Chapter Text
It's hard to say what's worse. The furious flurry of white surrounding them, blocking all means of communication and direction, or the biting cold – freezing them so entirely that one hard knock might shatter their bones. Or maybe the worst thing is having to listen to Jean's muffled curses for the past three hours.
They're not supposed to be here. Or at least, Armin doesn't think they are. Having lost sight of their comrades hours ago, the snow obscuring their vision doesn't seem to be letting up anytime soon and the ruthless wind seems determined to knock them off their horse. The horse meant for one rider currently carrying two through this wretched storm.
Armin's own horse had abandoned him shortly before they lost the rest of their comrades – the animal had an odd sense for approaching danger, and had bolted when the company had been about to depart their camp. Curious that none of the other horses seemed to perceive the incoming blizzard when this one had, but that wasn't Armin's primary concern at the time.
Left empty-handed, and with his friends in a separate troop miles behind them, Armin had found himself seeking out his best chance at surviving the mission. And Jean had seemed more or less accepting of his new saddle partner.
“Just don't fall off.” He'd rasped, his face pink and irritable from the cold.
So far Armin has kept to his word and remains upright in the saddle, if only to prove that he will not be a burden to his travelling companion. But that determination feels insignificant now that they've become stranded, victims to the sudden storm that has been brought upon them like the wrath of a god. A really pissed off god.
Jean's horse is barely moving as it pushes forward against the wind, probably only fueled by the encouragements her master grinds out between his teeth. And Armin suspects the snow whipping against his face would sting, if he had any feeling left in his body at all.
The horse stumbles, and Jean swears as he tries to steady them again. They stay upright, but the jolt breaks Armin's hold around Jean's waist and his arms hang loosely by his sides. The standard army size glove slips from his hand and is lost to the wind.
He lets out a mournful sound, too faint for Jean to hear. His hands may have lost all sensation but that glove still might have made a difference between keeping or losing his fingers. But maybe he'll freeze to death before that happens. What a comforting thought.
Before he can think of it any further Armin's stomach swoops, and for a moment he's so relieved he feels something other than the coldthat he doesn't immediately realise that he's falling through the air.
Thrown from the horse, Armin splutters as he tumbles down what he guesses must be a steep hillside hidden beneath the layers of white. The world spins violently, and Armin receives earfuls of snow no matter which direction he falls. When he thinks he's finally reached level ground, he thrusts out his hands and tries to grasp at any kind of solid anchor. A stupid move, he realises since he could easily break a wrist doing this.
But by some miracle he manages to force himself to a stop and struggle to his feet without injury. Sure he's a little winded, but it could've been a much nastier fall.
Jean. Armin whirls around, squinting until he sees dark shapes a little further away. He stomps towards them, dreading what he'll find as the sound of distressed whines reach his ears.
He doesn't let his relief show when he sees that Jean's on his feet, unharmed as he paces around their crying horse sprawled out on the snow.
Oh. Armin realises. Oh no.
“Her leg.” Jean chokes out. “She won't be able to – She can't - “
Armin tries not to wince as he sees the unnatural bend of her back leg, hoping the white there is just the snow and not bone. There's no way they can even attempt to help her – not with what little supplies they have now scattered across the hillside, buried in the snow. And without a horse their chances of surviving this mission have dwindled down to almost nothing.
No one will even recover our bodies. We'll be lost to the snow.
The thought that his friends will never know for certain what happened to him scares Armin more than anything else.
Think, Armin. A voice that's not his own says in his head. It's what you're best at. You can fight that way.
Survive. A different voice tells him simply. And that's all he needs to remember his promise to his friends – to live no matter what.
He made sure to memorise their map and route before the mission, so he's certain he can at least give a good guess as to where they are. Assuming he has their timeline down correct (five hours from their last camp, three since they lost their company), and they've been more or less travelling straight north, they should be around Freyr's Reach by now – grassy fields that stretch west for 50 miles, with steep hillsides to the east.
So they're a little farther east than they're supposed to be – but this means they're only a mile or so off the Iron Path which leads to a stone wall of caves, the base lined with caves that are known to be used by smugglers. It's not ideal – it'll take them even further than their original destination, and who knows what awaits them there but it's their best chance at making it through tonight. Because Armin knows for sure what could creep up on them out here.
“Help me gather the supplies.” Armin calls over the wind to Jean, gesturing at the hillside they just tumbled down.
But his companion is still staring in dismay at his steed, biting his blue lips and shaking his head. He seems more upset by her injury than his own fate. Or perhaps he hasn't realised the extent of their situation yet.
“We need to salvage what we can.” Armin reminds him. “Then make for the Iron Path and take shelter in the smugglers' caves.”
Jean turns at that. “That takes us even further away from the others.”
“We'll die if we try to go any further north. The next meetup point isn't for another two hours, not counting how the storm'll slow us down. We won't make it without... without... “
Armin realises he never asked the horse's name, and gestures at her shifting figure. Her panicked movements have slowed enough to mean that her end is near.
“Bearoody.” Jean says, casting a miserable look over her.
Armin nods and swallows. “Bearoody. We can't help her, Jean. But we can try to help ourselves.”
Jean's jaw clenches, looking as though he's fighting the urge to spit and curse and rage at the grey sky. But he nods stiffly and stalks towards the hillside, Armin in tow.
They save what they can, which isn't much. Their empty water bottles, a compass, a spare pair of gloves, flares and a torn map. Jean hands Armin the gloves and the compass before shoving the rest in his pack.
“The flares are damp.” Armin points out. And they would be almost impossible to see in this weather anyway.
“Just in case.”
Armin doesn't want to dampen Jean's spirits any further, so he says nothing and pulls on the gloves. A quick consult with the compass has him pointing in what he's sure is the right direction to the Iron Path, and starts towards it. He immediately has the sense that Jean isn't following him, and turns to confirm that he's right.
The young man is still gazing at Bearoody's figure, chewing his lip as his eyebrows crease. There's obvious concern there, as well as guilt in his eyes. It's an expression that Armin's become far too used to seeing on his comrade's face.
“Jean.” Armin calls out as softly as he can. “We should go.”
Whatever Jean says is lost to the wind. But as Bearoody gives one last weakened whine, he turns around and moves swiftly towards Armin without looking back. As they push westward, Armin thinks about reaching up to pat Jean's shoulder. Saying he feels sad about Bearoody too and wishes they could've helped her. But he has a feeling Jean's in no mood to appreciate awkward guilt-sharing. So he keeps his hands to himself and tugs his hood farther over his head, fingering the pocket knife still kept deep in his coat.
They battle against the weather for another fifty minutes or so, thrown off course by a half hour due to the wind, before they eventually stagger onto the Iron Path and reach the wall of caves.
The dark stone stretches towards the murky sky, massive and ominous as the only visible landmark for miles. It makes Armin very conscious of the fact that his own crimson coat is the only speck of colour in the broad landscape of white and grey. A beacon for anyone or anything to see.
“Nobody uses these anymore, right?” Jean looks to Armin.
Armin doesn't reply because he doesn't know the answer. Instead he adjusts his gloves once more and stomps towards the wall, finding that the closer he gets to the stone the farther away he wants to be from it.
“Should we climb up a bit?”
Armin glances up, sweeping his eyes across all the caves at various levels on the wall. The height would certainly give them an advantage against predators on the ground. But the climb itself would be difficult enough in mild weather, and Armin has no confidence that they could scale the wall in a storm without injury.
“No. It'll be easier for help to find us if we stay close to the ground.” Armin concludes. “And the higher we go, the colder it'll be.”
Jean doesn't argue, but instead nods firmly like he agrees with Armin's assertion. And Armin feels a little bad for implying that the others finding them again is even a possibility.
His unease only grows when they're faced with one of the cave entrances – a gaping mouth of black nothingness with no telling what lies inside it. He's still working up the courage to move his feet when Jean moves ahead cautiously, his hand pressed to the wall to steady himself. Armin follows his example, ensuring he keeps close enough behind Jean to snatch him out of harm's way if need be.
“How deep do you think it is?” Jean's hushed voice echoes. The noise of the wind seems muffled against the stone already.
“I really couldn't say.” Armin glances back as though to check the entrance is still there. It is, but the confirmation isn't really any comfort.
There's a hard thud as Jean trips and swears, and loud clinking noises reverberate against the walls.
Glass? Armin thinks as he grabs the back of Jean's coat, and they both stumble backwards. The wall supports them both and neither moves another inch forward, instead choosing to squint into the darkness at their feet.
“Did you kick something?”
“Yeah, felt like wood I think. But did you hear that ringing? Sounded like -”
“Glass.” They say together.
Jean crouches, tentatively stretching his hands out in front of him. He slowly moves them through the air until they meet something solid. Grasping it, he gives whatever it is a slight shake and the clinking noises repeat. He rummages for a moment, then lets out a short laugh.
“Well, at least we know what they were smuggling.”
He hands something to Armin who takes it, realising it's a bottle full of liquid. He twists the cork out with his knife, sniffs the liquid and recoils at the strength of it.
“This is... alcohol, right?”
“Yeah, and lots of it.” Jean drags a crate of bottles into better lighting. “We're having a party tonight, eh?”
“Uh, never mind.” He mumbles when Armin shoots him a puzzled look.
A quick lap around the walls leads them to discover that the cave is actually rather shallow, and they find nothing else other than a few more wooden crates of the smugglers' alcohol stock. And when Jean suggests that they make a fire, Armin has to hide his awe as Jean empties one of the crates and smashes it into splinters against the wall.
He stands watching, hands tucked under his armpits, as Jean attempts to create friction with the larger shards of wood. His brows crease, muttering curses under his breath as he crouches over the cold stone. It could be an hour before he manages to create a fire that way.
“It's too frigging cold for this.” He mutters, but doesn't stop what he's doing. “We need tinder. I lost my knife in the fall though. Could you -”
He pauses as he looks over at Armin, now sitting cross legged with a shard and pocket knife in hand, peeling off thin strips of wood that curl and drop on the ground.
“Uh, okay. That'll do.” Jean clears his throat, his voice raw from dehydration. “You wanna bring those over?”
Armin nods, scoops up what he's scratched off so far and takes them across. Jean's hands are still moving furiously over the spindle stick he's fashioned out of the wood, his back to the cave entrance to block as much of the draft as possible.
They work in silence for a while, no sounds other than Jean's grunts, the grating of metal on wood and the wind slamming against the stone outside. As they labour quietly, Armin thinks about what to do next.
The weather doesn't seem to be letting up any time soon, so they'd best spend at least tonight in the cave. If they can, they should investigate the other caves – who else knows what the smugglers have hidden away up there? Canned foods, extra clothing – even weapons could be of some use at this point.
Water. Armin realises. Keeping themselves hydrated is the priority. They would need to melt some snow, but an actual fire would be a good start.
“Ow.” Jean hisses as sparks graze his fingers, tossing the wood onto the tinder pile. He blows on the nest, breathing the fire into life.
It's small, but they toss on more splinters and Armin asks Jean which of the scattered bottles contain vodka. Jean looks at him sceptically before handing over a tall clear glass. He raises his eyebrows when Armin takes a swig and splutters before asking Jean to move back.
“Wait, you're not -”
Armin tips the bottle over the flames, leaning back when the fire flickers blue and flares larger. Heat instantly washes over him, and he hears Jean groan and shuffle closer.
“Ugh, thank god. I thought my toes were going to fall off.”
“They still might.”
“Have I ever told you that you have such a comforting presence?”
Armin looks at him, and tells him no, Jean has never told him that.
Jean huffs a laugh, hovering his now bare hands close to the fire and rubbing them together. The colour's returning to his face, and the flames reflect in his copper-coloured irises. Distracting. Armin wonders how the fire looks in his own eyes, and if Jean would notice.
Water. He reminds himself.
Tucking his hood snug around his ears once more, Armin takes a deep breath and moves towards the cave entrance once more.
“Whoa, where are y- “
“We need to stay hydrated.”
Jean immediately catches Armin's meaning, and together they stuff handfuls of snow into their water bottles and leave them by the fire. They sit apart – Jean stares at the flames as though he could make it burn brighter through sheer willpower, and Armin occupies himself with producing more tinder. His throat still feels scorched from the vodka, and he wants to rinse the taste away.
He's not sure what came over him when he gulped down the clear liquid. He supposes he might've had some twisted subconscious idea that it would make him feel better. That it would ease this heavy weight in his gut. It's in his head too – a dense and murky feeling of... of what, hopelessness? Misery? Whatever it is, it's not unfamiliar to Armin. He's never thought to put a name to it, because all he knows is that he wants it gone.
He tentatively reaches out a hand, swipes his fingertip across the rim of the glass and puts his fingertip in his mouth. His nose wrinkles reflexively at the taste – it's difficult to label the flavour, but he feels as though he's just inhaled smoke.
Icy smoke. He thinks, because he's really not sure how else to describe it other than just “disgusting”.
Before he can ponder it any further, he takes the bottle and swallows half of its contents.
“Yeah, that's not going to help the whole dying of thirst thing.” Jean comments wryly as Armin retches.
“It burns.” He gasps, wiping his mouth. It's as though he's consumed liquid fire, and he needs to sit down just to let the sensation wash over him. Except he's already sitting down. Is it possible to sit down even further? He'd probably feel better if he could.
Lying down. Armin realises. That is probably what I'm thinking of.
He does just that, throwing an arm across his forehead and laying back on the ground. He stares up at the stone ceiling, thinking that if nothing else the vodka is definitely warming his insides.
Am I drunk yet?
“Not drunk already, are you?”
“...I'm not sure.”
He can hear Jean heaving a sigh from across the cave and then the rustling of material. Next he feels a nudge, and lifts his head to see Jean offering a water bottle.
Armin shifts onto his elbows and considers it, then awkwardly sips at the slush inside before returning to his glass.
“Why?” Jean asks.
Tilting his head, Armin thinks how to phrase it. Because how does he explain all the murky thoughts in his head without upsetting his companion? Without exposing the bitter and wretched truth of their fate?
“I'm scared.” Armin says, not sure if that's what he wanted to say. But now he has, and Jean's expression hasn't changed.
“Tell me the truth then,” Jean says, his voice quiet. “Is there any chance of us making it through this?”
A minuscule one. Armin wants to say but he won't. Not because it isn't true, but because it'll be easier on them both if Jean still has some vague hope of being rescued. They still could be – after all there's never complete certainty of anything, just probability.
“There's not a lot we can do. If we stay here where it's warm, we can wait for help to find us or for the blizzard to die down. And we can check the rest of the caves for food. And then there's - “
Armin raises the bottle and Jean's eyebrow raises a fraction. So maybe it's a rather passive plan, though it's certainly more appealing than his next suggestion.
“Or we could go back out there. Brave the weather and hope we somehow find the others before something else finds us.”
“But you said it yourself. If we go back out there in that, we... we’ll die, Armin.”
He's giving Armin a look of pained disbelief. As though surely – surely – Armin cannot be telling him there's no other way. That there must be some hope. That their best chance isn't just sitting tight and waiting.
But it is their best chance. So Armin returns Jean's stare with his own solemn gaze and offers the vodka.
“Then drink up.” He says.
It takes everything he has not to look away, as Jean's eyes burn into his. Then he winces slightly as Jean abruptly breaks the stare to stand up and walk away.
He searches through a crate with a clattering of glass against glass and brings out a rounded green bottle. After some vigorous twisting, he pops out the cork and turns back around. Settling on the ground once more, he raises his bottle before clinking it against Armin's.
“I guess we're having a party after all.” Is all he says before knocking back his drink.
Surprised, Armin holds his own to his chest and waits for Jean's reaction. At first he seems unaffected, tilting his head back down to look at Armin with a blank face. Then his expression contorts, his mouth twisting in disgust.
“Ugh, that was awful. Why does anyone drink this crap?”
“I think,” Armin muses, smiling a little as Jean's tongue lolls out of his mouth to air out the taste. “That the flavour is just something you need to put up with to get the result you want.”
“Oh?” Jean challenges, already scanning the other bottles now scattered on the cave floor. “And what result are we aiming for?”
“Oblivion.” Armin answers immediately, and Jean bursts out laughing.
That sounds nice. Armin thinks vaguely. Jean's making nice noises.
“You are joking, aren't you?” Jean's laughter trails off as he notices Armin spacing out a little. “That's just your weird morbid sense of humour, right?”
Armin hums aloud, squeezing his own drink tight before taking another sip. Yes and no, he is and isn't kidding. Drinking himself into an oblivious stupor is his intention; partly out of curiosity, mostly out of some hope it will quench this despair for a while.
But perhaps his word choice was a little over dramatic. So he assures Jean that yes, it's probably just his own dark humour surfacing.
Together they experiment with the rest of the smugglers' stock, tasting and gagging then snorting at each others' grossed out expressions. Not much is said between them, though it feels as nothing needs to be. For all Armin knows, Jean's still thinking about Bearoody and isn't in the mood for talking. He could ask, but he's not sure he's really up for it either. It's much easier to just quietly enjoy the spreading bubbly sensation in his stomach and shuffle closer to the dwindling fire.
“I think we need more tinder.” Jean points out, tossing on another shard.
“More tinder.” Armin repeats with a nod.
“More vodka too.”
“Yes.” Armin smiles triumphantly, flourishing his drink and cradling it to his chest.
“I meant on the fire.” Jean snorts and Armin stares at him.
“Use the wine.”
“Wine doesn't burn as well, Arm -”
“I don't care.”
Jean's grinning, shaking his head in disbelief and - yes, this is much easier. Right now all they're letting themselves worry about is keeping the fire ablaze, even if Jean has to wrestle the means to do so out of Armin's hands.
To save themselves that potentially embarrassing scenario, Armin grudgingly hands over the bottle and mourns as the remainder of its content is used to feed the fire. Though if he's honest with himself he doesn't feel like drinking anymore anyway. He's not sure he likes the way he's not in complete control of his limbs. And he's concerned about his mouth more than anything else.
So instead he busies himself with studying the facial features of his companion. If it's going to be the last face he sees, he wants to see as much of it as he can after all.
So he looks at him; the colour high in his cheeks, the curve of his ears and the thin shape of his mouth. He realises the straight line of Jean's nose and self-consciously rubs at his own round one. Then he realises his staring has not gone unnoticed.
“What you looking at?” Jean grins crookedly. His eyes are gleaming with amusement, and he looks every bit the villainous delinquent Armin first mistook him for.
But Armin's brows crease in mild annoyance. He's never understood why people ask that question when the answer is obvious. He's quite clearly looking at Jean, isn't he? Under ordinary circumstances he might just look away and not answer at all. But these aren't ordinary circumstances. This is possibly their last night alive.
Perhaps not certainly, but certainly possibly. Though probably is probably more accurate.
Armin's veins are humming beneath his skin, and it feels as though his head is full of liquid; it makes him want to challenge his smirking companion.
“I'm looking at you.”
“Why?”
“Obviously I find you to be aesthetically pleasing.”
“Eh?” Jean's smirk only grows wider. “You tellin' me I'm handsome?”
Armin thinks about it before confirming that yes, Jean is certainly the most handsome being around for miles. Then he smiles because it just feels like the right thing to do in this moment.
He realises that maybe it wasn't the right thing when Jean clears his throat and looks away awkwardly. Almost a minute passes before he gives the gruff response of:
“Yeah, well... You're, uh, not so bad yourself.”
“Not so bad at what?” Armin asks bemusedly. Has he missed something in their conversation? Maybe a social cue he's not familiar with? Or perhaps the alcohol has affected his senses after all. He definitely won't be trying that again in a hurry then.
Though Jean doesn't seem inclined to explain his baffling reply as he mumbles a “Never mind”, scratching the back of his head and looking back to the flames.
Frowning slightly, Armin watches him lift his bottle to his lips once more. One minute they're getting along and the next he has no idea what's going through Jean's head. He supposes it makes sense for their moods to be all over the place – they're not exactly in a safe and controlled environment. No wonder they're struggling to remain on the same page.
Some rest will do them good, Armin deduces as Jean wipes a dribble of gin from his chin. Perhaps when they wake to a new day they can discuss their next steps. Food is now the priority, his empty stomach prompts him to remember. They can figure that out in the morning.
“M'dad told me not t'mix drinks.” Jean says, abandoning the gin in a favour of a rounded green bottle. “Prob'ly gonna throw up soon.”
“You should maybe stop then.” Armin gently pries the green bottle out of his hands. He gets to his feet, starting to gather the boxes to return to the crate. “It's time to sleep it off.”
We can stick it out here a few more days. Armin tells himself as he tidies. As long as the weather doesn't get any worse, we can make it a week at most.
Already Armin has talked himself back up from his original pessimistic view. Because obviously they have a chance. They're both intelligent young men who have gone through rigorous training to prepare themselves for situations similar to the one they're in now.
Whatever passed over Armin earlier has been pushed to the farthest reaches of his mind – still lingering, but contained enough not to cloud his judgement again. He has Jean relying on him after all.
We'll just have to use our wits to stay alive until the storm passes. We just can't lose hope. I'll make sure we don't.
“I hope Bearoody's okay.” Jean says quietly.
Armin pauses. He had almost hoped Jean had forgotten but of course he hasn't. The look on his face when they left her should've made that obvious.
But he's biting back the impulse to state that she's probably dead already. It's probably kinder than giving him false hope, he reasons with himself. But somehow he finds himself saying:
“I hope so too.”
He throws as much tinder into the fire as he can so it will burn overnight. After that it doesn't take much coaxing for Jean to lie down and close his eyes. They use their packs for pillows, and lie as close to the flames as possible without endangering themselves.
The ground is hard and uncomfortable, and their backs are to each other – the fire between them. Armin considers staying awake and taking watch, but somehow he doubts either of them will make it another ten minutes.
“Hey, Armin?” Jean's voice echoes softly throughout the cave.
“Yes?”
“If my toes do freeze and fall off during the night – you'll fix 'em back on for me right?”
“I suppose I can try. Although I hope I don't have to.”
He can hear Jean snicker quietly, and he smiles sleepily at the sound. The last thing he thinks, before his eyes shut and he drifts into oblivion, is that if he's going to be stuck in a cave during a storm with almost no hope of survival – he's really glad he's with Jean.