• As long as I can remember, all I had was my mother. She was my whole world. Mother was all I had. Sure I had a father, but he left long ago. No explanation – or maybe there was and I was too young to understand. He was always so nervous and distant around me. He probably didn’t like having a “brown boy” for a son. He loved my mother though, he just didn’t love me.
    Father ran back to his home country Germany with a wave, a kiss, and a ‘be back soon’. That was eighteen years ago.

    Now my whole world is being burned before my eyes. Twenty two, a grown man, still too young to watch his mother’s corpse dissolve into ashes. The stench of cooking human flesh clogging my nose; the ashes from the fire flutter like the snow I’ve never seen onto my dark skin.

    She fell down the stairs. That’s what the old woman who lives in the rooms bellow us (just me now) said. I believe her, it was about the time of day mother took the laundry to the Ganges to wash them. She always had trouble carrying the heavy basket down the stairs alone. She usually waits for me to come home for the midday meal to help her so I can carry it down for her. Those stairs are worn with possibly a hundred years or more of wear with no railing guides your way down, and they’re slippery when wet.

    The stairs weren’t wet, at least not when I arrived home a little later than usual.

    I was working at the docks when it happened – I suppose. The Europeans pay us little but enough to keep us coming. We fix their ships, build their furniture, and become their translators; anything to get the money we need to survive. Despite the racial slurs and the teasing, sometimes some rather… sexual favors I have no interest in, I enjoy the work. Working with my hands; creating something out of seemingly nothing gives me great joy.

    Just wish the people I work for weren’t such assholes.

    There was blood drying on the white stone, clothes were scattered, the basket was still there when I got home. I knew it was her. Who else could it have been? She was the only laundry mistress on this street.

    The old woman – I don’t even know her name. Never been aware of her enough to bother – gave me such a sad look. Her brown wrinkled face sagging in a way that had nothing to do with her age.

    “Come here Bertholdt.” She beckoned. “There’s been an accident.”

    “I know.”

    I didn’t cry. I’m not crying now.

    Mother had just enough money saved up for me to give her a proper funeral. (I’m sure that money wasn’t for her funeral though). A communal burning for the people like me who are too poor to afford a private pyre. The money I saved from my own carpentry job will only be able to pay the landlord and food for maybe a week. Carpentry doesn’t pay nearly enough. But… but with the money I have now, I can… I can leave.

    There’s nothing for me here. I can’t stay. What else can I do? I won’t stay.

    My whole world is on that pyre. I miss her already. I can feel the first tears of possibly many slide down my cheeks.

    I should let my father know she has passed. He has the right to know. I don’t know how to write German, I can’t even read my own language. I only know how to spell my name, in English. Beside, letters are so impersonal. I know enough German to get by, at least father taught me some before he left us. I’m adept in English, can he speak English?

    More tears spill, this time they slide down and off my chin.

    Father should know. Yeah. I’ll go and tell him.

    The old woman gently takes hold of my elbow. I don’t hear her praying over my mother’s corpse, wishing her the best I her next life. Eventually she shakes my arm. I blink tasting salt.

    “Come child.” She says.

    “Okay.” What else can I do? My voice cracks. One last glance at mother. I can’t even tell which bones are hers anymore.

    A feeling of emptiness settles within me. The empty house is cold and so silent it screams. I’ve picked up the clothes that were left scattered around the blood. Lots were stolen, even the basket. I have no use for them, I am a man. They lay in a neat pile.

    I keep waiting for her soft voice to ask me how my day was. Why my elbow is bleeding (brushed it against an exposed nail at work this morning). Eat Bertholdt, you’re too thin, she would be scolding me. Everything tastes like ash.

    Falling down the stairs. What a stupid way to die.

    All of mother’s clothes are gathered. The old woman offered to help me sell them at the bazaar tomorrow. I sob into mother’s favorite sari. I don’t think I’ve cried this hard in my life.

    “Tomorrow then. Sleep boy.” The old woman pats my shoulder and leaves to her husband. I didn’t even know she had a husband.

    I resolve to keep this one. The rest will hopefully get me enough money to book passage to Germany by ship.

    # # #

    She comes for me midday. I’m still in bed clutching mother’s sari like a life line. She’s patient with me, helps me fold the clothes and set up my own little stall in the market.

    It hurts more than it should to watch each brightly colored fabric bought. But it has to be done, I need the money, I have no use for woman’s clothes. I have no wife or daughters and the dead don’t wear clothes. For the first time in my life, I wish I was a woman. Then I’d have an excuse to keep the clothing, I’d be married with sons or daughters of my own by now, I’d be taken care of.

    Immediately after the last sari was sold I grabbed the money and the bag I packed earlier and headed for the docks in a near trot. I know there’s a ship bound for Europe. I replaced a window in the captain’s cabin yesterday morning. It was why I was so late to help mother with the laundry. His German was hard to understand, I think he might have been drunk, but I understood enough to get the job done.

    I’m in luck, they haven’t left yet. Thank the gods. Captain Hannes stands by the gang plank directing traffic on and off his ship while he sips from a silver flask while he thinks no one is looking.

    “Herr Hannes!” I jog up to him, I get looks. He doesn’t seem to hear me. Hannes is an average height man, blond hair – bleached by the sun – and cut short, close to his head as his hair is rather curly. Whisky colored eyes always seem to dance in mirth or maybe in a constant state of tipsiness. The tiny smile never seems to leave his face either. He’s older – maybe in his early forties, maybe younger. Sailing adds years to the face with all that stress and sun. “I was wondering… are you going to Germany? I must have passage there. Please.” I use English, I’m better at it and I know Hannes can speak it.

    “You got money?” he asks.

    “Yes.”

    “Enough to get you to Germany?”

    “... I don’t know. Most likely not.”

    “How much?” he takes another sip, the flask is empty, he sighs in disappointment.
    “How much are you charging passengers?” I ask him instead.

    Hannes observes me with strange eyes. I’m about to leave, find another boat that’s cheaper or something when Hannes finally speaks. “Aren’t you that kid who fixed my window?” I nod. “Hm.” He holds his chin in what I assume is a thinking posture. “You seem like a good kid… a hard worker… honest…” he taps his chin, he needs a shave. I probably do too. And a bath. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll hire you on as assistant carpenter to help pay for your fare. Deal?” Hannes holds out his hand.

    What else can I do? “Deal.” I shake his hand.

    # # #

    The only time I’ve ever been on an ocean fairing ship was when they had been docked. It had been easy to balance then – as they don’t move much in the bays – it was still pretty easy to balance now in the open waters. I anticipated racial jeers and segregation. I did not however anticipate how many people got sick, or the fact that no one made any especially rude comments to me.

    After a few hours, I thought I was in the clear. I thought I wasn’t going to get sick.
    I was wrong. So, so wrong. I’ve never been so sick in my life.

    Being so sick I don’t even remember much of what went on. Captain Hannes said I was sick for three days then suddenly was not. ‘Sea sickness will do that, if you’re lucky you won’t get it ever again.’ He explained.

    There were many who did not bounce back as well as I did.

    # # #

    It took six months to get to Germany. Six long month of my patience wearing thin answering all these white people’s questions. “Why are you so brown?” I’m brown because I’m half Indian. “Half!? What’s the other half?” German. I get many sneers. I don’t know much about that part of me, but people act as if they’re horrible people. They do realize their captain is German don’t they? “What’s with the dress?” it’s not a dress it’s a type of long tunic called a kurta. “You don’t eat meat!” I don’t eat meat because it’s part of my religion, please respect that. More sneers and jeers. “Ya worship that one freaky god with them tits right?” I don’t even bother answering that question.

    I realized when Hannes docked his ship (the Passenger) that I didn’t know where my father lived. Germany is a big country, he could be anywhere. Luckily, I found letters tucked in a locked drawer back home – that I don’t understand and had no idea my mother could read – that had been sent by my father. I know numbers, so I know the last letter is from about two years ago. Why send letters if you’re never coming back? Why stop them? Why? What do the letters say? Do they mention me? Did she ever write back? I’m starting to hate him.

    Anyway, it took me nearly three months into the journey to Europe to ask Hannes what the address said on one of the letters. It’s not that I’m shy… I just have a hard time asking people to do things for me. I’d rather just follow another person I guess. Luck was on my side again as it was the very town Hannes planned to dock in. I don’t know the town’s name, he never bothered to tell me, no matter I don’t plan on staying there anyway.

    “Will you be staying here?” Captain Hannes asks, bringing me out of my thoughts.

    “Most likely not.” We’re speaking German, I need the practice, especially now that I’m here.

    “We’ll be staying a night or two. Europe is not a place to be right now.” He says cryptically. As I leave the ship he tells me not to touch anyone. Strange.

    This is a city right? Where are the people? The entire place is as silent as the grave. Dozens of charred remains of buildings make my heart pound. What happened here? Were they attacked? Did an animal kick over a lantern? No… these burnings are too systematic. There are entire blocks reduced to cinders, one or two houses remain intact just a little blacker. The few people on the streets are dirty and coughing. They root through the rumble like diseased vultures. I stay clear of them.

    I will be glad to leave this place. It smells. The air is uncomfortable. It’s not like my father wanted me in the first place. He left because of me, because I exist. I refuse to stay in the same country as him any longer than I have to.

    If the directions I received from a sailor native here, this blackened street should be his home; there’s only one intact place in the entire block. This has to be it… or it could be the house to the left, right, behind me… What if this house isn’t my father? Why would he need such a big house? What if he doesn’t recognize me, it’s been nearly two decades.

    Sweat starts to bead down my back even though it’s quite chilly. Hannes mentioned Europe will be entering winter soon. This climate doesn’t suit me; too cold, too light in atmosphere. I’m used to the hot, humid air that feels almost heavy at times.

    Laughter bubbling from the house jars me from my discomfort. There seems to be a buzz coming from inside in the house.

    I can’t do this. That laughter was that of a child. It’s the wrong house. My father is either dead or moved on. This was stupid anyway, why would he even care? He left us. Left me. I looked up to him, he was my father.

    I turn away, intent on leaving. Hannes will be returning to India, I’ll just go home. Live out my life in peace. Maybe marry a nice woman from my cast. Sire some children. My father is as good as dead to me. I could be a better father. One that doesn’t leave.

    But why did he leave? Mother was so cold to him in the end; like a blank slate, or an icy morning. He looked so-so- like someone ripped out his spine. Spineless. No will of his own.
    I snort and kick a cobble stone, knocking it loose from the pavement and stubbing my toes in the process. Guess we have something in common. Well, besides our name. Mother named me after him. I hated the name “Bertholdt” for so long because of him. Now I can no longer muster up the anger for something I can easily change. With no family I can name myself.

    I won’t.

    What’s the point? It’s only a name.

    The question keeps barreling back though. Why? Why did he leave?

    I find myself storming back up the stairs that creak with each step till I’m staring at the dark wood of the door. There’s a knocker. Automatically long dark fingers curl around the brass handle of the brass… thing. I don’t know what it’s called; I don’t even know if this really is brass.

    The buzz goes quiet. It’s not too late to back out. The door clicks open. There’s a tiny face with glass green eyes and light brown hair. “Gu-gutentag?” he says. A tint of fear laces his voice.

    Can’t say I blame him. I look so different from him with my brown skin, black hair and eyes. Not to mention I’m like three of him in height.

    “Is, is there a Bertholdt Hoover here?” my German is still not very good.

    The boy blinks and opens the door wider while he turns his oversized head inside. “Papa!”

    My heart stops. Papa? He can’t be any older than seven – he-he left eighteen years ago.

    “Heinrich! What have I told you about opening the door to strang-ers-” a man I vaguely recognize as my father yanks the boy back into the house as he scold him, he spots me and chokes on his words. His mouth opens and closes like a dying fish.

    “You abandoned my mother for another woman.” I stare into his wide dark eyes. He’s gone grey. I can’t believe this. “You left my mother alone. Left me without a father.” I sound like I’ve discovered there is in fact a god.

    “Bert-”

    “Who is it dear?” a woman’s voice interrupts the man in front of me.

    “No one-”

    “There’s a weird guy at the door mama!” the boy interrupts.

    The woman forces the door open, she has an infant strapped to her breast. I’ve never been so insulted in my life.

    “Who is this? Who are you?” she demands.

    My father stumbles over his words. It’s embarrassment. This man hardly taller than this woman, not even coming close to my towering height of six feet and then some.

    “I’m this man’s son. Berthold, Hoover. To think he abandoned my mother for you – I mean no disrespect ma’am – I just never thought-” I have a hard time containing my anger, my words tumble over and I’m sure I slip some Hindu in there somewhere. Hands shake, I can feel my face inflame. “She loved you. I looked up to you.” I tell him, he doesn’t look me in the eyes, instead staring at the ground.

    “What? What is he talking about Bertholdt? Dear?” she shrills, the boy looks at me with wide eyes. The man has started sweating. Oh gods, I don’t get that from him do I?

    “I’m sorry ma’am, I only came to this land to personally tell this man that my mother had passed away recently… I just thought he should know, and I can’t write so… I’ll be going now.” It takes all my will power to keep my voice steady. I don’t succeed as much as I’d liked.
    His head whips up, he has the audacity to be sad. “Rachna is dead?”

    The woman takes a deep shuddering breath. “Come inside child. It’s not safe outside.” She beckons me, not wanting to be rude I follow. Also it is getting dark and all these warnings about being here has my skin prickling. “H-how old are you?”

    “Twenty-two, twenty-three come… December.” I whisper. I believe that’s the proper month, the Europeans go by a different calendar than my people.

    She nods. “My eldest was about you age. He would be twenty if he hadn’t caught the disease.”
    “Disease?” I wonder out loud.

    “Yes, it’s why most of the town is in ashes. Don-don’t touch anyone when you leave.” She warns. Her voice is quaky and quiet.

    “Okay.” It makes me glad about not nearing any of the dirty scavengers on the way here.
    The man hasn’t said a word. Only following meekly behind as she leads us to a room with couches and a hearth. The little boy still stares at me like I’m so new exotic thing. Okay, I am, but it’s still rude to stare.

    “Tell me, where do you… come from?” she adjust the baby. I can’t believe I have siblings.
    “India.” I tell her.

    She nods again tapping her light brown bun. “Your father – my husband never told me he sired a child there.” Her voice borders on hostile. I don’t blame her, I’m sounding pretty hostile myself. “When we first met, he left for India, didn’t come home for a long time. He came back and we married.”

    “How… how long have you been married… to him?” I’m so infuriated, so confused and hurt.

    “Nearing twenty years. He said – when he suddenly went back to India – that he was going to gain his for-fortune.” She sniffs, “He lied to me!” she sobs. I let her. What else can I do in this situation?

    “How did she die?” he finally speaks, his head does not rise from the floor. Pathetic.

    “Fell down the stairs. Broker her neck. Six months ago.” I answer not looking at him, trying to keep my voice neutral. “If it’s alright with you I will leave soon.” I address… my step-mother I guess, “I can’t stand being around this, this coward.” She nods again. That irritates me, that all she can do is nod. Scream yell, hit the b*****d. Something.

    “Berthol-” he tries.

    “Don’t!” I shout at him in Hindu. “What possible excuse can you have to-to use my mother and leave. Marry another woman and-and do this to your wife!? To my mother, to me!?”

    His head hangs. Is that all he can do? “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I loved Rachna. Your existence just complicated-” I’m up with a fist in his face. He cries out clenching his gushing nose. I hope it broke. My hand hurts.

    I stand there heaving. My step mother gasps clenching her shrieking infant, the boy begins to cry. Never have I ever raised my hand in this way. I need to leave. Now. So I do. I storm out; leaving a man with a broken nose, a traumatized child, and a shaken wife and mother.

    I sprint back to the ship. Tears like acid stream down uncontrollably as I hurdle myself into my tiny little cabin. He never loved me. He hated me. My own father didn’t even want me.

    Hannes leaves port the next day. He’s in a hurry. He wouldn’t say why, not really, and at this point I no longer care. The faster he gets back to India the better.

    “Trost. Haven’t been there in a while.” He comments. He ignores my red eyes and slumped posture, good man. Anyway, guess we’re stopping there next. Never been to France before.

    # # #

    In three days, Captain Hannes will sail his small passenger ship into my hometown’s harbor in India. I will get off with much thanks for his kindness in taking a man he hardly knew across the world and back again nearly free of charge; and for his hospitality in giving me my own cabin even though I’m not technically part of the crew; then I will re-start my old life and pretend what happened in Germany never happened.

    I have no father. I never went to that gods forsaken place, where it stank worse than decaying bodies and elephant s**t left out for in the hottest days of the hottest month.

    I’ve crammed myself onto my tiny bed (my ankles hang off the edge when I lay down) in an equally small room (if I bend both elbows and hold them up they brush the walls), trying to decipher the strange language of German in the letters that that man sent mother.

    In Trost – the last stop in Europe Hannes made where many wealthy people piled on in a panic to get away from the burning city – three men who were clearly not wealthy by the state of their clothes and hygiene tumbled on board in the midst of panicked rich people in bright silks and heavy bags and purses. Jean a French native to Trost dead-eyed and covered in blood and soot; Armin a short yellow-haired man (he looks rather pre-pubescent); and Eren a green-eyed German I’m painstakingly taking lessons from.

    I’m learning slowly – only know the alphabet and some common words – but I’m learning. It’s not nearly enough to understand the scribbles on these papers. There’s not many letters, but each letter has at least six pages of tiny text. I’m hoping to find some reason on why that man left, why mother continued to write to him. If I can just find the answer then- BOOM!

    The canon fire has me jumping clear off the bed in fright. I land hard on the floor, letters flutter to the ground in a disorganized mess.

    What was that?

    Canon fire. It can’t be good. Quickly I gather all the papers and place them back in the envelope and then in my bag. The rest of what little money I have left (maybe enough for two or three meals) goes into the secret pocket within my sleeve.

    By the time I’ve finished, the ship rocks in a way that has me having trouble standing, wood scrapes. The other ship must me preparing to board. Just my luck we get pirates. There’s screaming all around me. The room rattles with the combined screams of hysterical woman, with how close the other ship must be, and with how many people are sprinting past my door.
    I wait. What else can I do? If I’m lucky, they might just pass this room, or leave. Not likely. I clench my bag tight to my chest and pray. What else can I do?

    I don’t have to wait long. Two men come crashing in, the door hangs off by the top hinge – nearly hitting me. A large, possibly taller than me, Chinese man barrels in, knocking the door completely off the last hinge.

    He shouts something but I don’t understand what he’s saying. He rips my bag out of my hands, I let him there’s nothing of value in there. After he’s through digging through the meager contents he throws it at an average height white man behind him. The Chinese man grabs my arm and quite literally throws me out of my own room. I’m quite impressed because I’m by no means small.

    “Sorry about him.” The other man says. He tosses my bag at me and gestures with his cocked pistol for me to go up top. “Go on.” He urges. With a tired sigh I do as he says. What else can I do?

    What have I don’t in this life to have such bad thing happen to me? What bad karma did I accumulate to have my father leave me, my mother die, having a two-timing man as a father, and be attacked by pirates? Three days. Three days and I’d be in India. Back to my old life. Quietly living out the rest of my short time on this Earth. Why can’t things just go my way for once?

    Lost in thoughts I fail to notice I’m outside till several pistols click toward me. There’s swords pointed at me too. Sigh, I put my hands up. This is ridiculous. I see Jean and go stand by him. He has his wrists tied, he also looks scared, but at least he hasn’t disgraced himself like many of the more… delicate passengers. I don’t blame him for being frightened, like me he has no one. A very large blond with yellow eyes has Jean by the shoulder; Eren lays in a crumpled on the ground. I hope he’s alright.

    “Hands.” What? Oh, sigh. The same blond man (he’s nearly as tall as me; but much wider than me) ties my wrists together. Honestly this is really unnecessary. I won’t run, where would I go? I won’t fight, I don’t have a weapon and I highly doubt my physical strength is enough to overpower the man that’s tying my hands.

    “Three days away. Three.” I mumble. Jean seems to understand as he laughs quietly and uncomfortably as if to say ‘same’.

    Things go by slowly. I learn the hulking blond is named Reiner. Eren and Armin have been recruited to the pirates’ side by a young Asian woman the pirate captain called Mikasa. Apparently Mikasa and those boys are family. I don’t know. Jean has become... an interest to the captain of the opposing ship. Marco, the man calls himself, the young – possibly a little younger than me – has neatly parted short black hair, kind cow brown eyes, and freckles adorning his slightly chubby cheeks.

    Captain Marco reads off a leger for this ship in near perfect English (it’s better than mine anyway), calling out names and placing them in groups. He’s got a slave group, a ransom group, a pressed group and another group I’m not sure what it is.

    “Bertholdt Hoover.” Marco’s voice gives me a start, I raise my arm, the sleeve of my blue tunic slides down as I do.

    “Oh? An Indian boy?” Marco comments.

    “Half.” I say looking down at the pirate like one would look at a rat.

    “Excuse me?” Marco looks up from the papers, ignoring the look he’s getting. “Ah yes. It says you’re returning home from Germany. You would be dropped off at the next port am I correct?”

    “Yes.”

    “Why where you in Germany?”

    “My father lives there.”

    “And a mother?”

    “Dead, last year.”

    “And that’s the reason you traveled to your father’s homeland?” Marco seems genuinely curious. Oh come off it.

    “Obviously.” I say in dead pan tone. Jean suppresses giggles.

    “But why not stay? Going all the way across the world only to turn back around. It seems you’re on this twice. And only stayed in Europe for as long as this ship stayed there.” Marco’s voice has gotten sweeter, like he’s trying not to get frustrated by my simple responses.

    “That. Is none of your business.” I tell him harshly. I don’t wish for those wounds to reopen again.

    “Turned you out did he? White men tend to do that for their mixed accidents.” Marco shakes his head in mock sadness. Every muscle in my body lock.

    “Takes one to know one!” I shout quickly and harshly in Hindu at him.

    Marco freezes, uh oh. That can’t be good. “What did you call me? My Hindu is a bit rusty.” He’s taking out his sword. I might have said something stupid. I try not to flinch at the sound of metal scrapping out of its’ scabbard.

    “You know damn well what I said.” I reply in a cold voice still in Hindu, there’s dangerous flash in the cow brown eyes of the invading captain. Marco hits me really hard in the stomach with the hilt of his sword, I go down on my knees hard. That hurt. Ow. Reiner walks over and forces me onto my feet.

    “Will your father pay ransom?” Captain Marco asks after I’ve lifted my head
    .
    “Likely not. I don’t have any money either, so don’t ask.” I’m breathless. Marco shouts in Chinese and I’m forcefully dragged on board the other ship.

    Reiner sits me on a bench next to Eren who is holding his head in his hands and between his knees. He looks up as I sit. Reiner goes back over.

    “You apart of the crew now?” Eren asks. There’s a little bit of blood on his neck and hand.

    “I… don’t know exactly.” I tell him. I don’t know why I was brought aboard. I admit I’m a little frightened. My stomach hurts.

    “s**t.” Eren stands. “You have your stuff?”

    “Yes.” I clutch my bag tightly.

    “********. Need to get my stuff, Armin’s, might as well get Jean’s.” Eren says watching as Reiner restrains Jean as Marco does… something to him. Eren sits back down after a man raises a gun on him.

    I hope Jean’s okay. He may be annoying and constantly picking fights with Eren, but I like him.

    The day goes by so very slowly. Me and Eren watch Marco’s crew carry over everything of value including Reiner, carry an unconscious Jean below deck. Blood dripping heavily from his head. We watch as bawling future slaves get pushed in the belly of the ship. Sitting here is uncomfortable; but I don’t know what to do. If Eren is content to wait what happens when he is probably the least patient person I know, I suppose it’s fine.

    “Ca-captain?” Eren rubs his arm as he addresses the man. I jump a little as I hadn’t realized he was so close.

    “What?” Marco isn’t invested in the budding conversation, instead observing how his orders are being carried out.

    “I need to get my things, and Armin’s, and… Jean’s.” he says.

    “Mikasa, go with him.” Marco waves vaguely.

    With Eren gone I’m alone. Again. I hate this feeling. I sit there in a state of despair wondering what will happen to me. The urge to dig out mother’s sari burns deep but I don’t. What if they take it away from me? What if I’m sold into slavery? I feel sick.

    “Hey!” the voice makes me jump. It’s Reiner. “Sorry.”

    “It-it alright.”

    He stands there staring at me for a long while. I feel uncomfortable, sweat beads down my back and neck. I hear a passing conversation of that woman Mikasa telling Eren he needs a bath and clean clothes. Gods that sounds magnificent. I haven’t had a proper cleansing in nearly a year.

    “Your eyes are green in the sun.” Reiner comments. There’s a pinkness to his cheeks.

    “E-excuse me?” my eyes are black. This man has been in the sun too long, he has a sunburn on his face.

    “Nothing. You- um. Your people bathe right?” he asks awkwardly wringing his large hands.
    “…Yes?”

    “Um, well if you want there’s a bath room bellow… you can wash if you want… not that you stink, you actually kinda smell nice- I’ll stop talking now.” He stumbles. Now I feel red in the face.

    “Thank you…?” I suppose. It’s obvious he fancies me. I think. Men don’t tell other men they smell good without some sort of fancy right? At least not in my experience.

    “This way.” Reiner gestures for me to follow him.

    What else can I do? A bath sounds more appealing than the fear that he might want to do things to me. He’s so big, he might be able to force me. I gulp and follow him into the dim hatchway that leads to wherever he’s taking me.

    “I can’t remember the last time I had a proper bath!” Eren’s voice filters through the misty room Reiner has lead me. I stand there staring at the large room filled with steam and tubs of all shapes and sizes.

    “Here we are.” Reiner says in a ‘tada’ tone.

    “Thank you.” I ignore Reiner and head into the room towards Eren and Armin.

    “Oh. Hello Bertholdt.” Armin greats. He’s not in a tub but sits on a stool using a sponge and bucket to scrub himself. I suppose it’s because he can’t get in a tub without getting his cast wet, or maybe it hurts too much to get in one. Eren vigorously scrubs himself pink.

    “Hi.” I greet back. Eren grunts a hello before dunking his head. I take a deep breath feeling a bit safer away from Reiner and with friends. I take clean clothes out and quickly undress and bathe. It’s been so long.

    # # #

    I end up following Reiner all day long. He doesn’t seem to mind. Eren and Armin have been attached to Mikasa since they finished their bath and I have no idea where Jean is. I hope he’s okay. I hope he isn’t being sold off. (I honestly don’t think anyone would buy him).

    “What are you going to do?” I sit with Armin in what I believe to be the mess hall. The room is lined with long tables with attached benches. They are made beautifully, just like the figure head.

    “Stay.” Armin answers. “We don’t have anything else. No home and the only family we have left is each other. Mikasa says Marco is a good man, a good friend. Eren says he’ll stay too.”

    “Oh.” What am I going to do? I’ve fooled myself into thinking I can go home and restart my life. Tricked myself into thinking I could get married and have kids. That someone would actually be willing to put up with me. That I could get my old home back. That my job will still be there. Gods I’m an idiot.

    “What are you going to do?” Armin asks. He’s so incredibly small.

    “I… I have no idea.” At least I’m not being sold off into slavery. “I… guess I can stay too.” What else can I do?

    “Great!” Reiner’s loud voice has us both jumping. “Let’s go tell Marco!” he shakes my shoulders. I was right about him being stronger than me.

    “Oh, your joining too Bertholdt?” Eren asks helping Armin stand up. Mikasa hovers close by.
    “I suppose so…”

    Eren nods and follows Mikasa away. With a light bump on the shoulder Reiner prompts me to follow as well. Here goes the rest of my life.

    We reach Marco’s cabin, it’s at the end of a long corridor at the back of the ship. Reiner knocks on the heavy wood.

    “Who is it?” Marco’s voice sounds muffled, barely recognizable through the door.

    “Us Captain.” Mikasa answers. The opens revealing a frowning freckled face.

    Reiner drags me into the room after him, Armin hobbles in with the help of Eren.

    “Quietly.” Marco demands after Eren cursed loudly as he stubbed his toe on something. Ouch, with how hard it hit, it must hurt a lot. “What do you want? I’m about to sleep.” Marco sounds irritated, he’s wearing a tunic and loose pants. I agree, can’t this wait till the morning?

    A groan catches our attention. Eyes widen upon seeing Jean with stark white bandages wrapped firmly around his head laying in a pit of pillows, a blanket draped over him. I feel better knowing he’s safe. Why is he even in here?

    “What the hell happened to him?” Eren demands.

    “Watch who you’re talking to boy.” Marco growls, “Really, don’t you Germans possess a shred of respect for anyone?” once again Jean groans. I feel like I should be offened.

    Color flares in his cheeks and he looks down sheepishly, “Sorry.”

    “Now, what do you want?” Marco demands in a harsh whisper.

    “They wish to join the crew Marco.” Reiner whispers.

    “And this couldn’t have waited until morning?” Marco twirls around and marches toward a desk by a large bed. I’ve never seen a bed like it before. It’s so large, made of dark wood and has four pillars or something that has beams connecting them on top and curtains you can pull to create privacy. I like it. “Fine. Just be quiet. I’m not in the mood to deal with him waking up.” I think he means Jean.

    He digs around in his desk till he lifts a book out of a drawer. “Name, age, rate, origin.” He dips a quill and waits a brave volunteer.

    “Eren Jaeger.” Eren pipes up, bouncing on his toes. Why is he so excited?

    “Alright, the rest. And hurry there’s only so much night.” Marco dips the pen again. He seems to be running out of ink.

    “Twenty-one soon. I’m not sure what you mean by rate though.” Eren’s cheeks are a light pink. I though he was younger.

    Marco rolls his eyes (they don’t look Chinese) and looks at Mikasa for some explanation. I’m glad I didn’t go first. “He’s a fighter. He can sail and navigate like any other man. He excels in combat. What he doesn’t know, he learns fast.” Marco nods.

    “Continue.”

    “German with Turkish ancestry.” He finishes in a hurry. I knew he was German, I didn’t know he had Turkish ancestry though.

    “Next.” Not me.

    “Armin Arlet. Twenty-one come this November. I- I’m not strong but-” he bites his lip unsure of how to continue. I think this pirate captain is cranky, he was so polite this morning.

    “He’s a genius.” Eren shouts, then covers his mouth as Marco’s face becomes tight and Jean whimpers. “He can just look at something and remember it instantly.”

    “Fine, whatever. Origin?” Marco dips the pen for the fifth time.

    “European? I guess? A little German, a little Brit or Swedish, I don’t know. My parents never liked to stay in one place too long.” He switches his weight with the roll of the ship. It must be hard to balance on those crutches on a rolling ship.

    “Last?”

    “Bertholdt Hoover.” I say hoping my voice doesn’t tremble.

    “Go on.”

    “Twenty-four come December. I have no clue how to sail or navigate waters. I’m only joining because I do not wish to be auctioned nor do I have anything left to go home to in India. You already know my origin.” I tell him the truth quickly. I know I have a thick accent so I hope it wasn’t too hard to understand. It occurs me I probably should have mentioned I’m a decent carpenter. Too late now.

    He blows on the ink and slams the book closed. “If that’s all please leave. I am tired and don’t wish to be disturbed unless an emergency or my breakfast is ready. I would like Jean’s brought to me as well please.” Marco practically shoves us out the door. “Good night.” The door shuts firmly, there’s a clank of a lock being placed.

    “Come on buddy, I’ll show you the sleeping quarters. There’s an empty hammock next to mine you can use, it’s plenty big enough for you.” Reiner slaps my shoulder and practically drags me away. Buddy? Is that a word for friend? I hope so because I never agreed to anything more.

    True to his word, there is a hammock large enough for me hanging in the men’s quarters next to the one Reiner climbs into.

    “There’s blanket and pillows on the shelf there.” He yawns. There’s an alarming pop sound that comes from Reiner’s shoulders as he stretches. It sounded painful.

    “Thank you Reiner. For you kindness to me.” I pluck a thin blanket and fluffy pillow and climb into my new bed. It’s strange, but comfortable.

    “No problem Bertl. Sweet dreams.” Bertl? I suppose that’s okay.

    “Night.” it occurs to me as I lay away watching the lantern across the room rock with the ship that I’m a pirate now.

    Yohoho I suppose.