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i.
Ymir finds her way home three years and some change after her letter reaches Historia.
Those are the worst years of Historia’s entire life; this is a fact as indisputable as that of the sun lighting up the morning sky, as the fact of its heat sustaining life on this broken, tired planet. Indisputable, undoubtable, completely and utterly fact.
But the confusion that hits her upon seeing Ymir’s lean body crouching at her window is unparalleled in intensity to any emotion Historia’s ever felt prior. She blinks once, twice, thrice, simply staring, rooted to her spot by her bed as she tries to process the image before her. Ymir blinks back, a self-conscious smile blossoming timidly on her lips. It almost compliments the bruise turning dark on her forehead, and Historia decides that if Ymir is genuinely real and was hurt by her guards—well, somebody’ll be getting fired tomorrow.
But she’ll deal with that after…whatever the fuck’s happening right now.
“They, uh, they said you were resting in your room and kindly rerouted me outside.” She pauses, giving an unabashed once-over to Historia in her nightgown. Ymir grins with wolf teeth and even though she looks ridiculous, Historia wants to kiss her senseless.
“So…Queen, huh?”
Historia continues staring at her. The past several years were a nightmare wrapped tightly in the crumpled paper that was signed by Ymir. After all, it was her own handwriting that had sealed her coffin—Ymir’s dead. She can’t be here, no, she’s not here before her right now, crouched at Historia’s window.
“You’re not real. You’re dead.”
Ymir blinks rapidly, trying to put two and two together. Her biceps strain from the effort to keep herself on the ledge, haphazard in their exhaustion, and the Queen just watches the apparition before her sputter to respond to her accusation. How nice it would be to entertain the idea that Ymir truly is back, but Historia’s far from deluding herself in painful what-ifs.
“I…am? Real, that is. Not dead. Very much not dead. I’m very, very real. Very real and very cold. Please let me into your room before I freeze to death.”
Historia shakes her head, heartbroken. “I must be going insane.”
“No, I really am. You’re not crazy—”
Sorrow is a state of mind that is in no way new to Historia; not in its intensity and certainly not in its subtle yet consistent presence in her life. But hallucinating certainly takes her by surprise. It’s an interesting deviance from her usual tears, but the last thing Historia needs is to be assaulted by the image of her late lover before her in the dead of night.
She can barely sleep as is.
So, she pushes Ymir out the window.
(Okay, she didn’t really mean to push her. It’s more of a gentle shove, really, but it does the job anyway because Ymir’s already barely holding on, her biceps bulging and fingers pale from the exertion of holding on to the very small, very tiny sliver of stone available by the lock on the window.)
Suffice to say, she’s even more confused and quite disconcerted when her hands connect with warm flesh and atrophied muscle and Ymir shrieks—very loud and very real indeed—as she falls into the rose bushes below Historia’s third-story bedroom.
ii.
Ymir finds the entire thing exceedingly hilarious.
Quite frankly, it’s the funniest thing that’s happened to her, ever. Even funnier than when Mikasa deadpanned—in her frighteningly monotone voice, no less—that Sasha had passed gas in the mess hall the first night that Jean and Eren went at each another in mindless tussling.
Historia, however, is far from amused.
“It’s not funny,” she keeps saying between tears and her own bouts of incredulous laughter, but that only makes Ymir double over as she heaves through another guffaw. Her laughter is raucous and irritating and very much her, but it’s not judgmental.
No, Ymir is never judgmental.
“Can you just sit still?” Historia hisses, waving a wad of cotton pinched in steel dressing forceps. Ymir’s banged up in all sorts of ways; for one, the castle guards had a frightening go at her while trying to “escort” her outside, if her forehead bruise is anything to go by. For another, she fell three stories from her window (courtesy of the Queen herself). Even as a shifter with regeneration capabilities, that could not have been very pleasant. And if Historia’s to guess, she’s sure that Ymir sports far deeper wounds all over her body from her escape from Marley, too, but she won’t dwell on that. She can’t, not without risking more tears.
But Historia won’t ask her about it. She’s still not too sure that all of this is real, and there are the chilling fingers of anxiety that close in on her throat, throttling her with emotion. If she presses too hard, Ymir’s image will disappear. Historia knows it. She’s sure of it.
So she won’t ask. She won’t push. And maybe, maybe, when she wakes up in the morning, Ymir will still be there on her bed, snoring and sleeping close to her body like they did during their training years.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
iii.
Surprising to all except the shifter, Ymir’s still there in the morning.
She makes her presence steady and stable and very known by crushing Historia with half of her body weight, an eclipse of brunette hair shadowing blonde. It makes Historia tense with anxiety when she first wakes, momentarily unsure of who’s embrace she finds herself in, but then the smell of cinnamon clogs her nostrils and the generous splattering freckles comes to view.
Ymir’s covered in freckles head to toe, Historia finds. It’s endearing, how Ymir pretends to be this cold and uncaring person, all the while carrying the entire star system on her body. She’s celestial, Historia’s sure of it. Celestial and ethereal. These freckles are proof of it, scattered across her shoulders, on her biceps, forearms, legs, hands, back, everywhere. Historia’s positive that if she looks close enough, she can name at least three constellations there, somewhere, sketched carefully on Ymir’s body by a divine hand.
Ymir hogs the blankets, curls into the crook of Historia’s neck. She’s tall and nearly lanky, and her lean muscle twitches against Historia’s skin as she curls in on herself, small, child-like. At once an all-consuming fire and ever shrinking whisper, Ymir is a world of contradictions compact in the body of a broken woman.
Historia kisses her forehead.
She doesn’t want to get up.
iv.
Historia is forced out of bed as soon as the thought crosses her mind, because of course.
“Your Highness, someone is here—” someone shouts frantically. Historia’s head hurts too much to pay mind to the commotion outside of her bedroom. It can’t be any later than seven in the morning; even the Queen can be afforded one day off from her royal duties, no doubt.
“Mm, who’th fuck is knockin’?” Ymir mumbles, and Historia’s about to shush her when she hears it.
“Ma’am you can’t—”
The knocking increases in both volume and frequency before the door is flung open, and Sasha strides in confidently, ignoring the gasps and pleas of Historia’s ladies-in-waiting. She’s in her green military trench coat but Historia can tell that the clothing she dons underneath is informal—today’s her day off, too, it seems.
It’s been so long since she’s acquainted herself to the Scouts’ schedule.
“Rise ‘n shine, His!” she announces. Historia doesn’t even notice that, in her panic, she’d blindly thrown the covers over Ymir’s body—who currently struggles against the confines of her silken prison.
“Hist—?”
Historia coughs loudly to cover Ymir’s voice. “Hey, Sash!” She greets, a little too much pep in her welcome, and elbows Ymir not-so-gently in warning. The body under her own goes still; Historia hopes that this means Ymir understood her silent plea to stay still and not that she’s died from involuntary asphyxiation.
That would be very unfortunate.
“Kay, so: we’re thinkin’ of makin’ today a swimming day. Connie’s found this absolutely gorgeous waterfall not too far from the Scouts’ Castle. It’s completely hidden, private, and we’re gonna have a good time. I’m kidnapping you for the day. Your lil’ ladies can’t stop me.”
A maiden from the doorway opens her mouth to protest, but Sasha shoots her such a severe look that even Historia shuts her mouth for a moment.
“I’d—I’d love to, but I have some things I need to attend—”
“No, you don’t. I got Hange to give you the day off.”
“Hange’s not in charge of my schedule, Sasha,” Historia chuckles breathily. The thought is kind, but impossible. Even the Commander doesn’t have that kind of control over her routine, unfortunately. “You know that, right?”
The brunette grins as she leans against the foot of the Queen’s king-sized bedframe. “They may not be in charge of your schedule, but they can block out your entire day for an emergency strategy meeting. Which you have today. With me and Connie and Jean. At the waterfall, if that wasn’t clear ‘nough already.”
Historia purses her lips. It does sound fun, but beneath her blanket is something far more fun that she’s been waiting to unravel and pick apart.
“I’m not sure…”
Sasha gives her a slight look. It feels far too knowing to be comfortable, but Historia refuses to wither under Sasha’s frightening instinctual senses. She watches instead as the other woman jogs towards the door and closes it (much to the maiden’s dismay) before walking back to Historia’s bed, hands on her hips.
In a conspiratorial whisper, she dramatically declares: “It’s okay—your date can come too.”
Historia chokes on her spit. “How—what do you mean?”
“First of all: you do an absolute shit job of hidin’ things. Second of all: you’re a terrible liar. Third of all: I heard what sounded kinda like Ymir’s voice from outside the door. Either she survived, somehow—which we’ll unpack later, if that’s actually the case—or you have a frighteningly strict type that you like to take to bed.”
Historia says nothing, mouth hanging on its hinges. Sasha takes that as the cue to prove her hypothesis, lifting the corner of the blanket to first reveal one freckled arm, then peeling and peeling until the sheets are completely removed and her suspicion is proven correct.
Nothing gets past Sasha.
Ymir looks sheepish by the time her face is revealed. She waves with an uncharacteristic blush on her face, embarrassment evident. “Hey…”
Sasha rolls her eyes, but she seems happier for having seen Ymir. And if Sasha’s eyes are momentarily dotted with tears and she hides her sniffles with a cough, nobody comments.
“Frankly, I’m too fuckin’ exhausted to ask how you’re here or even alive. So I won’t. But are you two coming or not? I want to show you guys my cannonball.”
v.
Only Connie, Sasha, and Jean know about Ymir, and Historia wants to keep it that way.
She doesn’t know what possesses her to throw Ymir across the room every time a castle official so much as looks in their general direction, but there’s this protective possessiveness that consumes Historia like a forest fire at the thought of making Ymir go public again. She’d like to think it’s about being cautious more than anything, especially with the knowledge that, really, anyone could be a spy, but she knows that it runs a little bit deeper and more personal than that. She wants Ymir all to herself—especially now that her advisors are not-so-subtly trying to set her up with wealthy men (ha!) to conceive a royal child with.
Also, the prospect of having a hidden affair is slightly (not so slightly) exhilarating, but she refuses to ever admit that out loud.
Ymir knows it anyway.
And so she kisses her now with a hurried passion, hidden behind the door to the meeting room as she waits for her military advisors to come in with their newest strategy proposal. Historia isn’t even sure when they’re planning on arriving, but she counts on Connie to give them at least a two-minute heads-up before Ymir has to dash down the hall and back into Historia’s bedroom, out of sight but certainly not out of mind.
“I love you,” Historia whispers between their lips. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Ymir hums in agreement, has already whispered those words quietly to her countless times before, and clutches Historia harder in her arms. It feels so safe, so completely whole and warm that Historia never wants Ymir to let her go.
Then Connie coughs loudly like he’s hacking out his lung, and Historia turns around to see that the other girl has all but evaporated from sight.
vi.
It takes Historia three months of quiet planning with Hange and Levi before she randomly drops the kingdom-wide bomb that is her betrothal to a “childhood friend.” It’s the only way she can think of introducing Ymir to the world, even though by now most of the Scouts have already found out.
Mikasa had walked in on them one day in the pantry of the orphanage when they’d taken a brief vacation to the farm. Apparently, she’d heard that the Queen herself was in town, and being in the area, wanted to pay Historia a visit. She obviously hadn’t expected to find Ymir there too—or alive, for that matter—kissing the smaller blonde senseless in the pantry.
“What the fuck?”
Historia would’ve been embarrassed if it wasn’t for the fact that Mikasa never, ever swore.
Mikasa’s always been slow with reacting to embarrassing societal incidents. Ymir can’t blame her—even a fighting beast like Mikasa Ackerman needs to have her flaws. Apparently, hers came in the form of a slow processing time to things that would make others shriek or cry with embarrassment immediately, like seeing your two friends making out in a random pantry closet (one of whom you didn't even know was alive). After seeing them, the raven-haired woman had blinked once, twice, and then sighed deep in her chest and turned around, a full 180-degree swivel, and left. And because Armin is the way he is, he found out that same day after seeing Mikasa, putting two and two together before even knowing the equation to begin with.
Historia and Ymir couldn’t stop laughing all day.
Historia remembers how Hange told her that they’d always known, and how she was a little too afraid to disprove that theory. She remembers how Levi had just sighed loudly—nearly identical to Mikasa—and shrugged, stating without emotion that he really could not care less.
And Eren, well, Eren isn’t even around, off in God-knows-where doing God-knows-what.
And now, here they are.
They have to be strategic about this, Historia knows. If she doesn’t sell her and Ymir’s marriage as perfectly normal and more-than-necessary, the nobles and advisors and all the old, worthless men on the royal board will undoubtedly give Titans a run for their money in regard to how relentlessly they’ll pester her.
As a result, Hange encourages that Historia keeps it as vague but out-there as possible—the Queen is taken, engaged and no longer single, but the identity of her betrothed will be kept from the public for the sake of privacy. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Don’t elaborate on anything,” Hange says during one of their meetings. From behind them, Levi pours three cups of tea. “Just say you’re engaged and will be married soon. That’s it. If you need an alibi, use us and we’ll vouch for you.”
Historia nods, thanking Levi as he sets the cup before her.
“For all intents and purposes, Ymir will act as your personal bodyguard from the Scout Regiment. For better or worse, this will put her by your side at all times without attracting too much attention, so long as you two can keep your hands to yourself.”
Historia has the decency to blush. Hange just grins, knowing, and surprisingly Historia isn’t as embarrassed as she thought she’d be. Just a little flustered.
“I will, however, have to steal her away every once in a while. Her Titan is an immeasurable gift to us, and she’s a talented and trained fighter to begin with—we’ll need her help on Scouts missions.”
“Of course,” Historia nods, though the idea makes her heart constrict. It’s a necessary sacrifice to not hide all the time, though, so she supposes that she’s in no position to complain. A few months ago Ymir wasn’t even in her life, and what a terrifying thought it was to remember that.
“We’ll send her the new Scouts uniform at some point this week. Will she be living in your room?”
“Yes.”
“Okay! That’s that, then.” Hange stands, downing the rest of her tea like whiskey. “As always, it was a pleasure to speak with you, Your Excellency.”
Historia rolls her eyes. At this point, it’s glaringly obvious that Hange does it for the dramatic flair alone, even though she’s told both the Commander and the Captain to simply call her Historia.
vii.
Ymir looks strikingly beautiful in her bodyguard outfit, which is an interesting mix between the new Scouts uniform and the standard Military Police uniform. She’d never thought of herself as a touchy or clingy person before, but since Ymir’s come back, she finds that any moment they’re not in physical contact is an eternity that Historia would never wish upon anyone else. Not even her worst enemy.
Whether it be a hand on her back, or a high five, or even just physical proximity in general, Historia is always, always gravitating towards the tall, stoic woman. Not that Ymir minds (because she really, really doesn’t) but there’s still the matter of her every move being heavily scrutinized by Historia’s board of advisors, and it drives Historia up the fucking wall.
She’s the Queen—she should have them all hung for making her try so hard to act all prim and proper, when all she really wants to do is fly around on ODM gear again and visit the kids in her orphanage every once in a while. Even doing legal paperwork and meeting with citizens feels leagues better than the royal balls she’s forced to throw and niceties she has to exchange with people who don’t matter.
She wants none of that poised and fake stuff.
Historia’s fingers twitch for Ymir’s hand as she sits through her third mind-numbing meeting of the day, but she doesn’t let them move from their spot on her lap. Not here, she thinks—not here.
Ymir wants nothing more than to reach out as well and meet Historia in the middle, but she can do nothing more than just smile and accept the Queen’s heavily watered-down clinginess. Her reaching out would not be welcomed well, she knows. And while she’d normally toss decorum right out the window, right now it’s not just her reputation that’s at stake—it’s Historia’s as well.
And she can’t have anyone look at Historia with anything but respect.
So, she refrains from kissing the Queen, even if it kills her. And it almost does.
The one saving grace of being Historia’s personal bodyguard is that she doesn’t have to pretend to like any of her royal advisors or guards or maids. In fact, Hange’s already given the green light to be as intense as possible, greatly encouraging Ymir’s rude habits, her scowls and her glares and her eye-rolls, the whole nine yards. They’d told her to be as harsh as possible within reason, and that was enough of an incentive to take the job offer immediately.
By the end of her first week of bodyguarding, Ymir witnesses the slow and steady relaxation of Historia shoulders, observes as the smaller woman comes to bed earlier and earlier every night, not so wrapped up in her paperwork like she had been before.
Maybe it’s because of the engagement announcement, or maybe it’s because Ymir’s frightening intimidation tactics actually work and are taking some pressure off her. Whatever the reason, Ymir’s elated to know that in some way or another, it’s her doing that Historia’s having an easier time now.
“What’s gotten into you today?” She asks one evening, dog-earring the book she had open in her lap. Historia smiles as she approaches the bed, brushing out the last strands of her hair that still seem stiff from wearing her chignon all day.
“Nothing. I’m just happy.”
Ymir smiles too. The glow of the candle in their bedroom is orange and yellow and red, an all-encompassing warmth that paints Historia in the most beautiful of colors against the blue stones of the walls.
“And why is that?”
“You’re here, do I need another reason?”
Ymir cringes with a lovesick smile. “Ew, you’re so sappy. It’s almost disgusting.”
“It’s true. But you did also scare the living shit out of one of my advisor’s the other day. He didn’t ask for that godforsaken Landlord’s report all week.”
This gets a full bellied laugh from Ymir, who pulls away the blankets on Historia’s side to let her settle in. “You’ll need to be more specific, short-stuff. I threaten all of your advisors daily for a living.” She takes a second to think. “Was it that short, brown-haired man? He was pretty annoying. Going on and on about tradition and land distribution and all that. Was it him?”
“Yeah! That’s the one. It was wonderful seeing him scurry away with his tail between his legs when you yelled at him.”
“And I’ll do it again if he says something stupid tomorrow.”
The peck they share is short and domestic, and then Historia blows out the candle and Ymir falls asleep, content with knowing that she has a place in the world, right under the arm of the Queen of Paradis Island.
viii.
Gossip has always been an integral part of Scout Regiment culture. With a not-so-promising lifespan (or in Ymir’s time it wasn’t, she isn’t really sure what it’s like now), the Scouts used any and all drama to entertain themselves with what little time they did have left.
Now, it seems, death isn’t always so imminent for the Scouts. That’s great, Ymir supposes. But even still, the long-held tradition of whispers and rumors and gossip remains, and for weeks, Ymir is at the center of all the attention. This, she doesn’t like so much.
Most are baffled by her immediate closeness to the Veteran Scouts which, by now, are just her comrades from the 104th. Her history is spotty at best when inquired by the new recruits, and that’s scandalous enough, but then there’s her easy-going camaraderie with the Commander and Captain Levi that makes everyone screech to a halt.
Because how can you just join the Scouts and already have the eccentric Commander ruffle your hair and hug you every time they pass by?
If the recruits think Ymir was acquainted with all the current higher-ups before joining (re-joining, really) the Scouts, then they’re theorizing correctly. It’s the only explanation that makes sense, yet the newer faces still watch her with a mixture of awe and jealousy, as if it’s her fault that she met horse-faced Jean back when he was a prepubescent teen and not now, when all the new female recruits have the hots for him.
It's not her fault that she’s at the receiving end of Connie’s easy going teasing, or Sasha’s incredible physical affection, or even Mikasa’s quiet company, all of which are things that most of the younger Scouts had never expected to see given to her, the “new” recruit.
And no amount of questioning gets them any answers. That’s objectively the worst part—that all the Veterans just reminisce and never actually answer the why or how of the new recruit that is Ymir.
They ask Sasha how she knows Ymir, and Sasha just says that the former bullied her relentlessly about her accent but “did so out of the good of her heart,” which the younger Scouts suppose is answer enough except not really.
They ask Connie why he’s so close to Ymir, and he laughs and says that she’s “the freckled asshole that saved everyone at Castle Utgard,” which makes absolutely no sense without context, but the only people who’d been at Utgard on that fateful day are either dead or an enemy of the state or refuse to elaborate.
They ask Jean why he conspires and plays pranks on the rest of the Veterans with Ymir, and he rolls his eyes and says that Ymir is his workout buddy and that there isn’t a reason to look deeper into it.
Even Mikasa, the only person more terrifying than Captain Levi, smiles fondly and says that she and Ymir shared a bunk back when they “used to live together,” which leaves a lot of things up to interpretation.
The information about Ymir—and the subsequent misconceptions that are born from it—spread like wildfire across the Scout Regiment. The general consensus becomes that the current Veterans were likely cadets-in-training with her. If that’s the case, that would make Ymir a member of the former 104th, and the Scouts know that the only other people from that regiment (who are still miraculously alive) are either sleeping down the hall or working in the castle.
Being trainees together makes sense enough, they suppose. But it just feels so much more than that. Like there’s something they’re not revealing about Ymir.
It just…it doesn’t add up, and it’s a mystery so incredibly entertaining that entire theory boards are created to get to the bottom of it.
Because nobody just disappears like that, and nobody just reappears again like a ghost. Not the way Ymir appears to have done so.
The younger kids follow her around like a shadow every time she drops by the Scouts, as per Hange’s request, thinking that she’s none the wiser. Ymir knows they follow her and swallows the panicked urge to drop-kick them out of sheer anxiety, but she’s thankfully never at the Scouts Castle long enough for it to really matter.
They’re just curious, she tells herself, self-conscious of the way she sits in the library by Armin’s strategy map as four heads peak through the wall behind her. Curious little assholes.
“Ymir?”
Historia’s voice belongs in the barracks. It’s booming and powerful and regal, somehow all at once, and Ymir decides that it should be a federal crime to force her to remain in the castle for such atrociously long periods of time.
She looks up from her seat to find the Queen standing there before her, clad in her military uniform and white cardigan, holding a picnic basket of food. Her left ring finger sports her engagement band, the one Ymir picked out for her, and she feels something flutter happily in her chest at the sight. She rises and is about to kiss her when she remembers the cadets watching them from behind the doorframe.
The startled gasps at Ymir and Historia’s physical closeness echo loudly in the emptiness of the library, and Ymir prays then and there that none of these kids are sent on reconnaissance or stealth missions. She’s about to tell them off when a mischievous, devilish thought forms in her head, and she smirks at Historia instead.
“I brought you some food,” Historia smiles. “There’s also some sandwiches for Sash in here, too. I know she loves Mrs. Mia’s food.” From her tone of voice alone, Ymir can tell that she’s all business.
So she grabs her shoulders, leaning to Historia’s ear to whisper: “there’re a bunch of kids watching us right now—do you want to fuck with the brats a little? Give them something to really gossip about?”
Historia discreetly counts the heads hiding behind the door in her peripheral vision before muffling her amused laughter in Ymir’s neck.
“I’ll follow your lead,” she whispers back, because why the hell not. She’s the Queen, anyway.
Ymir nods and takes the picnic basket from her hands, placing it down on the floor. “I’m so happy to see you, Your Excellency,” she says, voice loud enough to be heard by the kids but not so loud that it sounds suspicious. “I was wondering when you’d come and visit me again. I wish we didn’t have to keep doing this in private.”
Historia smiles gently, something soft and ever inviting. It would almost be angelic if it weren’t for the glint of playfulness and mischief present there too. “It’s okay,” she says dramatically. “Just let me deal with this pesky engagement, and then we can finally be together, oh, lover mine.”
Ymir purses her lips in an effort to reign in her laughter and thanks God that her back is turned to the Scouts, who no doubt must have the most scandalized expression on their faces.
“Lover mine?” She mimes with her mouth. “Really?”
Historia shrugs.
Ymir leans in.
Historia accepts the kiss gently and pulls away quickly, keeping it regretfully short. “You guys can come out, now,” she says, her eyes focusing on something behind Ymir. The taller woman turns too, putting her arm around the Queen. The gig is up.
“Did you enjoy our little show, you relentless assholes?”
The kid who appears to be the oldest finally stands up straight and rushes over to the middle of the library, falling onto one knee before Historia in a frenzied courtesy. Ymir snorts in amusement.
“Your Excellency!” He barks loudly. From this angle, it’s easy to see that he’s sweating profusely. The other kids follow suit clumsily, but their speed is record time and Ymir can’t help but be impressed.
“His’, maybe we should take pity on them,” She whispers, and revels in the way the cadets shake like trees in the wind under her piercing gaze. It serves them right for following her around like little kittens every time she stepped a foot in the castle.
“Ymir! Don’t be so mean,” Historia admonishes, hitting her on the chest. Ymir huffs from how the air is rattled in her lungs, rubbing at the spot. Historia’s always packed a mean punch, and it’s no different now than it was when she’d headbutted her years ago.
The oldest kid chances a look up and is met by the Queen’s kind smile.
“Scouts, stand up. There’s no need to courtesy right now—please stand at ease.”
They sit up from their bow but remain on their knees, hands fidgeting on their laps. There’s a question brewing on all their minds—Ymir can tell by the way their brows are creased and confused. They’re all so young, so unbelievably innocent and naïve. The war’s yet to change them. Ymir hopes the war never will change them, especially if they finish it quick.
She wonders which one of them will speak first.
“W-we’re sorry for eavesdropping, Your Highness,” the only girl in the bunch says. Her eyes are downcast. Her voice shakes. Ymir almost feels pity, but she rather enjoys the intimidation factor that she (read here, Historia) holds over the cadets.
“It’s okay.” Historia smiles. She pats the girl gently on the head in comfort. “There are worst ways to meet my fiancée, though I’d appreciate it if you didn’t crowd her so often in the future.”
“Fiancée?” The girl asks.
“That would be me,” Ymir grins, not caring to stifle the guffaw that bubbles in her chest at the sight of their eyes growing to teacup saucers.
“Y—you’re engaged to your bodyguard?”
“Yep,” Historia nods.
“And you’re not having…you know…”
“Nope,” She says again, popping the “p.”
The kids have so, so many more questions.
ix.
The Scouts spend hours grilling Historia in their youthful awe. And Historia, bless her kind soul, genuinely takes the time to answer as many of the chattered and excited questions as she can.
When Mikasa and Jean come back from their training exercise, they’re surprised to find Historia sitting in the barrack’s cafeteria, clad in a military-issued tank top and her usual military pants, the uniform knee-high boots still strapped around her knees. Around her neck is a red-pendant necklace, her lean and muscular arms folded neatly on the table. Her hair is still in its chignon though not as strictly, and she looks almost as carefree as she had back when they were still trainees. No, she looks more carefree—more than either Mikasa or Jean have ever seen her before.
It’s refreshing. They can all agree that Historia looks best like this, outside of regal dresses and gowns.
“Wait, Your Highness! How did you meet each other?”
That’s when Jean notices Ymir sitting next to Historia, though her face is yet to be visible. The brunette’s forehead rests against the table and Historia’s military coat and white jacket lies bundled in her lap, folded gently in only the way Ymir can achieve.
“God, y’all are so talkative,” he hears Ymir groan, but she still props her head up on her palm with a small smile anyway. Her forehead is tinted red from where it’d rested against the hard wooden panel of the table, but it’s not a shade that’s unwelcome on her tanned skin.
“Oh hush—you’re being sour and impersonable. They’re just curious,” Historia placates, regal in her tone but biting in her remark, and then explains the story of how they met. How she immediately knew Ymir was different from the rest of them (ouch), how Ymir always treated her with respect and goodness—not always kindness, but goodness—and how she was the reason Historia was still here today (definitely ouch, but also understandable). She doesn’t go into full detail, Jean notices, but that’s probably for the best anyway. These children are far too young to know the full story, even if Historia and Ymir experienced it when the two of them were their age, years ago.
The Queen’s eyes light up with mischief as she watches Mikasa and Jean walk over to their table, carrying several faux lightning spears with practiced ease.
“I see you’ve gotten comfortable,” Mikasa says, gesturing to Historia’s white tank top. Her tone is quiet but teasing, and Historia rolls her eyes even though she knows that she’ll get a barking lecture from every corner of her royal advisory board when they find out she’d undressed to such a state.
Thankfully, Historia doesn’t really give a shit.
“So, this is where all of you go on your day off,” Jean smirks, leaning the spears against a column. “I thought you’d all be out and about in town or something. Your next break isn’t until a few weeks later, you know that, right?”
The cadets stay silent.
Jean shrugs before turning to the Queen and her fiancée. “Hey Freckles,” He ruffles Ymir’s hair as he passes behind her and she punches his thigh as hard as she can. He stumbles imperceptivity but otherwise says nothing, taking off the chest guard of his uniform instead.
“Hey asshole,” she retorts as he rubs where her fist connected with his toned thigh. “How’s that bruise coming along from last week?”
“Fuck off.”
Historia rolls her eyes again, reveling in the exhilarating feeling of being so unladylike. “Behave, you two.”
“Since when have those two ever behaved?” Mikasa snorts. “You’re lucky they’re not sparring before us as we speak.”
“Tsk. I’d beat her ass anyway,” Jean mumbles.
It earns him another punch in the leg.
“Anyway, what brings you over, Your Highness?” Mikasa finally asks. She’s already half-way to untangling the straps on her thighs, folded evenly on the table before the young Scouts. The “Your Highness” is tacked on for the benefit of her image in front of the kids, Historia knows. Their informal camaraderie must be shocking in and of itself, because she’s pretty sure none of the cadets knew that Historia was friends with their superiors before this moment.
That decision was made by design, but Historia loves to break the rules.
She points to the picnic basket on the table.
“Ah,” Mikasa nods.
And that’s that.