[ The Judge rests a hand gentle on Armin's uninjured shoulder briefly, and holds a hand up to gesture 'wait'. Nearby, a chest sits. The Judge opens it, rummaging momentarily. He procures a med-kit, needle and thread, and bandages. They're not uncommon, both in the strange area that the Judge has come to know as the 'blood web', and in trials themselves. Near as he can tell, the med-kits give hope to survivors, an emotion strong enough that the Entity can feed on it.
By now, the Judge has a small stockpile. Many of the other survivors that have been here for so long do too.
He returns to Armin, kneeling next to him. The light of the bonfire will have to be good enough. It is perpetually twilight here, and the flashlights they have access to, far too short-lived to be of any real use. He opens the kit and sets out each necessary item. The hatchet must be removed first, and the Judge points to it in warning, a soft noise to make sure he has the other's attention. He braces Armin's shoulder, pauses, and then without ceremony, pulls the hatchet out, straight as he can. He's quick to press a folded rag to it to staunch the rush of warm blood.]
( for the noise, Armin's attention lifts to the other man. his face is tired, pale, and haggard.
Armin nods, half present, and places a palm on either thigh; the motion of one arm, slow, fighting to work cleaved muscle and flesh. (Armin is certain he will lose full use of the arm.)
on impact, Armin flinches, a simultaneous process that contracts every muscle, painfully tight, and balls his hands into fists, nails hard against his palms. his throat dries; he feels faint and nauseous all at once. falling forward, the initial cry of pain draws quiet. Armin pants, gathering himself. the wound feels hot.
what springs forth is not blood, though, but wisps of steam, trapt against the hand of another. )
[ He lays the hatchet aside, using his now free hand to wrap round the nape of Armin's neck, firm. It's hardly a replacement for anesthetic, but it's meant to be comforting all the same. This is reality now, for this newcomer, and it cannot be easy. (Even for the Judge, whose entire life, whose only language, was violence, realizing that he had been condemned to Hell despite his attempts to atone had caused grief the depth of which he didn't realize he was still capable of feeling.)
The Judge waits for several long moments like that, one hand to the wound, the other to Armin's nape. It is both to give Armin time, and to allow the blood to flow. When he does pull the cloth away, what he finds is not at all what he expected. The Judge tips his head curiously, and peers at what he can see of the wound. Steam...? Many killers were supernatural in appearance and even their make, now, but survivors...?
The Judge lifts the rag for Armin to see, head tipping once more in question. It is less judgment or demand for explanation, and more a question on how he should proceed. Is the wound healing? Should he suture it still? ]
( Armin's breath begins to slow, eyes on the rag. he turns, wisps of steam in his peripheral; his expression widens, horrified. Eldians are, still, subjects of Ymir.
did Eren know? did he lie to the very end? the price had never been worth it, but Eren's motivations had at least had meaning of some sort. Armin's nausea doubles on itself. his breath rises, quick, shaking, and hard. even in some far away place, Eren's selfishness knows no bounds. slumping forward, Armin inhales a breath close to crying. )
[ The reaction is not one he expected, and the Judge can't parse the reason for sudden upset but... trauma is a strange thing, the reactions to it sometimes unpredictable. He cannot fault this stranger.
The Judge is quiet for a moment. Then, slips his hand from the other's neck and makes a soft noise. Consoling, if not almost plaintive. He set the rag aside, and shifts, arms opening to the other in a tentative offer of comfort. To take, if Armin wishes. It's a strange situation, and they are strangers, but to be alone here is terrible on top of an already unspeakable situation. ]
( for the noise, Armin raises his head: his face, red and contorted; his eyes, watery. the tears had begun the moment after that first breath, choking and heaving Armin nigh full body. the gesture is unbelievably kind and precisely why Armin can't accept. what has he done to deserve it for his part in the rumbling?
Armin shakes his head, eyes closing miserably as his attention strays downward. )
[ The Judge watches for a moment, lowering his hands away as Armin declines. He checks the wound - still a wound, certainly, open and raw, but not so grievous as it should be. Enough time, then, for Armin to have his emotions; at least for a bit.
He shifts once more, sitting down cross-legged in front of Armin. He's not quite close enough to touching, but neither is he out of reach, in case the other changed his mind. For now, he'll sit in companionable silence, gaze lowered so as not to seem rude or prying. ]
( once, Armin seems close to calming, mouth closing, the distraught noises lessening. but something snaps, and the tears redouble until Armin feels dry, stifling a hiccup. he burrows his face into his forearm, then boyishly uses his sleeve to wipe his face. )
Um... ( softly, lifting his head, ) Do you have any water? ( it's easy to imagine water is a precious resource, but he feels close to heaving, which is all the more reason to drink now than later. ) I don't need a lot.
[ The Judge waits, patient and still. It's easy to get lost in his thoughts, requiring nothing of others. When Armin asks for water, he lifts his head as though a little startled, but nods and rises. He's a little slow in standing, the heels of his hands against his knees.
The water he brings Armin - from the same wooden chest - is in a small bottle, still sealed. Usually, he uses a primitive water filtration system, leaving the potable water they discover for other survivors. He offers the bottle to Armin. Then, he leans to check on his wound. ]
( a sniffle here and there. another hiccup or three. Armin watches — older? or perhaps battle worn from this place? — although his attention falls, momentarily, to the medical supplies laid useless on the ground. prompted to raise his head, Armin pauses. spring water? is that all available? or does he seem so miserable?
accepting, voice soft again, ) Thank you. ( Armin sets the bottle firm against his thigh, one hand to crack the seal. half turning, ) You can put your medkit away. I'll be healed up in an hour or two.
[ The Judge tilts his head curiously at Armin. How strange, that he could heal so quickly. It must not be a new thing, the Judge assumes. Armin is no veteran here, so it surely could not be some trick of the Entity.
But, it is, he supposes, none of his business. Armin is safe, now, and will soon be healed, but the Judge knows he has some other use for the newcomer yet. He pauses as though unsure whether Armin is being truthful or simply unnecessarily humble... but nods his agreement then, and sets to putting items back in the med-kit to be stored for another time. Doubtlessly it will be used soon, by someone.
Reaching for the needle and thread, he pauses, thoughtful. Glancing to Armin, back, and then— the Judge holds up the tiny kit to show, plucks at his own sleeve in indication, and then points to Armin. He seems calmer, now, but best to give him time to settle in a little longer before dumping much more information on him. None of the knowledge Judge has to share is pleasant or comforting at all. ]
( here, self conscious and free from immediate danger, the silent pause of such a figure is intimidating. at least a little. Armin waits for the other man to motion his thoughts at all, then turns, slow and uncomfortable, to sip from the proffered bottle. he sips, pauses, sips again, drinks full and perhaps a little greedy: the water, more smooth and refreshing on his tongue than he thought his body to allow.
swallowing, his lips part as the man begins motioning again. ) Um. I can't sew, especially right now. ( unless the man is offering but Armin would prefer not to embarrass himself further with presumption. )
[ A brief tilt, then bob of his head. The motion is almost owl-like, with the mask. The Judge beckons with a gloved hand in a 'give it here' sort of way.
Sewing is a skill he learned as a teen - at least the basics, reinforced time and again after the bombs. It's a meditative sort of activity, and the Judge might almost say he enjoys it, if he's capable of that anymore - especially now. ]
( another hesitant noise, not quite "um," dumbfounded. ) Okay... ( it wouldn't be the strangest thing about his day.
Armin sets the bottled water aside, then slow, mindful of his arm, works through the layers of his clothes: loosening his tie; unbuttoning his waistcoat; unrolling his sleeves and garters, the material of his shirt too long for his arms, before finally... offering the shirt itself for mending.
unfortunately for the chill in the air, Armin hadn't opted for an undershirt this morning. )
[ Another nod, and the Judge waits. He sits across from him once more, legs crossed, and sets to work.
He inspects the tear itself, first, then sets it in his lap along with the small kit. Gloves come next, set next to him without the need for urgency like earlier. He works with a practiced ease, focusing in the moment. Despite the mask, he threads the needle easily enough, and picks up the shirt again to begin working.
Once or twice, he glances to Armin as though to check on him. As he does, the Judge cannot help but notice his physique. The Judge had noted his strength when Armin had tugged him out of the way, but his muscle tone is still somehow unexpected. Even having been crying, tired and wounded, this newcomer is handsome. Catching himself in his thoughts, the Judge shakes his head slightly as he works. ]
( silent for a moment, Armin reaches for the bottled water. he watches the man work, then... )
Thank you. ( not just for this. ) I wouldn't have gotten out without your help. ( of which, this stranger has given so much in so little time. a pause, thoughtful. ) I'm Armin, by the way.
[ A glance up, and then something of a double-take. The Judge gives a small nod. He doesn't mind helping. This newcomer is clearly not incapable, but the odds are stacked against him, and further still for not knowing.
Gathering the shirt to himself so as not to drag it on the ground, he turns a little as though turning his back to the other and leans to pick up a twig close by. In the dirt, text facing Armin so as to be legible to him, he writes 'the judge'. After turning to face Armin again, the Judge points to the writing, and then to himself. ('The Judge' is hardly a normal name, after all.) ]
[ At the question, the Judge is still, mask turned towards his title - name - written in the dirt. After a long silence, he drags the stick through the letters, crossing it out with a single line.
Nothing, now.
The name is a holdover, a misnomer. He was only ever an agent of violence. And now, he is hunted as he hunted those in life. He cannot be who he once was, that man that brought the Collapse upon the world. But 'Judge' seems unfitting, he is unfit to pass judgment on anyone for their sins. He was meant to protect the flock he had once terrorized, but in the end, he failed that, too. That he is here now is proof of his sin.
Another silence, and finally the Judge simply shakes his head. Nothing, now. ]
[ A nod. The Judge points to the dilapidated house, and then the woods around them. There are others around. A few, anyway. He's never seen more than a small handful at a time, but he's gotten to know some.
He sets the stick down, returning to the mending that by now is almost finished. ]
when his attention returns to the Judge, he pauses, then sips from the bottle, eyes lowering. he doesn't think the Judge has dismissed him, but the moment is nonetheless awkward. Armin opts to not further interrupt his work. that there must be others like that woman as well is obvious enough not to ask. )
[ It's a few more minutes of silence before the Judge clips the thread and holds up the shirt. It's not entirely perfect, but the repair is neat enough, and certainly serviceable.
He stands, and offers the shirt back to Armin. Then, leans to check once more on the wound — just in case. ]
( after setting the bottle aside to accept the shirt, ) Thank you.
( Armin adjusts the open, preparing to dress, when the Judge leans close. steam obscures the exact cleave of his shoulder. Armin turns where he sits, lips parting... only to hesitate and fall silent. clear headed, it dawns on him, the fear he can cause others. the Judge is not repulsed, at least, but he is perhaps from one of the few places untouched by the rumbling. better to say nothing. )
( fully dressed, although not bothering to tuck his shirt tails, ) Is it okay if I look around?
[ Well, true to Armin's word, the wound seems to be healing. He thinks, anyway, if the steam is any indication. It is strange, but the Judge has seen many and more oddities, even before coming here. He straightens as Armin asks his question, and the Judge nods agreeably.
There's a noticeable pause, then, a hesitation in his posture as he tries to figure out how to convey his next meaning. Finally, he holds up a finger and crouches to pick up the stick and write in the dirt.
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By now, the Judge has a small stockpile. Many of the other survivors that have been here for so long do too.
He returns to Armin, kneeling next to him. The light of the bonfire will have to be good enough. It is perpetually twilight here, and the flashlights they have access to, far too short-lived to be of any real use. He opens the kit and sets out each necessary item. The hatchet must be removed first, and the Judge points to it in warning, a soft noise to make sure he has the other's attention. He braces Armin's shoulder, pauses, and then without ceremony, pulls the hatchet out, straight as he can. He's quick to press a folded rag to it to staunch the rush of warm blood.]
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Armin nods, half present, and places a palm on either thigh; the motion of one arm, slow, fighting to work cleaved muscle and flesh. (Armin is certain he will lose full use of the arm.)
on impact, Armin flinches, a simultaneous process that contracts every muscle, painfully tight, and balls his hands into fists, nails hard against his palms. his throat dries; he feels faint and nauseous all at once. falling forward, the initial cry of pain draws quiet. Armin pants, gathering himself. the wound feels hot.
what springs forth is not blood, though, but wisps of steam, trapt against the hand of another. )
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The Judge waits for several long moments like that, one hand to the wound, the other to Armin's nape. It is both to give Armin time, and to allow the blood to flow. When he does pull the cloth away, what he finds is not at all what he expected. The Judge tips his head curiously, and peers at what he can see of the wound. Steam...? Many killers were supernatural in appearance and even their make, now, but survivors...?
The Judge lifts the rag for Armin to see, head tipping once more in question. It is less judgment or demand for explanation, and more a question on how he should proceed. Is the wound healing? Should he suture it still? ]
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did Eren know? did he lie to the very end? the price had never been worth it, but Eren's motivations had at least had meaning of some sort. Armin's nausea doubles on itself. his breath rises, quick, shaking, and hard. even in some far away place, Eren's selfishness knows no bounds. slumping forward, Armin inhales a breath close to crying. )
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The Judge is quiet for a moment. Then, slips his hand from the other's neck and makes a soft noise. Consoling, if not almost plaintive. He set the rag aside, and shifts, arms opening to the other in a tentative offer of comfort. To take, if Armin wishes. It's a strange situation, and they are strangers, but to be alone here is terrible on top of an already unspeakable situation. ]
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Armin shakes his head, eyes closing miserably as his attention strays downward. )
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He shifts once more, sitting down cross-legged in front of Armin. He's not quite close enough to touching, but neither is he out of reach, in case the other changed his mind. For now, he'll sit in companionable silence, gaze lowered so as not to seem rude or prying. ]
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Um... ( softly, lifting his head, ) Do you have any water? ( it's easy to imagine water is a precious resource, but he feels close to heaving, which is all the more reason to drink now than later. ) I don't need a lot.
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The water he brings Armin - from the same wooden chest - is in a small bottle, still sealed. Usually, he uses a primitive water filtration system, leaving the potable water they discover for other survivors. He offers the bottle to Armin. Then, he leans to check on his wound. ]
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accepting, voice soft again, ) Thank you. ( Armin sets the bottle firm against his thigh, one hand to crack the seal. half turning, ) You can put your medkit away. I'll be healed up in an hour or two.
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But, it is, he supposes, none of his business. Armin is safe, now, and will soon be healed, but the Judge knows he has some other use for the newcomer yet. He pauses as though unsure whether Armin is being truthful or simply unnecessarily humble... but nods his agreement then, and sets to putting items back in the med-kit to be stored for another time. Doubtlessly it will be used soon, by someone.
Reaching for the needle and thread, he pauses, thoughtful. Glancing to Armin, back, and then— the Judge holds up the tiny kit to show, plucks at his own sleeve in indication, and then points to Armin. He seems calmer, now, but best to give him time to settle in a little longer before dumping much more information on him. None of the knowledge Judge has to share is pleasant or comforting at all. ]
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swallowing, his lips part as the man begins motioning again. ) Um. I can't sew, especially right now. ( unless the man is offering but Armin would prefer not to embarrass himself further with presumption. )
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Sewing is a skill he learned as a teen - at least the basics, reinforced time and again after the bombs. It's a meditative sort of activity, and the Judge might almost say he enjoys it, if he's capable of that anymore - especially now. ]
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Armin sets the bottled water aside, then slow, mindful of his arm, works through the layers of his clothes: loosening his tie; unbuttoning his waistcoat; unrolling his sleeves and garters, the material of his shirt too long for his arms, before finally... offering the shirt itself for mending.
unfortunately for the chill in the air, Armin hadn't opted for an undershirt this morning. )
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He inspects the tear itself, first, then sets it in his lap along with the small kit. Gloves come next, set next to him without the need for urgency like earlier. He works with a practiced ease, focusing in the moment. Despite the mask, he threads the needle easily enough, and picks up the shirt again to begin working.
Once or twice, he glances to Armin as though to check on him. As he does, the Judge cannot help but notice his physique. The Judge had noted his strength when Armin had tugged him out of the way, but his muscle tone is still somehow unexpected. Even having been crying, tired and wounded, this newcomer is handsome. Catching himself in his thoughts, the Judge shakes his head slightly as he works. ]
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Thank you. ( not just for this. ) I wouldn't have gotten out without your help. ( of which, this stranger has given so much in so little time. a pause, thoughtful. ) I'm Armin, by the way.
( Armin doesn't expect an answer. )
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Gathering the shirt to himself so as not to drag it on the ground, he turns a little as though turning his back to the other and leans to pick up a twig close by. In the dirt, text facing Armin so as to be legible to him, he writes 'the judge'. After turning to face Armin again, the Judge points to the writing, and then to himself. ('The Judge' is hardly a normal name, after all.) ]
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he stares at the writing, familiar since living outside Paradis, then after a moment, raises his head. ) What do you judge? ( the people here? )
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Nothing, now.
The name is a holdover, a misnomer. He was only ever an agent of violence. And now, he is hunted as he hunted those in life. He cannot be who he once was, that man that brought the Collapse upon the world. But 'Judge' seems unfitting, he is unfit to pass judgment on anyone for their sins. He was meant to protect the flock he had once terrorized, but in the end, he failed that, too. That he is here now is proof of his sin.
Another silence, and finally the Judge simply shakes his head. Nothing, now. ]
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Are there more people? Like us? ( "that have survived." )
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He sets the stick down, returning to the mending that by now is almost finished. ]
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when his attention returns to the Judge, he pauses, then sips from the bottle, eyes lowering. he doesn't think the Judge has dismissed him, but the moment is nonetheless awkward. Armin opts to not further interrupt his work. that there must be others like that woman as well is obvious enough not to ask. )
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He stands, and offers the shirt back to Armin. Then, leans to check once more on the wound — just in case. ]
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( Armin adjusts the open, preparing to dress, when the Judge leans close. steam obscures the exact cleave of his shoulder. Armin turns where he sits, lips parting... only to hesitate and fall silent. clear headed, it dawns on him, the fear he can cause others. the Judge is not repulsed, at least, but he is perhaps from one of the few places untouched by the rumbling. better to say nothing. )
( fully dressed, although not bothering to tuck his shirt tails, ) Is it okay if I look around?
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There's a noticeable pause, then, a hesitation in his posture as he tries to figure out how to convey his next meaning. Finally, he holds up a finger and crouches to pick up the stick and write in the dirt.
come back soon to eat ]
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