent shards (Marcel never screams, someone had noticed, back in the 104th; they all thought he was brave; he knew a titan had stolen this ability from him the day he had refused to scream at death’s doorstep). And the ones that only ever look like a hazed walk down memoy lane; revisiting old places and old moments, pieces of film cut out and edited back together for him to rewatch over, and over, and over.

Annie was often in those re-runs, and Marcel often wonders why. Those quiet contemplations probably are prime for her silent, eerie presence to slip into. Every time, Marcel seems to recall; those moments on Paradis, around a campfire before the Wall; inside the Walls before an attack, before a plan is meant to be set into motion; every time, he looks up, half dazed, and meets Annie’s eyes, icy and blue and questioning, while they companions agitate themselves in distant conversations. What will you do now? 

And then, he wakes up. 

Today is no different than usual; except instead of his bed, a cot in a trench, or a chair at a desk, Marcel startles himself awake in an uncomfortable chair in a hospital in Marley. His neck and back ache from his awkward sleeping position; plaintive grumble passing past his lips, before golden eyes immediately drift to the bed he has been so faithfully guarding for the past few days. And like every time he wakes up here, his lungs exhale a sigh of relief, as he watches Annie breathe. 

Nightmares be damned. Reality didn’t just miraculously get easier; but he’ll take it with her in it, rather than her ghost ingrained in his conscience like a warning.

“Hey.” Golden eyes meet blue, and his hand reaches out to gently cover hers, light as a feather. “Sorry -  have you been awake long? How are you feeling?” 

[oncejaw]

@betrayerd​

A shiver runs up his spine, icy and disturbing - disturbing insofar as he is not supposed to feel anything anymore. Perceiving is still in his purview, sometimes; little ghost erring up and down endless dunes of silvery sand, catching sight of a lost soul or two here and there, once every few seconds/minutes/hours/years/centuries. He goes to them, sometimes; often. Especially the ones that went out fighting, one way or another. He can detect the blood off them, the remnants of it, the shadow of violence and gore pulsating off of them like a final tremor of heartbeat.

But the boy / the man that stands before him now. He’s different from all the ones that came before.

Blood has never stopped pooling from Marcel’s neck, right where dulled square teeth snapped his head from the rest of his body - a distant memory now, that happened a mere second ago. That neverending blood staining his uniform pales in comparison to the bloodied rot reeking from that person’s broken existence in this realm. He is dead, and he isn’t; he is fragmented and he is so many; he is like him and he isn’t.

Marcel knows who he is. 

“You.” A whisper that feels like a bomb. This is him. The one they came for; they one Marley had sent four children to retrieve, only to lose everything in the process. “It’s you.” 

[oncejaw]

@dehducer​ said:  “ fine. don’t be their hero. be MY hero. “ (slippery slope prompts) (acc.)

There is a fire burning between them. Somehow, it sucks up all the warmth around it, pulls darkness over their little group like a hungry well swallowing whatever light and colour it may seek to cast. That, or Marcel is his own problem: laser-focused on the flames, staring into them until his eyes maybe dry out or melt in their sockets or burn and leave him blind to the world around him. If he’s lucky, he’ll even get all of the above. If he’s lucky, the fire will get him too. Suck him in, swallow him, engulf him until there is nothing let but one last, furious scream to tear the night apart. 

Marcel stares into the fire, his arms draped around his knees, deaf to the conversations happening around him. He hears Reiner’s voice, distant, muffled, detects some sort of explanation of pleading, and Marcel’s heart drops like a sharp-edged stone in his chest. He hears other voices, Jean’s, Connie’s, angry, remorseful, grieving, and Marcel is tempted to rise to his feet and unleash an onslaught of violence on all present company. Maybe then, Mikasa would take out her blade and finish the job started four years ago. Marcel is has always been familiar with grief, robbing him of comrades and friends left and right; plucking unfortunate souls in the slums of Liberio and in the ranks of the aspiring candidates alike, or in the trenches. No one is safe from death, is a valuable lesson he has known for as long as he can remember. 

Yet there is one soul, and one soul only,  That he had moved mountains to preserve.  And now, he is gone. Grief is a pain soaring so high, Marcel sits in it paralysed, numbed, delirious in his own exhaustion in the face of a scene replaying in his mind, time and time again. Pieck startles him out of his horrific zoetrope, momentarily pulls him out of his miserable abyss and abyssal misery. I don’t care anymore. You guys do what you want. He vaguely remembers telling them that, before tearing himself from an attempt at dialogue - he doesn’t remember by who. I don’t care anymore. Eren Jaeger wants to destroy the world? Annihilate all of humanity beyond Paradis? Good for him. Go ahead. 

A world in which his brother is no more, is no world worth surviving. 

Pieck disagrees, of course. Pieck gently shakes him by the shoulder, not so gently shakes him with quiet voice and harsh reality wrapped in words that hook onto the bleeding heart pitifully hanging in his chest. Hero, hero - don’t you see I’m anything but, Pieck? Hasn’t it been almost thirteen years, since he lost any right to the title? Hasn’t killed, lied, betrayed enough to be stripped of an aura bestowed on him by a group of lost child soldiers desperate for a semblance of safe, protective presence? Enough, he tries to tell her. There is no hero. Never was. Please, enough. Grant someone else the honour, this time around.

Fine, she says; and Marcel’s chest caves in on itself. Fine is not Pieck. Fine is giving up; Pieck never gives up. Especially not on him. She is too entangled in him, possesses too strong a grasp on the threads that command him, for him to resist her iron will. Where he will not move, she will make him. Where he won’t move for anyone, he will move for her. Some bonds move from tenderness to cruelty with such ease, the difference between the two vanishes. 

Curled fist rises to his forehead, presses against his skull, a sorry attempt to disperse the fog and mind-numbing, searing pain splitting his head open. Marcel feels Pieck’s eyes on him, expectant, impatient, demanding. She knows what they have to do; and Marcel’s last walls collapse upon themselves. Fine, he sighs, too. Fine. Grief and pain will have to wait. “... we’re gonna need a plan.” He mutters under his breath. Scrapes at what little is left of combative spirit, looks inside for traces of his own personal monster. 

If he can’t fuel himself, there is at least another, buried deep within him, that will never fail to demand blood and retribution. All those years trying to contain it; and now, Pieck summons it, all teeth and claws and hellish roars. With his other hand, Marcel reaches to grip Pieck’s. One more time. 

It’s only one more time.

“We’re gonna need a plan.” He repeats, a low growl at the back of his throat. He stares into the fire. Angry. Exhausted. Resolved. He looks within himself and brushes against something distant, and familiar, and closes his hand on it. Guilt, determination, courage, rage, he doesn’t care to name it. It is fuel, the same old fuel that once guided his hand and voice as a thirteen year-old boy leading an operation on a distant island; and today, still, it is fuel enough. “And every dual blade and thunderspear we can lay our hands on. Preferably without using them on each other.”

[oncejaw]

@massensterben​ said:  “ a part of me still thinks that if i can find the right words, it will save us. ” (misc. quotes)

It is all starting to unravel. No, it has all unravelled already: Reiner rang the bell the moment his last line of defense snapped, the moment when, on top of this wall, the Warrior had left the soldier in the dust and taken over for this one fatal second. Marcel hadn’t been there to see it, Reiner’s abrupt confession; but Bertholdt had told him just enough that he could imagine it. Now sat atop Wall Maria, looking over the ruins of Shiganshina, Marcel welcomes Bertholdt’s muttering in the hollow space in his chest, before tearing his gaze from Reiner to turn it to the youngest member of their group. 

It was never going to last. They had known that from the start; but perhaps Marcel should have been more insistent in reminding them that it wouldn’t. Five years - half a decade on this island, cut off from the rest of the world, cut off from Marley. No one had warned them, how freeing it would be, to be away from it all (how could they?). How easily hope would creep its way into their chest; how easily they might delude themselves in thinking that maybe, just maybe... there may be another way.

It is Marcel’s failure. He should have protected them against such delusions, against the sweet lullabies this strange new normal had sung into their ears. He should have been more stern, more defiant; but truth be told, whenever he would lay eyes on his three friends and the others, having dinner, playing games, laughing together; especially Bertholdt, so young...

He hadn’t had the heart. 

Marcel holds back a sigh, and pours coffee into a tin cup - courtesy of Zeke, of course - before coming to sit besides his friend and offering him the beverage. “Bertholdt.” He starts; a short pause sneaking its way where he didn’t want it to. There is no more space for hesitation. He is not doing Bertholdt any favour by pretending there is, is he? Surely, there is now only one way forward. As sad as it is, as distressing as it is; they always knew it would come to this just not like that. 

“There is nothing you could have told them, or can still tell them, that could change anything.” Yes, he’d heard about that too - from Reiner, this time, shortly before the Jaw had joined the fray. “I’m not blaming you for trying. I even think some of them may have listened. Maybe some of them would have understood, too.” But. There is always a but; and it is his job to keep that in mind. Even if it’s too late. “... but even if they did, there is nothing they could have done to stop any of it. They’re tethered to Paradis and their superiors, just like we are to Marley and ours. We would have been the enemy, and we would have been treated as such, no matter how much sympathy we may have inspired in Connie or even Jean. Their opinions wouldn’t have mattered. Not to the people who do matter.” 

There is no saving Paradis. There is no saving the 104th. There is no us. Not anymore. 

[oncejaw]

@austerulous​ said:  “ when i look at you, i don’t see someone who’s evil, cruel, bad… i see someone who’s lost. who feels alone. but you’re not alone. you have me. “ (slippery slope prompts)

Their legs dangle over the edge of the walls. Above and beyond, endless, crismon skies stretch to horizons the people of the island have never even fathomed. Above and beyond, lies a home from whence they have been exiled; and every passing day is another day towards their inevitable end, towards the end of a life cut so short, they have no choice but to burn everything around them to be deemed worthy of every scrap. Burn, maw, destroy, crush, kill. Evil deeds done to supposedly evil people. Theoretically, the equation cancels itself out. 

Too bad Marcel has stopped buying into Marley’s maths a long time ago. Too bad his original sin reaches far beyond what he has done to this island; his ugliness was born in Liberio, and had infected the nobility of his sentiments for his brother with rot. 

“I know, Annie.” The usual stubborness of his voice softens with the half-smile Annie forces on his lips; her own stubborness overriding his, as usual. This is not a fight he can win: half of it is not a fight he wants to win. Bertholdt and Reiner are off to the Survey Corps; Marcel and Annie now left to their own devices, dynamics shift and masks are lifted; in the past few years, there has never been more unwavering presence at his side than hers, demanding he holds himself to a certain standard, for the sake of their mission, for their common goal; demanding, too, that he treats himself with the indulgence she grants him.

It is a game they have played before, where he listens to all she has to say (he always does, for those who speak the least are often those who have the most to say - she has taught him that much) and quietly accepts her kindness, at least temporarily, if only for this conversation; and keeps close to his heart that part that counts the most: you have me. “I know.” He repeats, and at last tears his gaze from the glorious landscape before them to look at her...

... and his face falls at the same time his heart drops in his chest. “Annie?” Aghast, Marcel stares into the empty space at his side. Atop the wall, the air suddenly turns chill and electric; somewhere below, below his dangling feet, a scream, a terrible, infernal scream, erupts into the air and sends a thundershock from his nape and down his spine. In his chest, the thrumming of his heart becomes unbearable; and at last, Marcel looks down.

Down on a swarm of thousands of titans, all hungry maws, bloodied teeth and open jaws, stretching and reaching and gripping with mindless tenacity. Down on the Female Titan, hanging onto the smooth surface of the wall by crystal claws and sheer willpower alone; desperation raging behind the icy blue of her eyes.

Suddenly, she falls.

“ANNIE!”

The scream dies, strangled in his throat, as Marcel’s eyes blow open in the darkness of his room. His outstretched hand grasps at nothing but a thin blanket, crumples the fabric against his palm with a strength that would easily snap glass and leave the flesh bleeding. Somewhere, outside, one of the Marleyan’s guard’s dogs barks into the night. And Marcel grasps at nothing, at an absence that stuns him blind, leaves him gasping for air as reality catches up with him. You have me, he hears, crystal clear, in the haunted silence of his room. You have me, he hears, holding onto the sheet, a last lifeline while the rest of the room, the bed, everything seems to cave in and swallow him whole, send him tumbling down an endless hill. You have me, he hears, distinctly. The tears in his eyes would almost convince him that she is right here, muttering right at his ear. 

But the silence in his room is deafening; and nothingness is the greatest torture device ever invented. He curls up onto it, lets it sink into his chest, reaches into it and finds nothing nothing, nothing, a huge, unbearable nothing that takes exactly Annie’s shape, a nothing he can fill with nothing but smothered sobs. 

[oncejaw]

@gerichteter​​​​ said: "I said don't touch me," Bertholdt bristles like feral animal, stiff-spined, callous. Without a glance, he jerks his arm back and jabs his elbow into Marcel's ribs. Nothing artful, nothing with strategy to it. In the aftermath of dread, his voice spikes and so does his pulse. All nerves alight in his body, the warrior, cornered and quaking, backs up further. Away from the pity-disappointment, the attention you'd pay a mad horse before putting it down. There's places on his body can't be touched. There's places that got brambles growing in them. Now the thorns are burying into his heart. Bertholdt set up every warning sign: Beware of dog. Now it's not his fault if Marcel gets bitten."Just- stop. Stop all that. Stop hovering, stop giving me that worried look! I'm fine! And even if I'm not— You have some damn nerve playing bedside nurse, you know that? You didn't give a fuck about any of us, you just reared us for the slaughter like everybody else. Sent us all to hell, one after the other. So just... Spare me."

-------------- Pain comes as a shock as much as the blow itself does. It shouldn’t, really. Bertholdt has always been the best fighter among them, second only to Annie; but four years are a long time, and it is the first time Marcel gets the chance to measure his friend’s new strength first-hand. It is the first time, too, that Bertholdt hits him with intent. There is an entire world of difference between sparring and self-defense, between disciplined exercise and survival. He had just never thought he would be the one Bertholdt would have to defend himself against. 

It packs a punch, that realisation. Bertholdt recoils under his touch, kicks and seethes like a feral animal, and perhaps it is his fault. Perhaps he clings onto something that is no longer there, something he can no longer provide, a role he has outgrown years ago while failing to tailor himself a new one. For four years he has been grasping at straws, holding onto shriveled ropes tied to broken masts to keep a sinking ship going. 

In just a few chosen words, Bertholdt makes all the ropes snap at the same time.

The world opens up and collapses under his feet. The abyss swallows him whole but bites him at the nape right before he gets to the bottom. Half of him sinks at vertiginous speed while the other freezes in undescribable pain, remaining limbs twitching in excruciating agony. Marcel’s body is always in movement, restless, alive, but in this instant, he is completely paralysed. You didn’t give a fuck. Bertholdt might as well have punched a hole through his chest with his bare fist and torn his heart out of its rotten altar. 

What is there left, once somebody does that to you? Sideration, first. Marcel looks inwards, and sees the gaping hole, the echo chamber in which Bertholdt’s accusation reverberates in infinite loops. And then? Then there is the bile, bleeding from where a fist squeezes and twists while the rest of the condemnation settles. Sorry, what? He did what? Bertholdt has his arm halfway through his chest already and keeps pushing and drawing blood; how else would Marcel explain the ferric taste in his mouth? You reared us for the slaughter, he says, like everybody else, he says, sent us all to hell, he says. Amber eyes widen under the violence of the blow. You, you, you. Marcel was once part of an us. Today, Bertholdt boots him out. From you and us, to you and them. From comrade and brother to oppressor and executioner.

Marcel searches for his own breath and cannot find it. His lungs have caved in on themselves, and the colour draining from his face washes off in one cold, deadly wave. He does not bend, but he sways. And when the second wave hits, when it comes crashing down with the force of a hurricane, he very nearly breaks. Even his back cannot withstand this much guilt, shame, and anger.

He doesn’t deserve that. Indignation, denial is his first instinct, virulent, swift and sharp as a child screaming out in injustice. He had done his best, hadn’t he? He was thirteen, and put in charge of a suicide squad, and he had done his best - and it turned out his best had not been good enough, but dammit, he had tried. Five years (five years!!) leading a hopeless charge without any of them questioning his decisions, without any of them questioning his position. I never heard any of you three volunteer to take the job, did I? He almost says it; the words dancing on the edge of his lips, on the tip of his tongue like acidic poison, but he keeps them in. Swallows them back, forces them down his own throat, because he heard himself say the words in his mind, and the sound of it birthes a sickening pull in his stomach. He had done his best. He had kept the mission in mind. And all it had amounted to had been four years of hell for Bertholdt and Annie gone missing entirely. Not to mention Reiner -- his very own original sin. He supposes this is part of what Bertholdt is referring to. Who would ever trust someone willing to put a friend’s head on the chopping block to save that of his brother’s? 

Apparently, three desperate children with no other option, who had not wanted to take any other option, and had kept their fears neatly locked away until the rot comes pouring out. Maybe he does deserve that. He forbids himself to think he’s not the only one.

Marcel stands there, split open. Blood beating at his temples, heart thumping in his chest like a madman banging his head against the walls of his cell. 

“I’m sorry I overstepped my boundaries, Bertholdt. I truly am.” Never in his life has Marcel tried so hard to control his own voice; but it leaks though gaping cracks, the simmering magma, the contained savagery trapped in his nape rearing its ugly head everytime its host is under attack -- regardless of where or whom the attack comes from. He has to hold it back, keep it in a chokehold. He would rather suffocate and die on his own rage and ache, than break form of his own immutable, withering, decaying stance.

Marcel’s only salvation, at this moment, is being, perhaps, more stubborn than the young man in front of him, than the open wound Bertholdt has become, determined to set him on fire.

“I’ll spare you the bedside nurse if you want me to, but try as you might, you won’t make me give up on you. Not again.” Once, they had been friends. Brothers. All care, consideration, attention and affection. Have they been stripped of it all entirely? They are both furious dogs unleashed, sinking their claws and teeth into each other until one of them bleeds out; Bertholdt bites to hurt and shake him off. Marcel bites to not let go. He is sorry - he doesn’t know how.

[oncejaw]

@fhynite​ said:  ' you can forgive yourself now. ' (misc. quotes)

It’s the red, that surprised him the most. The one he wears at his arm, the one he used to wear at his arm, that he did not recall to be so bright, and vibrant, and vivid. It’s the red that catches his gaze when he lies awake at night, the armband resting on the back of his chair; it is the splash of crimson at the corner of his eye whenever he moves his arm, or Reiner or Zeke come into view. It cuts deep against the strict beige of his uniform, the dull greys and browns of the internment zone. It looks like an open, bleeding wound that never heals. 

Marcel sometimes thinks it is exactly what it is.

His frown burrows deeper between his brows - that typical Galliard scowl he and his brother sport in equal measure - as he lays the piece of fabric on his desk. In the faint reflection of the window, Frankie’s shock of red hair almost looks like an echo of it; he can feel the drill of her inquisitive gaze between his shoulderblades and keeps them straight and proud, proud Warrior who has finally reached his redemption. Deemed worthy by the highest authorities of Marley, his mistakes and shortcomings forgiven as altruistic reward for his recent successes on the field. 

Some would say Frankie is right. Some woul say he has paid the price for it all, maybe ten times over.

He would beg to disagree; even if rejecting his friend’s kindness and understanding hurts as much as refusing the warmth of a bonfire would a man dying in mortal frost. 

“We’ve had this conversation before, Frankie.” He sighs, unbuttoning the very top of his shirt - those collars always seem to strangle him, the rigid fabric to dig into the skin of his neck, and he has had enough sharp things digging into his neck for a lifetime, thank you very much. He turns around and allows himself to flop onto a chair, hand reaching for the cup of coffee he has elected in lieu of alcohol as his regular poison. His body is worn. The weight of that war will drag on for a while, even with the victory he can wear as a badge of honour. “You know it’s not that simple.” Yeah, she knows. All the pride he can bring his family pales in comparison to what he has done to his brother - and all the blood he has shed, guilty blood, innocent blood, will nevr wash off his hand. No matter how necessary it was to help his family and his home. 

“Did you just come to try and absolve me, or are you taking me out to dinner? I’m starving.”

[oncejaw]

@jawlost​

The last thing he remembers is an explosion... no. The last thing he remembers is the scathing burn of the detonation and shards of shrapnel tearing through his titan’s flesh (the hardened skull of the Jaw the only part left unscathed); and the keen, astute awareness of his brother’s presence beneath the beast’s protective stance. How exactly Porco had found himself smack in the middle of the battlefield and in the line of fire, Marcel had had no time to figure out - nor had he cared enough to even ask himself the question before launching the Jaw above the trenches and into the bloodied, rotten mud of the no man’s land. Marley may have taken him from his brother years ago, but they could never take the brother out of him. Magath’s yelling had been as lost to deaf ears as the rattling of machine guns - even the explosion of the anti-titan rocket had been mere distant echo, compared to the voice of his brother shouting his name - confirming he was alive, confirming, as he had glanced down, that he would be okay.

And then... then everything is a blur. For the past few hours, Marcel has been slipping in and out of consciousness in his military hospital bed, fingers twitching in the heat of the gushes of steam oozing from his maimed body (he would later find out a good chunk of a projectile had hit his titan in the back, severely injuring him in the process). His entire being runs piping hot, regeneration working its cursed magic, regrowing tissue, flesh and limb at lightning speed, leaving only titan marks untouched along aquiline face and tired neck - the Jaw’s rapid regeneration rate has always been a wonder in Marley’s scientists’ eyes; others might read it as the signs of a boy and a monster all too eager to jump back into the fire or make sure his brother had really made it out alive and well. 

His own hitched breathing startles him out of feverish slumber, a hiss of pain smothered against grinded teeth as he struggles for air. The room around him is nothing but a too-bright haze. “Porco?” Hoarse, coarse voice escapes mistreated throat; tens of questions press into his mind, none of which able to take form in coherent words; his awareness and consciousness stuck at a primitive, primal state, an instinct lurching forward and threatening to burst through his chest. Marcel lost a lot of things, over the past few years; himself, his brother, through lies and betrayal; but never the indomitable will to keep him safe at any cost. “Por - “ A couch cuts him short abruptly, silences him in a hiss of steam; and the boy fails to notice the silhouette seated by the side of his bed.

[oncejaw]

@gerichteter​ said: "Marcel," A hand shoots skyward, waving with juvenile enthusiasm. As soon as he spots his friend, he darts away from the loose throng of trainees he has been chatting with. Bertholdt is already taller than most children, no matter how many years their junior. They are worked hard, one and all, and it is only going to get harder: a bunch of hopefuls stumbling blindly through a muddy field with someone firing live ammo over their heads. There are so few moments of light for them, half their childhood already forfeited as they compete to sell the rest of their lifespan, too. But in darkness, in bloodshed and toil, trust children to find the means to play. Bertholdt, too, keeps a crudely packaged bundle under his arm. He comes to a stop before Marcel and proudly sticks out the present he was carrying around all morning. "Happy birthday, to many more!" The words stumble out of his eager mouth too fast. What he presses in Marcel's arms is no bundle at all but a ball. Something that resembles a ball. Tied with strings, wrapped again and again with cloth, stitched haphazardly by a child's fingers, it is slightly lumpy, slightly unfortunate, and nothing like the polished smooth toys they might glimpse in the windows of Liberio's stores on their long trek home. Still, Bertholdt beams, unaware, bravely smiling in the face of his shortcomings. "It's not quite round but it bounces really well. For football. You said you'd show Porco and me how to play if we had a ball, so I made one for us."  (inbox)

-------------- When grown-ups call his name, Marcel always stands at attention, stiff and stern; reminiscent of the big scary-looking dogs some of the soldiers in Liberio wander around with at their heel. When the voice is a few pitches higher, betrays youth and kinship, the attitude is different; more akin to a labrador, Marcel perks up, full attention dedicated to the little boy or little girl asking for assistance or mere presence, tail wagging with either concern or excitement. When he spots Bertholdt parting from the group, he trots up to him, happy smile etched on his face as though he hasn’t seen his friend in weeks (it has been less than twelve hours). Before he can say anything, little Bertholdt pulls the rug from under his feet, surprises him with a youthful grin, rejoiced wishes, and a proud present. Marcel’s heart swells in his chest, and his smile widens across his lips. Of course he knows Bertholdt is a smart little boy - still, he had not expected him to remember the exact date, much less plan for it. 

Nobody owns much, in Liberio. One makes do with what one has, works tirelessly til fingers bleed for minimal results - handiwork and craftsmanship hold more value here than anything else. Bertholdt’s gift is invaluable. A glimmer of happiness, a promise of fun in the grim reality of the hungry maw they call their home, bred for the slaughter - a reminder that they are still, in spite of Marley’s best attempts to beat it out of them, children. That Bertholdt has put so much care and effort and thoughtfulness in making this ball because he remembered a promise he’d made; besides the ball itself, what Bertholdt gifts him is a way of making true to his pledge, and the promise of happier times with his two best friends - and his two brothers. It’s not even like Marcel is an expert at football - more like he’s a quick learner, and observed and mimicked soldiers he saw on their breaks. It’s not even that he really knows the rules - those they can make up as they go. What matters is the game, and the play, and the time shared and torn from Marley’s greedy hands. Play, inside these walls, is an act of rebellion, one Marcel clings to as one does to oxygen. Does Bertholdt even realise what he’s putting in his hands is a little revolution? 

“You made it?” Marcel repeats, amber eyes wide with awe and excitement. Marcel drops the ball, catches it with his foot, watches it bounce back up into the air and catches it with his hands again. A perfectly fine ball, if you ask him! “Bertl, it’s perfect!” Exhilarated, the oldest of the two boys slings his arm around the youngest’s shoulders, higher than they ought to be, but who cares, and ruffles the boy’s dark hair with outpours of affection in grinning eyes. Cheeks flushed with excitement and gratitude, and an odd emotion he can not quite name (perhaps emotion is enough of a word, after all). “You’ll have to tell me how you did it, yeah? Oh, and as a thank you...” He leans in closer, mischevious little conspirator. “... want me to show you a few tricks so you can impress Porco too?” 

[oncejaw]

@austerulous​​​​ said: Marcel was worth the risk.  Annie had reminded herself of that when she emerged from her narrow bunk, stiff and bleary-eyed, the outside world still cradled in the mouth of night.  In the corner of the room, her father slept on, a shapeless mass beneath his blankets.  His breath was a low, steady rasp in his throat, as ominous as the tick of a bomb.Now dawn light began to leak across the inky sky, and she was running out of time.  With flour streaking her too-large sweatshirt, and the hood drawn over pale hair, Annie hurried through the streets.  In her tiny hands, wrapped protectively in clean, tired-looking linen cloth, was a flan dish that she hoped her father would not notice was missing.  Within that, an apple tart, the warmth of which was still bleeding into her palms.  Made with fruit from the first harvest of the season, its golden, caramelised surface was decorated by fanned slices of apple that Annie had carefully – painstakingly – cut into identical slices.On the threshold of the Galliard home, she hesitated, her gaze sweeping over the windows that remained steeped in darkness.  The family were likely still in their beds, clinging to the tail-end of slumber.  There was a certain pang, twisting like a knife, in knowing she would not see Marcel today, would not witness the brilliance of his smile.  A wistful sigh lived and died in her throat as she deposited the bundle on the doorstep.  When at last the sleepy sun peeked over the horizon, its warm fingers would catch on the corners of a folded piece of parchment, slid into place beneath the dish: Happy birthday Marcel. If it’s no good, give it to the birds. Yours, Annie It wasn’t until the woodland loomed into view that she broke into a run.  It wasn’t until she arrived at the clearing she called home that she saw Gabriel Leonhardt was already awake, that he waited for her.  Stiff-spined and stern, he was haloed by the doorframe, his face obscured by shadow.  Annie’s heart turned to lead, plummeting to the lowest point of her body.  No matter.  Marcel was her friend, and he was worth it.

------------- His eyes trail on the writing on the little note, as he sits in the edge of his chair in the Galliard’s kitchen. The words are few and rare, sparsely chosen, and still Annie had taken the time to commit them to paper, same as she had taken the time to bake this apple tart, who knows how early in the morning, for him. In the bunk bed above his, Porco still lies sound asleep; although Marcel has no doubt that the appetizing smell will soon pull him from his slumber. 

Marcel had found the present when he had gone out to fetch the newspapers for his father. His mother had teased him, as mothers do, asking who might have left him an early birthday gift - and a cake, at that! Truth be told, Marcel might very well be the most surprised out of the two of them, though not quite for the same reasons. For his mother, children exchanging gifts is be a normal, mundane, amusing act of tradition, a testimony of friendship. Marcel, on the other hand, knows that when it comes to the candidates, and to Annie, especially, acts of friendship are anything but benign. 

He doesn’t know much about Annie’s family life, outside of the barracks within the city’s walls of the internment zone. All he knows are scraps gathered here and there, a ‘my father’ dropped here, a shrug given when questioned a little too intently. Silence, sometimes, speaks volumes - where his own brother can be abrasive and take up the space by way of voice and presence, Annie takes it by way of quiet secrecy. Of course, there are only a few reasons why a child would keep this quiet about their life at home. Marcel may be young, but he isn’t stupid.  

It is an odd duality, the uplifting of the soul, knowing that Annie, of all people, had gone out of her way to make his birthday a little more special; and the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, vague, indistinct, the same as when, out in the field, one of them gets that ‘I have a bad feeling about this’ impression. As he looks at the tart, he tries to imagine Annie, deeply absorbed in her cooking, tiny hands trained to fight handling pots and pans; wintry blue eyes measuring ingredients, rather than gauging her opponent’s next strike. And behind her, looms a shadow he cannot quite make out. 

Of course Annie’s kindness makes him ridiculously happy. But he can’t help but wonder, if, for it, she didn’t have to pay a costly price.

Two days later, the candidates are back on training grounds. His brother on his tail, Marcel quickly spot a familiar shock of blond hair just a little further ahead; quickly, he leaves Porco to his conversation with Bertholdt (for the past twenty minutes they had been debating the merits of their new football tactics, which they obviously needed to test after today’s training) and rushes towards her: “Annie!” He calls out, making sure his voice reaches her before he does. Marcel knows better than to take Annie by surprise from behind.

Once certain that she heard him, he catches up to her, both hands on her shoulders as he merrily jumps to her side. “Annie! There you are!” That’s right. He doesn’t exactly know the in and outs of her situation just yet; but he forbids himself from repaying her efforts with a gloomy face. What she gets instead, is a wide grin, and eyes full of boyish, childish gratitude. “I got your present the other day. Thank you.” The words scribbled on the note flash before his eyes; his mile widens. “You bet I didn’t leave anything to the birds.” As if!

[oncejaw]

@bellecosebabe​

At first, they were five. And then they were four.

From a purely logistic standpoint, Marcel should have felt relieved. Supervising a small group of child soldiers with monsters dwelling in their chests is already heavy enough of a task - of course he had expressed his scepticism the day he had been told a civilian (or semi-civilian) would hitch a ride with them to Paradis. He’d thought Magath had gone mad (although he hadn’t quite phrased it that way); and still, they had left, all four of them, and Verin on their tail.

Marcel Galliard is as hard-headed as the brother he left behind. Fortunately, however, he might turn out to be a tad more flexible and prone to admitting when he was wrong (maybe). Being a child soldier on a mission is an entirely different ordeal from being a child on a vendetta mission; he and his fellow Warriors moved by an impetus imposed upon them, tasked with a bloodshed beyond imagination, while Verin only had her own agenda to answer to. Yes, Marcel had had his reserves and his concerns. Perhaps he still had some of them. But he had to admit, Verin had far exceeded his expectations every since they stepped foot on this damned island.

And now that their paths are about to part. He cannot help but wonder what will happen to her; or if they will even ever cross paths again.

“You’re graduating tomorrow, then.” He comments, noting the obvious, phrasing it so it stops weighing heavy in the air like the threat of a storm. A midnight reunion in the dead of night, away from prying ears and prying eyes - no one every noticed them disappearing, the little mice scurrying off under the veiled moonlight, under the shadow of looming walls. 

“You’ll be on your own for good from here on out. Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” He asks, golden eyes rising to meet hers. Spoken as a leader, seeking confirmation one of his flock can wander around unsupervised; spoken as a friend, wondering if he might ever see her again.

[oncejaw-a]

@austerulous​ (plotted)

------------- “Galliard. We’ve got what we needed. Let’s go.” “One moment, please.” The politeness of Marcel’s words contrast with the snap of his voice; like teeth closing abruptly, suffering no discussion, even though they both know he is not in any position to dictate the rules. Not officially, at least, not when others are watching; his superior officer scowls and mutters under his breath, while Marcel keeps his eyes towards the horizon line, inwards the island. The wind blows in his back, carries maritime perfumes and echoes of industrial land from whence they came. Another reconnaissance mission, another short stop at the edges of the island that sticks to his skin, regardless of time or distance. Surveying the advances made by the islanders now that the masks are cast; looking back, without admitting it, for the two comrades they left behind.

The moon shines bright and full above their heads. A year, give or take - it has been a little under a year since Zeke and Pieck had come and snatched them away from this island. A year since Annie and Bertholdt were left to rot in the clutches of their friends turned victims turned captors. Island devils. Funny how hypocritical the slur sounds and feels, like acidic bile in his mouth, until he thinks of his captive friends. Captive or worse. Marcel watches, and waits, and sighs. Every month, for every full moon, he comes back here with a small team, a ship nested below the cliffs; a ritual recon mission that almost feels like pilgrimage. Each time hoping for a miracle that never materialises. Marcel waits a little more. A boy of nineteen with no time to waste and too much to lose - still, he waits. “Galliard.” Jaw clenches. At the back of his nape, another Jaw growls, and he stifles it. “I’m coming.” The young man relents. With a last glance over his shoulder, Marcel turns on his heels and makes to walk away.

He stops almost immediately. There is a pull that grounds him right where he stands. A tether that links him to the earth beneath his boots. A tremor in the ground. Marcel stops. Time stops. The earth entire stops spinning around its axis. There is a tremor in the ground, and the hollowness of his chest amplifies it until his heart is sent pounding through every fiber of his body. No way. They haven’t seen any titan this far back from the walls. There is no way... Sunken eyes open wide and Marcel jolts around, gaze drilling into the night of Paradis. Far in the distance, against bleak backdrop of moonlight, a single silhouette moves; fast. Tall. A shock of blond hair as single spot of colour against the black of night. 

                      Annie.

“Galliard!” Marcel hears his superior’s voice, barking at him as he bolts out of his spot and starts running. “Galliard, what do you think you’re - what the... is that...?” “Ready the ship! Hurry!” Marcel yells back - and he keeps running. Always been a fast runner, that one; and yet he is fairly confident that he has never ran faster in his entire life. Annie. The Female Titan draws near; Annie. Suddenly a flash of light startles him; no, a reflection of moonlight. ODM gear. Military Police or Survey Corps; about a dozen of them. They followed her here. They’re here to take her back. How, when, why, it doesn’t matter.

                      “ANNIE!”

The red of his blood spills across the green of grass; lightning crackles and rips the air in half; his call, visceral, turns into savage roar. For the soldiers of Paradis too, time comes to halt; temporarily first, as they ponder upon the threat they cannot yet see - permanently as the claws of the Jaw tear through the night and through their flesh. His mission has changed now. This is no longer reconnaissance; this is a damned rescue. And if they are to see this through and avoid Marley’s wrath, if they are to bring her home, none of these soldiers can be left to tell the tale. Annie. Home. They’ll figure out the rest later.

[oncejaw]

@gerichteter​​​ said:  ❛   i- i didn’t mean to hurt anybody…  ❜

----------------- Click. That’s the sound Marcel thinks he remembers hearing inside his skull, the first time he had properly realised. Like somthing clicking into place, like a telescope finally adjusted. His had come much sooner, upon their first real mission in their titans, really; which is no fault of Bertholdt or his own, really. Marcel is older: he is meant to understand these things better. His titan is much closer to the ground, too. Its meets its victims face to face before its claws slices them into dice or its jaw crushes their skulls under its teeth. 

Bertholdt is so high up, in the Colossus, Marcel always wondered whether he saw anything; whether he realised. He had hoped not, and until now, he had had no reason to believe otherwise. Of course they know what their titans do, when they unleash their wrath upon Marley’s enemies. But there is a huge difference, between knowing, and knowing. 

Now he knows. Under the tent back at camp after yet another successful battle, Marcel feels anything but victorious, gazing upon the little boy wrapped in a thin blanket. Bertholdt stares right ahead, into nothingness, into himself. Marcel has seen them too. The bodies. He has seen his own, and he has seen the ones left in the wake of the great Colossus; barely recognisable, charred beyond all hope in the most clement of cases. 

The death Marley asks of them is beyond the scope of imagination; and no one cares what it does to the children pressing the trigger.

There is a lump in Marcel’s throat. If he is not careful, he know he might choke on it; so he tries to swallow it, and ignore it, and he goes to kneel in front of Bertholdt. The lines around her eyes and jaw still scream of the monster inside; when he speaks, his voice still rings raw with it. “Bertl. Look at me.” His eyes remain on his friend without flinching, until the little boy finally looks up. 

“You did what the Colossus is made for. You did it because our superiors told you to. That’s what we Warriors were trained and selected to do.” There is a hard line in his words; matter-of-fact, straightforward, carefully refraining from actually formulating an opinion. Opinions are not his place. He is a tool in Marley’s belt - tools are not supposed to look at their task and weep. Tools are not supposed to have nightmares either, but that is a question he knows the brass could not care less about. 

“You didn’t have a choice. And listen...” Marcel’s hand moves to cover Bertholdt’s. “ - I know it’s very hard, but you should remember that, you know. That you didn’t want to hurt anyone. That’s good - it means you won’t unless you have to.” And, maybe, is what is important. Because that’s maybe all that they have left; their intentions, when their actions are dictated by someone else.

[oncejaw]

@jawlost​​ said:  ❛   you brought this on yourself.    ❜ - gallibros when marcel survives and comes home for the pain

----------------- The hit is as expected as it is sudden and brutal. Porco’s fist connects with  his brother’s face, and the pain instantaneously splits his skull open - or maybe that is a natural follow up to the back of his head hitting the wall. The world goes black and an explosion of stars dances before his eyes; five years, and Porco apparently has not learnt to pull his punches. To be fair, he probably had not had any intention to. Marcel can’t say he can blame him. 

He stays on the floor like an old, beaten dog. Marcel Galliard never bends his back; never stays down, offers his neck for execution. Today might very well be the first time. A heat sears and spreads through an entire half of his face, paralysing, debilitating. Not as bad, of course, as the scathing, boiling fire eating him up inside; shame is always that much more powerful once it is laid bare in the open; before the very eyes of the person who has been wronged. 

You brought this on yourself.

Yeah. Yeah, he expects he did. 

He has been imagining this scene for years. Truth is an ugly monster, that only grows in monstrosity the more it remains hidden; it rears it terrible head and burns everything to the ground in a fraction of a second. Marcel had known this day would come, but his brother’s fury is every single one of his worst nightmares come to life. The anger. The disappointment. The betrayal. The hurt. Marcel sees it all the second he turns his gaze back to him. His brother’s eyes drill into him and slice him open like Paradisian blades; somewhere deep inside of him, an eleven year-old little boy wants to scream. Wants to rip himself from his heart and run to his brother and cry until he drowns in his own sorrow, or until his voice gives out after begging for forgiveness for hours on end. But he must silence him. A scared child may have made a decision, a long time ago, but it is the adult who must bear responsibility. Own your decision, Galliard. 

“I’m sorry, Porco.” His voice comes out croaked and broken; steam hisses and rises in thin volutes from where blood drips as if to add insult to injury. It’s done. The truth is out. He cannot take it back, no matter how badly he wants to. It was me, Porco. Seven years ago. I convinced the brass that Reiner was a better candidate than you. The guilt burns like acid in his chest, where it has fermented for far too long; seven years! “I’m sorry.” Shit. He slips; panicked, he feels the child inside escape his grasp and bolt forward; old tears from around a campfire welling under his eyes again. “I know what I did was wrong, okay? I freaked out. I just -- I just wanted to keep you safe!” Marcel stumbles on his last word; something cracks and he is eleven again, as desperate and helpless and terrified. What a crock of shit. He isn’t owning up to anything, as he faces his brother’s wrath - he has completely forgotten how.