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The room Historia sleeps in is much smaller than the one she’d gotten accustomed to in the castle. It’s small, the bed taking up half the space; the bed, which is hard, uncomfortable, digging into her back when she rests. There’s no air in the room, either, making it difficult to breathe. Historia often finds herself gasping for air when she wakes up in the middle of the night. Opening the window is only a partial solution, as it makes the room humid, small beads of sweat sticking to Historia’s skin, perpetually staining her hair. Bugs fly in, too, hide themselves in every crevice in the house, and Historia finds their corpses behind cabinets, covered in dust.
It’s favorable to those that find a way to stay alive, to those that buzz low by her ears and remind her of kinder times.
The pregnancy has rendered her nearly immobile, has stripped her of all previous tasks. Her responsibilities as a monarch were as much as null already when her pregnancy became far along in term that she moved to the farm for the time being, but she’d still busied herself with common tasks. Recently, she’d been stripped out of that privilege as well, leaving her with nothing to do but sit, as divided as she could be from the rest of the world, save for the books she is sometimes given, the newspaper she is sometimes brought.
The newspaper, which details the acts of her friends on the front lines—and that’s a memory she doesn’t wish to uncover, of the adrenaline running high in her veins and the courage surging all through her nervous system. Her fingers curl against her thighs, imagining the cold of the sword handles against her skin, the rush of the wind against her clothes.
Historia exhales, willing the thoughts out of her mind. She opens her eyes, stares out at the horizon, at the empty land. It’s silent, bare nothing filling Historia’s every sense.
If she stares over it long enough, she can almost make out a figure against the grass, someone making their way towards her, climbing over the fence, taking off their hat, raking a hand through their hair. A laugh climbing into the sky, loud against the utter absence of everything around it, followed by a, “you didn’t think I wouldn’t come back, did you?”
The image makes Historia straighten in her seat, hand on her belly to steady her as she leans forward. She blinks, half a greeting already forming across her lips, and the figure dissipates into thin air. Her mind clears to reveal the sound was nothing more than a fly circling her head. Historia swats at it, sends it flying towards the floor, and leans back in her chair with a sigh.
.
Historia wakes held in the hand of a Titan, fingers curled tight around it, claws resting against her clothes. She wakes, disoriented, short of breath, and opens her eyes to find Ymir’s Titan form staring right back at her, eyes wide and empty and at the same time so full.
“Ymir?!”
Ymir emerges from her Titan’s nape, along with steam that rolls off her in waves. She’s still connected to the body, the marks on her cheeks dripping down into the muscles formed out of thin air, and she coughs.
“Historia,” she manages, finally, and the sound of her name alone eases the tension out of Historia’s body. “I’m sorry,” she says, in between struggling for air, “I ate you out of nowhere. You—you must be mad, right?”
It’s almost teasing and Historia feels a smile tug at her lips, relief flooding in at the sight of Ymir safe, of Ymir alive. The urge ceases when she takes notice of their surroundings, realizes they’re moving forward, realizes they’re on the Armored Titan, realizes Bertholdt and a bound Eren are on his other side.
“Hey…!” Historia stammers, her heart stuttering in her chest, rising up her throat. “Ymir… what’s—what’re you doing? We came to rescue you and Eren—”
“You don’t need to rescue me!” Ymir interrupts, her voice making Historia clamp her mouth shut. Historia stares at her and Ymir won’t meet her eyes. “Just stay here and don’t move!”
Ymir’s explanation—the circumstances—whatever Reiner and Bertholdt are trying to accomplish—none of it makes any sense at all. Historia stares, yells back, tries to comprehend, but her mind draws a blank. There’s only one thing she can be certain of, only one thing she’s become more and more certain of in the past three years.
“I don’t care about your reasons or your secrets,” she shouts, effectively making Bertholdt quiet down, making Ymir look at her. She looks scared in a way she never does, eyes worried, brows drawn together, and it only makes Historia’s thoughts more concrete. “No matter what happens, I’m on your side!”
And Ymir only looks more pained, teeth ground together, brows falling down over her eyes. Bertholdt tells them about the Survey Corps that are catching up to them and Historia can hear them, along with the deafening footsteps of Reiner’s Titan, can hear the storm of tens of horses rushing closer. She imagines her friends atop these horses, racing to free Eren and Ymir and her, too, now.
“I snatched you, to save myself,” Ymir confesses, as Bertholdt eggs her on and on to make a choice, as Historia urges her to let go. “If I help in handing you over to them… these two will speak on my behalf, will get my crimes pardoned.”
Ymir pauses and Historia’s unable to do much other than stare, memories of Ymir passing in front of her eyes. Some she recognizes, others she doesn’t, some she sees in a different light. She swallows, unable to concentrate.
“I thought that being with you would be insurance for the near future,” Ymir continues, and something dies on Historia’s breath. “I almost died fighting at the castle and I just… I wanted someone to save me, somehow,” she sounds so small as she speaks, uncharacteristically so, and Historia’s heart breaks over a thousand times. “I lied and I told you I was doing this all for you, but it was for my own sake.”
“Ymir,” Historia says, voice breaking.
“I’m begging you now, Historia,” and desperation seeps into Ymir’s voice, into her eyes, into every part of her body that Historia can see tense. “Please… please save me.”
Historia can’t say anything, letting silence fill the air. She can hear her heartbeat in her ears, can practically hear the nerves swell up in Ymir’s body.
“Didn’t I just tell you…?” She asks, a smile already formed across her face, tears making their way down, and Ymir startles as she looks at her. “No matter what happens I’m on your side. Now and always.”
.
It’s all a lie.
“Sorry,” Ymir’s Titan croaks out, fingers gentle as always atop Historia’s head. Historia stares up at her, eyes wide, trying to make sense of the situation. Before she can even start to think of a response, Ymir runs back towards Bertholdt and Reiner, leaving her behind in the walls.
Historia watches, lips opening in a shout, arm extending as she struggles to think of a plan to get Ymir back, and Connie starts pulling her horse back towards the walls as the Survey Corps escape.
.
She doesn’t see Ymir again. When she sleeps, she places her heart over her chest, feels a twin heartbeat over her own until that, too, fades. Despite knowing it’s not true, she hopes that Ymir is at the very least safe, at the very least alive.
And, in the silence of the night, surrounded by nothing but her own thoughts and worries, she wishes that Ymir had stayed, that Ymir had committed to living for herself the way she made Historia. She wishes that Ymir had gone, and taken Historia with her, for better or for worse. It doesn’t matter if they’d be on the winning or on the losing side; doesn’t matter if they’d be on the right or wrong side, doesn’t matter who their comrades would be. Doesn’t matter if Historia would have to go against their friends, doesn’t matter if Ymir would have to.
All that’d matter would be that they’d be together, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. Historia would be at Ymir’s side, unwilling to go anywhere else, and they’d make it through somehow.
Regardless how hard she tries, Historia can’t rewrite the past. She can’t do anything but hope that Ymir comes back someday, that Ymir makes it back in one piece, as she twists on her bed, turning to the side. She stares out the window, catches sight of the moon, and wonders if Ymir, too, is looking at it.
.
The Survey Corps return from their mission to Shiganshina without Ymir, despite Historia’s foolish hopes. They return without the Commander, without hundreds of their soldiers, without any of their bodies.
The Survey Corps return from their mission with a letter. Hange, as the new commander, hands it to Historia, and sits at the table with Jean quietly as Historia reads it.
“Was there a message or something that only you might understand?” Jean asks once she’s done. Historia holds the letter in her hands, stares down at it. Hange had read it—so they’d said—and it feels like a violation of their privacy. Of Ymir’s privacy, who’d meant to share her story and her words only with Historia. “A code or something?”
“I don’t know,” Historia admits, because she still doesn’t understand most of Ymir’s actions; doesn’t understand Ymir leaving her behind, doesn’t understand Ymir’s reasoning, doesn’t understand why Ymir suddenly changed her mind on what place would be safer for Historia.
Doesn’t understand why Ymir couldn’t have acted selfishly, just one more time, and stayed behind.
“I don’t think she’d do something like that,” she adds.
Hange almost deflates. Jean nods, at a loss for words, and Historia’s eyes skim through the letter again on their own accord. I lived however I wanted, with no regrets… or so I’d like to say, but to be completely honest, I do have something I regret. That I wasn’t able to marry you, stares right back at her, and Historia smiles, thumb skipping over Ymir’s signature. With love, Ymir.
“Ymir… you really were an idiot,” she says, turning to face the window, aching for even the smallest sliver of privacy. “I’ll never get you.”
.
“What are you doing?”
Ymir’s head weighs heavy on Historia’s shoulder but she doesn’t mind, too accustomed to it and too focused now on weaving the grass strands between her fingers into a tiny braid. She doesn’t notice Ymir turning to look, though she does feel her laugh, inhaling a sharp breath against her neck.
“Nothing,” Historia says and Ymir laughs, again, twisting her body to face Historia. She peers down some more at her hands, reaches to push Historia’s fingers away. “Stop, you’re going to ruin it and I’ll have to start over.”
“What a shame that’d be,” Ymir deadpans. She lifts her hand off Historia’s shoulder, plucks some of her own grass. Instead of following Historia’s lead and plaiting it, she rips it apart into smaller pieces. “You won’t be able to create anything lasting out of grass, you know that, right?”
“It doesn’t have to be lasting.” Historia sets down one braid of grass on her thigh, away from Ymir’s reach, and reaches for the other strands she’d set aside. She starts working on those, swift fingers braiding away. “It’s the thought of it that matters.”
“The thought of it that matters,” Ymir repeats with a scoff. She measures Historia with a look, unimpressed, but Historia knows her well enough to read through it, spots the hints of light blush building below her temples. Ymir seems to have figured out what Historia’s working on, but she asks, anyway, “why are you working on it, then, if it’s only the thought that matters? It seems like you’re wasting your time, no?”
“Not at all,” Historia says.
Ymir hums, but she doesn’t comment anymore, pressing her cheek to Historia’s shoulder. Her hand skims Historia’s arm, the touch light, fleeting. Historia wills her mind to clear, focusing instead on the grass. She finishes her second braid and folds it into a circle over her finger; it takes some struggling but she manages to tie it.
She wrings Ymir’s hand up from the grass, takes her second grass braid, and folds it into a circle over her ring finger. Just barely managing to make the knot, she ties it, and lifts it to Ymir’s eye-level, waiting for her appraisal.
“Mhm,” Ymir says. “One wrong move and this’ll break, you’re aware?”
It is fragile, Historia knows; she can see the grass yellow from wear, under pressure of the knot, but she focuses instead of the weight of the makeshift ring on her skin.
“It’s just a placeholder,” she tells her. Ymir nods, reaching for Historia’s hand. She lifts it up alongside her own, staring at the matching rings. “For… you know.”
“I don’t recall a proposal.”
“You propose to me all the time,” Historia says, laughter marking her words. “Isn’t that enough?”
“It’s not a real proposal,” Ymir intertwines their fingers; the grass rings slide against each other, threatening to break, but Historia pays them no mind, senses occupied with Ymir. “You’ll know when it’s a real one. In the meantime, though…”
“…this works?” Historia finishes.
“Let’s say that, sure,” Ymir says, rolling her eyes, and Historia’s smile only widens. “For now, it works.”
“For better or for worse,” Historia recites and Ymir groans, covering her face by pushing it into Historia’s shoulder; Historia easily spies the quickly reddening skin. “For richer, for poorer. You have to say it, too, or it won’t count.”
“We’re not kids playing house,” Ymir murmurs into Historia’s skin, her words muffled. “This is embarrassing.”
Historia doesn’t buy it. She elbows Ymir lightly. “Just humor me, this one time.” Ymir doesn’t respond, and Historia repeats, “for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer….”
“In sickness and in health,” Ymir says, not lifting her head. The words are a breath across Historia’s skin, nearly engraving themselves there. “To love and to cherish.”
“From this day forward until death do us part,” Historia says.
Ymir sighs, still keeping up the act. “Until death do us part,” she says. “Happy?”
“Very,” Historia rests her head on top of Ymir’s, eyes stagnant on their linked hands. The grass rings won’t last; if not because of normal wear, then because of training. Historia dreams of a future in which they exchange matching rings, metal, cold against their skin. She dreams of a day in which they exchange vows and it’s real, and it means something real, something concrete.
It delivers a proof of what they have, what rests between them.
“I don’t think I could be happier,” she tells Ymir, and waits with bated breath for that day to come.
.
“Historia, if I may,” the Commander says. His shadow looms tall over Historia, who’s yet to rise from a crouch. “In the event that we survive this, you’re going to be the Queen that rules the world inside these walls,” and in tune with his words, the ground shakes beneath her feet, the earth rumbles behind her, dampening the sound of her own blood rushing past her ears. “Naturally, it’s a problem for you to be on the front lines like this.”
Historia turns to face him. Her ODM gear weighs her movement down, heavy, its straps pressing into her skin through her clothes. It’s almost uncomfortable. She can see her friends in her peripheral vision, can see Eren still in his movements, can see Armin follow suit.
And—she imagines a tall figure standing by them, elbowing them for eavesdropping, low ponytail swinging as they cackle.
“I have a question for you,” she replies. “Do you think the people are so naive they’d obey a ruler in name only?”
The Commander doesn’t reply. His eyes are piercing and they’d make her wither back, knees threatening to buckle under the worry that wears them down, but she pushes herself up anyway. Rod Reiss’s Titan—her father’s Titan—destroys the ground behind them, coming closer, and the members of the Survey Corps shout, passing barrels of gunpowder, stacking them together; the noise fills her whole body, almost, but she forces herself to straighten, anyway, to stand as tall as she can.
“I have my own thoughts on that,” she continues, “I’ve assigned myself a mission I have to carry out. That’s why I’m here now.”
Her voice doesn’t waver, steady through the air, and the canons go off behind them, aiming at the nape. Through some premonition, the sinking feeling she feels in her chest, Historia knows it won’t work, knows an end to this won’t be quite as simple. The stress wafts off everyone on top of the walls, off everyone inside them, too, who has realized something is amiss, who has noticed the ground is shaking.
“I understand your feelings, but I cannot allow you to fight.”
“Commander,” Historia says, hands folding into clean fists. “Please—”
“That said,” he cuts her off, already turning around as the Titan nears the walls, “I doubt there’d be any way for me to stop you, considering this body of mine.”
If this had happened a few months ago—a few years ago—if this had happened before she joined the Cadet Corps, she doubts she’d be able to say it, doubts she’d be able to go against the Commander’s wishes and orders. She doubts she’d be able to rise up to become Queen—or maybe not, maybe she would’ve found the strength somewhere after a long time of searching. Now, it flows through her blood easily, second nature, as she thinks of all she’s lost.
Of who she’s lost.
And—when the initial plan fails, when Eren jams all the barrels of gunpowder inside her father’s Titan, blowing it up, sending pieces of it through the air, Historia follows the rest of the Survey Corps into the air. Her fingers curl around the handle of her swords, harsh, and she slices a chunk of skin straight across, practically feeling her father’s heartbeat as she does so. She feels his memories flutter across her mind, feels the hope he’d had and lost fly behind her eyes, and she lets herself fall.
.
“It’s getting late,” Historia hears and she startles in her seat. The farmer is standing by the entrance to the house, hands folded over his lap, hat tilted low over his head. “Come inside. You need plenty of rest.”
Historia closes her eyes, tries to imagine his voice as someone else’s. It hardly works, but the shadow of Ymir crosses her mind, and she opens her eyes, trying to find her on the horizon again. She doesn’t; it’s as empty as ever, and she sighs.
No one’s coming back.
“In a moment,” she says. The farmer tilts his head, waits for her to say anything else, but she doesn’t, and he heads inside. The moment the door closes behind him Historia sighs, eyes skipping over the empty land in front of her.
There’s nothing out there, nothing but overwhelming silence. Historia can’t bear it, heavy on her mind. Everything feels so foreign, so pushed out of place, and she can’t wait for everything to be over.
“You’ve left me alone in a world full only of your absence, Ymir,” she says. The wood of the porch creaks under her feet as she stands, as she watches over the earth, waits for the smallest hint of someone.
Tomorrow, she’ll blame it on the pregnancy, on the headache that’s been troubling her for the past weeks, on the overbearing isolation, on the restlessness. There’s a number of reasons she can give, none of which will come even close to the truth. A number of reasons she’ll work hard on convincing herself are the truth, because it would only make everything harder if she kept living in the past.
But: now, she’ll let herself dwell in the fantasy. “Come back to me,” she pleads, speaking to no one at all, and retreats back into the house.