Work Text:
This work is dedicated to my Bibi,
who is a ray of sunshine
and deserves nothing but all the good
this world has to offer.
.·:*¨ ༺ ༻¨*:·.
Ymir’s golden eyes silently scan everyone in the room with a bored look. Sitting on a rickety bench, a half empty tray in front of her, she looks like she ended up there by mistake. The other cadets chat, laugh, toss around comments and jokes that all sound stupid to her. The usual mess hall chaos, in barracks where you eat too little and sleep even worse. Ymir rolls her eyes and rests her chin on her hand, but then her gaze settles on a figure at the back, smaller, quieter.
Krista.
Or at least, that’s what she remembers her name is. Krista Lenz. She’s the girl who smiles too often and always looks down. The one who apologizes even when there’s no need. The girl Ymir had figured out from the start.
She watches her finish her meal, always composed, back straight even when no one’s looking. And Krista chews slowly, far too slowly, as if trying to make every bite last.
But Ymir’s sharp eyes don’t miss the girl’s quick motion, grabbing a piece of bread (small, barely half a chunk) and discreetly hiding it in the folds of her skirt, nor do they miss the sip of water poured into a canteen that isn’t hers.
Sneaky, but not sneaky enough.
At that point, Ymir raises an eyebrow and watches the small figure rise with poise.
There she is, the little saint of the day. Who’s going to get your charity today?
Krista looks around, and her blue eyes meet Ymir’s. For a moment, just a second, because Ymir quickly looks away. Too quickly not to be obvious. She leans over her tray as if suddenly interested in something left on it, as if she hadn’t been looking at all.
Fucking princess.
And yet, her heart gives a tiny thump. Annoying. Useless. And when Krista leaves the mess hall, Ymir stays seated a few moments longer. Counts to five. Then to ten. Only then does she get up, without rushing, as if it were all random, as if she weren’t following her.
She goes down the side steps, turns the corner, and finds the girl standing at the back of the barracks. The sky is dark and cold, the air reeks of stove smoke and barracks sweat. The blonde walks toward one of the outer corners of the building, where the potato girl sits with her knees pulled up to her chest, eyes lost in some unknown hunger and exhaustion. Ymir leans against a wall, arms crossed, she doesn’t want to be seen. Not yet. She watches Krista closely, sees her kneel, pull the bread from her lap, and offer it with a smile.
Ymir bites the inside of her cheek.
What do you think you’re doing, exactly? Redeeming the world one crumb at a time?
Sasha (that’s the potato girl’s name) holds the piece of bread like it’s gold. Her eyes light up in that way only she can, hunger, joy, and blind faith all at once, as she looks at her savior kneeling in front of her.
“You… are you an angel? No, wait. A goddess. A blonde goddess of mercy… you’ve descended among us mere mortals to feed us…”
Ymir, still leaning against the wall just a few steps away, dramatically rolls her eyes. Sasha doesn’t even get to finish her sermon: her body wobbles and slumps forward. She faints on the spot, as if her brain had decided that now that she had bread, it could just shut off.
She collapses into Krista’s arms, who supports her with effort.
Ymir sighs quietly and steps away from the wall.
She walks toward them, hands in her pockets. She stops for a second to take in the scene: Sasha unconscious, still clutching the bread; Krista looking worried, her hair falling over her face.
“Nice little performance,” she comments.
Krista looks at her, but says nothing.
“What’s in it for you?” Ymir asks, tilting her head. “Seriously. You just gave your bread to someone who would steal food from a horse, and now you’ve got a dead weight on you. Where’s the payoff?”
“There isn’t one,” Krista replies without hesitation. “Not everything has to be a transaction.”
Ymir chuckles, low. Then she bends down and lifts Sasha with minimal effort, slinging her over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“And you?” Krista asks, arms crossed. “You want to do something good too?”
Ymir turns, with that half-crooked smile.
“No. I just want her to owe me.”
.·:*¨ ༺ ༻¨*:·.
The training field is full of shouting, dust, and cadets sprawled on the ground, gasping for breath. Barked orders, bodies colliding, wood striking against wood. Hand-to-hand training shows no mercy, and the superiors have decided that no one is leaving without at least three bruises each.
Ymir holds her own; long legs, low center of gravity, and a reservoir of rage ready to be unleashed at just the right moment.
Krista, on the other hand... she’s precise, methodical, but too light, too polite. Every movement seems to ask permission to exist.
“Raise your elbow, angel face. That way they’ll break your jaw on the first hit.”
Ymir says it with a mocking tone as she watches Krista get unbalanced by Mina with a simple wrist hook.
Krista gets back up, spits out a bit of dust, and ignores her.
Ymir crosses her arms, and when it’s their turn, she approaches her with a smirk.
“Our turn.”
Krista gets into position, eyes focused. But she hesitates, like she always needs a good reason to hit someone. Ymir attacks without warning. A quick sidestep to the left, a wrist grab, and in an instant Krista is on her back in the grass, winded.
“You're always waiting for the right moment,” she whispers above her. “The world doesn’t wait for anyone, princess.”
Krista looks up at her, not angry. Just determined. And then… a little frustrated. Ymir lets her go gently, without humiliating her, and offers her a hand. Historia takes it, and Ymir pulls her up more gently than she needs to.
“If you want to survive, you need to stop worrying about how you look. You’re not here to look good. You’re here to stay alive.”
“I know,” Krista replies, brushing off the dust. “I’m not as fragile as you think.”
Ymir stares at her. Once again, her heart beats just a bit harder, then she makes a half-smirk half amused, half conspiratorial.
“We’ll see.”
And from that day on, Krista learns to fall less often.
And Ymir, without anyone asking her to, starts always staying within ten steps of her.
.·:*¨ ༺ ༻¨*:·.
It’s been three years since they enlisted, now they’re no longer cadets, but members of the Survey Corps. Ymir had hoped until the very last moment that Krista would choose the Military Police, and if it hadn’t been for that idiot Eren, Krista would probably be safe within the inner territory.
“Come with me,” says Ymir, suddenly.
Krista doesn’t ask where, they cross the tree line in silence, and she follows her without question. She trusts her completely. They climb a small hill no one ever visits, a hidden corner of the world, where they can be
far from the shouting and the dust.
At the top, Ymir drops onto the grass, legs stretched out, arms behind her head. Krista hesitates for a moment, then lies down beside her, more composed. They look at the sky, and for a while, they say nothing. Then Krista turns her head and looks at Ymir’s freckles, glowing under the sunlight. She wishes she were closer, so she could count them, one by one.
“Do you believe it? What Armin says, I mean.”
Ymir barely turns, raising an eyebrow. Her golden eyes locked with Krista’s beautiful blue ones.
“About what?”
Krista goes back to staring at the sky. “The rivers of lava. The endless stretches of sand. The frozen continents. The sea. That whole world out there… beyond the walls,” she says, as if describing a dream, not a real place. “Do you think it really exists?”
Ymir looks away, and the sky suddenly feels emptier. Of course, she believes in it. She believes it because she’s seen it with her own eyes. The sea, at least. Just once, too many years ago, while she was being taken away in chains, on a ship that cut through the waters toward nothingness. Where freedom ended and punishment began. But this, she can’t tell Krista. Not yet. So she swallows, and after a brief pause, simply replies,
“Yes. I believe.”
Krista sighs softly, a faint smile forming on her lips.
“If it really exists...” she says, her voice tender, almost a whisper. “I’d like to see it with you.”
Then she turns her head again toward Ymir, and Ymir, slowly, does the same. They look at each other for a moment that lasts longer than necessary, and Ymir tries to look away, but Krista
smiles at her, a timid, hesitant smile that barely spreads, and then reaches out her hand, placing it on Ymir’s, intertwining their fingers.
Ymir looks down, stares at that hand, then slowly follows the line of her arm up to her face, to her eyes. Then she lowers her gaze to Krista’s lips. She props herself up on one elbow, says nothing, and keeps looking at her.
And Krista doesn’t move. She doesn’t pull her hand away. Ymir leans in, and their lips barely touch, a light, uncertain kiss, more a gesture than a contact. Then she pulls away immediately.
Krista’s eyes are wide open, but she doesn’t look scared, just surprised. She doesn’t know what that gesture means. She’s... confused. Back in their cadet days, she used to hear Mina and the other girls talk about the
things boyfriends did, like kissing or touching. But having never grown up with present parents, she didn’t know what those gestures meant. She never had anyone to explain love to her, or how it was expressed. She
just watched, tried to understand. Now, sitting next to Ymir, her lips still warm from that kiss, she feels lost. She doesn’t know what to say,
what to do.
Ymir sits up, looking away, running a hand through her hair, uncomfortable.
“Sorry,” she murmurs.
Krista doesn’t answer immediately. She just looks at her, then moves to sit next to her. She does it naturally, and without hesitation, takes Ymir’s freckled cheek in one hand and gently turns her face toward her, the touch so soft Ymir feels Krista’s hand like velvet.
Krista looks into her eyes, as if searching for something, and without saying a word, leans in and this time, she kisses her.
Ymir stays still, surprised, but she doesn’t pull away. She returns the kiss, timid, uncertain, filled with hesitation and silence. It’s a brief contact, almost fragile. There’s no rush, just two girls in a suspended moment, not knowing exactly how to move, innocent and awkward.
When they part, they stay close. Lips are still warm, hearts pounding, neither say a word. Krista keeps her eyes fixed on the grass before her; fingers entwined in her lap. Ymir nervously pulls out a blade of grass, gaze lost in the void, as if looking for a way out—and yet, the silence that falls between them isn’t awkward.
That moment remains, untouched. Neither erase it, neither names it. Not because it’s unimportant.
But because it belongs to a space that doesn’t know explanations or promises.
It’s something real. And that’s enough.
And they never speak of it again.
.·:*¨ ༺ ༻¨*:·.
Everything had happened too quickly.
Screams, smoke, titans.
Reiner and Bertholdt revealed for what they truly were. Confusion, shouted orders, the team splitting up. Ymir is a titan too.
Then Ymir, with that steady gaze and the choice already in her eyes, had stopped just for a moment. A brief instant. She had bent down, her clawed fingers still dirty with earth and blood, and had brushed the cheek of the girl who was no longer Krista, but finally Historia. She had touched her cheek with a gentleness no one would have thought possible from such a monstrous body. But Ymir’s eyes were human, sad, merciless in their resolve, and they looked at her with a tenderness that took her breath away.
"I'm sorry," she said. A voice barely audible, torn by the wind and the distance. Then she turned. And walked away.
There was no time to scream, to run, to reach out for her. The ground shook under the titan’s steps. Branches snapped, dust rose, distant cries. And then, only emptiness.
Now, Historia is on her knees in the soil soaked with tears. She can’t breathe, her hands clawing at the earth, as if she could dig through and find meaning beneath all that dust.
"She really chose them," she sobs. "She chose them over me."
Her shoulders tremble. The tears don’t stop. Every breath is a knot in her throat. It’s rage, pain, betrayal. And love, burning above all.
A hand rests on her shoulder, cautiously. It’s Jean, he doesn’t say anything at first. He stays beside her the way you stay by someone who is falling apart. Then he calls her softly, the way he always has.
"Krista."
But she lifts her face, ravaged, eyes swollen and glassy, and violently shakes her head.
"No." Her voice trembles but it’s firm. "I’m not Krista. Krista is dead." She stands, fists clenched, no longer seeking pity in anyone’s eyes. "The sweet Krista you all knew… the one who always smiled, who tried to please everyone… she’s gone."
She looks him straight in the eye, as if for the first time, she’s finally speaking the truth.
.·:*¨ ༺ ༻¨*:·.
Ymir walks escorted by two guards through the inner corridors of the castle.
The stone beneath her steps is cold, smooth. The air smells of cleanliness and iron, and light filters through the tall stained-glass windows, casting golden stripes on the polished armor displayed along the hallways.
She had spent days (maybe weeks) locked in one of the lowest cells of the castle, in silence, ignored, kept under watch like a threat or a pawn. No one had asked why she had returned, how she was still alive, or what was going to happen next.
Then, that morning, a sudden order: "The queen has requested to see her." Nothing more.
Ymir hadn’t asked for explanations. She had simply gone up, one flight of stairs after another, her hands tied in front of her, her thoughts more disordered than usual.
Now, the great doors of the throne room open, and the scent of wood, wax, and stale air hits her hard. She lifts her gaze, ready for any face. Except that one.
Historia.
It only takes her a second to recognize her, despite everything, despite the royal garments, the proud posture, the impeccably arranged hair, the gaze that doesn’t lower even a fraction.
She was no longer Krista, not the girl who used to hide bread in her skirt, who spoke softly and apologized too often. Standing before her is a queen. And Ymir is left speechless.
Historia orders the guards to untie Ymir’s wrists. They glance at her with concern but obey. Ymir blinks, breathing shallowly, and hears the guards leaving somewhere behind her under Historia’s command, who remains still for a moment at the top of the steps, as if turned to stone.
She moves, not running, just walking closer, slowly. She descends the steps one by one, her face tense, her eyes determined. She stops in front of her, arms at her sides, fists clenched.
Ymir is breathless.
Historia’s lips move. No sound. Then, suddenly, she raises her hands, her fists hitting Ymir’s chest. Once. Twice. Three times.
Not hard enough to hurt. But enough.
“Why did you come back now?” she hisses. “Why… right now?!”
The blows continue.
“You left me. You left me alone. You chose to go, and I… I didn’t even know if you were alive. You left me with nothing.”
Ymir remains still. She doesn’t try to stop her, doesn’t say a word.
“I hated you.”
Her voice cracks.
“I hated you because I loved you so much.”
Then Historia’s legs give out, and Ymir catches her before she can fall.
Her arms wrap around her tightly, instinctively, protectively.
Historia curls into her chest, her face hidden, shoulders shaking, her slender body wracked with sobs—sobs held in for far too long.
Ymir says nothing. She runs a hand through her hair, kisses the top of her head with a tenderness no one had ever taught her. She holds her tight, as if she could anchor her there, as if she could erase everything.
“I came back for you.”
A whisper. A vow.
Historia says nothing.
.·:*¨ ༺ ༻¨*:·.
The ground crunches under the hooves as the horses slow down at the top of the dune. No one speaks, as if a single word could shatter that moment. In front of them, the ocean opens up like a breath held in for years: boundless, blue, stirred by the wind. A real sea. A new world.
“There it is…” Armin whispers, breaking the silence, his eyes glossy, disbelieving. “It’s even bigger than I imagined.”
Historia rides past him at a light trot, saying nothing. Her mount is elegant and understated, just like her. She wears practical travel attire but still exudes royal authority in every movement.
“You really wanted to come, huh? Even though you’re the queen…” Jean says, grimacing as he dismounts.
“The more they tried to dissuade me, the more I knew I had to do it,” Historia replies, without taking her eyes off the horizon.
Then she turns toward Ymir, still on horseback.
“And you? Are you just going to sit there and watch, or are you coming with me?”
Ymir looks down at her, the wind hitting her face like a warning. There's no fear in her eyes, but something stiffer. A tension, like she’s been holding her breath for far too long.
To the others, the sea was a promise.
To her, it was just a bad memory.
Seventy years earlier, she had seen it from a boat. Chains on her wrists, lips sealed, eyes swollen. The sea had been the last thing she saw as a human, before they threw her past the border and injected into her the eternal weight of a guilt she hadn’t chosen.
And now here it was again. And this time, she was free, but unable to approach.
She smiles, tells her to go enjoy herself with the others, not to worry about her, that she’ll join them soon.
Historia looks at her with concern but nods, takes the hand Sasha offers and follows her. She scolds her when she tastes the water and spits it out because yes, Armin was right, it really is salty.
Ymir smiles at the scene and turns aside when Levi rides up, keeping his distance. He’s the only one, aside from her, who still hasn’t taken off his boots.
“Not going with them?” His voice is rough, but not harsh. Just… tired.
Ymir doesn’t reply right away. Then she shrugs faintly.
The wind changes direction, carrying with it Sasha’s shouts as she tries to lift and push Historia into the water. Historia yells something halfway between a protest and a laugh.
Jean gets pushed in by Connie, Mikasa smiles quietly, Eren watches silently, Hange bends down to pick up a shell to analyze it, Armin kneels at the shore, hands in the water as if trying to grasp its meaning.
“It’s strange,” Ymir says after a while. “I thought seeing it like this… without chains, without fear… would heal me. But it’s still the same sea.”
Levi stares ahead.
“It’s not the sea that has to change.”
Ymir gives a bitter smile.
“I know. I just… need a moment.”
Levi nods, says nothing more, he doesn’t need to. He turns and slowly rides back, leaving her alone.
Ymir turns her gaze to the shore. Historia is knee-deep in the water, her hair wet, arms stretched as if to embrace the wind. She’s looking at her.
At last, she decides to dismount. Historia shouts at her to take off her boots and follow her, she does. She’d do anything she asked. She gasps at the touch of the cold water, curses when Connie and Sasha splash salty water in her face. She wants to go punch them, but Historia laughs, and Historia’s laugh is her favorite sound, so she decides it’s fine.
The blonde reaches out her hands, Ymir takes them. They smile at each other.
Ymir’s hands wrap around her waist, and Historia rises on tiptoe, fingers threading through Ymir’s hair. She scratches the shaved sides lightly, tucks one of those usual stray strands behind Ymir’s ear.
“I finally got to see the sea with you,” Historia whispers, resting her head against the girl’s - who, yes, she can now say it, is her girlfriend.
Ymir smiles at her. A slow, small smile, but sincere. The kind she never shows anyone else.
“Yeah. You finally did it.”
Historia gazes at her silently, still held tight in her arms, fingers sliding along her nape.
Ymir leans in slightly and kisses her.
Behind them, the water laps against the shore, the others’ voices carry on, laughter, shouts, Sasha yelling at Connie to stop, Jean grumbling about the cold.
Someone coughs behind them.
“Tsk. Don’t you think this is a bit much?” Levi’s dry, rough voice says.
“Levi!” Hange scolds him, pushing up her fogged glasses. “You’re ruining a historic moment. Love is a fundamental driving force in building peace, you know?”
Levi crosses his arms, eyes fixed on some distant point.
“I didn’t sign up to witness romantic comedies.”
“Then look away, stone-heart!” Hange fires back, elbowing him lightly.
Meanwhile, Connie and Sasha laugh out loud, theatrically mimicking the scene with exaggerated embraces. Jean pushes them away, grumbling that they’re being childish, and Armin pauses mid-step at the shoreline, watching them all as if trying to imprint every second into his memory.
But Ymir doesn’t pay attention to anyone else.
She only watches Historia.
“I didn’t think I’d actually make it here,” Ymir says softly.
“Me neither,” Historia replies, “but you’re here. I’m here. And that’s enough.”
Ymir nods.
Then she places a hand on her back and pulls her closer, the cold water now reaching their knees.
“Remind me of this, if I ever forget how much it’s all worth.”
Historia doesn’t say anything. She just runs her fingers through Ymir’s hair one more time and leans into her.
.·:*¨ ༺ ༻¨*:·.
The room is enveloped in silence. Only the soft sound of the wind against the shutters, and their breathing.
The light filtering through the window is faint, almost nonexistent. The sheet has slipped away, abandoned somewhere at the foot of the bed.
Historia has her hands buried in Ymir's hair, her fingers still trembling slightly.
The other's head rests on her bare thighs, warm breath against her skin. Ymir has stayed there, motionless, her cheek pressed to Historia's thigh, as if Historia's body were home.
And deep down, it is.
Historia strokes the nape of her neck in a slow, rhythmic motion. Her breathing still hasn't steadied, her chest rising and falling too fast. Every now and then, her fingertips gently scratch Ymir’s scalp, without urgency, without purpose - just to feel her, to know she’s still there.
Ymir lifts her gaze.
Her eyes, golden even in the dimness, search for her, and Historia smiles, tired. Ymir pulls herself up, sliding along the other's naked body, until she is above her.
She kisses her forehead, her eyelids, her nose when it adorably crinkles, until she leaves a soft kiss on her lips. She lies on her side, breathing calm, fingers tracing invisible circles along the girl’s pale collarbone. The room is still shrouded in dim light. Time feels suspended, as if outside the bed nothing could exist for a few more hours.
But then Ymir speaks, her voice low, almost a whisper.
"Sometimes I think about it, you know… that my time is running out."
Historia says nothing, remains still, her gaze fixed on the ceiling.
"In a few years, four at most, I won’t be here anymore."
Ymir breathes in slowly. "It’s strange. Having a deadline. Knowing for certain that every day that passes is one less."
Still silence.
"I don’t want to pretend, Hisu. I want you to know that - "
"Please,"
she interrupted; voice nearly breaking.
Ymir freezes mid-sentence.
Historia slowly turns toward her, eyes glassy. She closes her eyelids gently and shakes her head, letting a tear slide down her face.
"Not now. Please."
She leans in and rests her forehead against Ymir’s chest.
"Let me have this. Just tonight. Tomorrow we’ll go back to thinking about everything else. But now… I need you to be here. Just here."
Ymir nods, runs a hand through her hair, closes her eyes, and holds her close.
.·:*¨ ༺ ༻¨*:·.
In the end, Ymir did manage to marry Historia.
It was a simple ceremony. No parades, no crowns, no proclamations. Just an inner courtyard of the castle, bathed in the late afternoon sun, mismatched chairs salvaged from the audience hall, and a table set with whatever Sasha and Connie had managed to throw together—half official dinner, half picnic.
Historia wore a light dress, cream leaning toward ivory, hand-sewn by a maid who knew nothing about fashion but had adored her ever since she saw her cradle a crying child in the orphanage hall. The dress was simple, cinched at the waist, with wide, soft sleeves and a faint neckline.
Her hair was down for once, and Mikasa and Sasha had helped style it.
Sasha, with the clumsy dedication of someone who had never braided hair before but was putting her whole heart into it, worked on a strand while repeating “you’re beautiful” every two seconds.
Mikasa worked silently, patiently, pinning the sides back with two silver clips.
"You have so much hair," Sasha had said, amazed.
"And you have a bunch of sandwiches hidden in your left pocket. don’t think I didn’t see you," Historia replied.
The three of them laughed, as if they were just girls playing at being young in a normal world.
Ymir… Ymir had been the only uncertainty until the last moment.
She didn’t want anything fancy, nothing ceremonial. She had said, “I’m showing up in uniform. Period.”
But Jean, with a brazen face and a healthy disregard for protocol, had managed to get her a ceremonial uniform from the Military Police—stolen (or “preserved,” as he put it) from a disused depot.
"I risked a lecture for this. So if you’re not gonna wear it, at least tell me where to toss it."
But in the end, she did wear it.
Pressed shirt, poorly buttoned jacket, hair messily tied back. And when Historia walked up to her, everyone else disappeared.
And there was no priest.
Hange read something from a military law book, then stopped, looking at them with that half-tearful smile she always tried to hide.
"You’re stubborn, difficult, complicated. And yet here you are. So, here’s my official version: you’re married."
Sasha immediately began clapping, followed by Connie, and strangely enough, even Eren looked happy.
Armin was the first to stand up. Mikasa lowered her head, smiling. Jean, in the back, applauded with theatrical slowness, saying, “Well, at least someone made it.”
And Ymir, as she looked into the sparkling eyes of her beloved, thought it was the happiest day of her life. And that no one would ever take it away from her.
Not the world.
Not time.
Now, the sun is setting, casting long shadows across the castle’s stone balcony. The conference ended not long ago, another day spent in proposals, alliances, demands. Words and promises—either empty or far too heavy.
Now, finally, there is silence.
Historia leans on the railing, gaze lost beyond the gates, where the garden slopes toward the valley. She’s still wearing her green queen’s uniform, the light cloak draping her shoulders, the sleeves carefully rolled up. Ymir steps up behind her, watching her in silence for a moment.
"Your seriousness scares even the crows, you know that?" she says finally, in a low voice.
Historia turns, giving her a tired look. But there’s a hint of a smile.
"I spent the whole day with men in uniform talking over me. Are you surprised?"
Ymir steps closer, stopping just a step away. She looks into her eyes.
"Yes. I’m surprised you didn’t throw any of them off the table."
"I came close."
Ymir takes her hand and, in a sudden move, pulls her in for a full spin.
The fabric of the uniform flutters slightly, and Historia stumbles half a step, surprised.
"Ymir!"
"Shhh… just checking if you’re still alive under all that self-control."
Historia laughs. A real laugh. The sound bounces between the stone columns.
Ymir takes the opportunity to pull her in by the waist and dip her backward in a sudden, theatrical move, holding her firmly with one hand under her shoulders and the other gripping her hand.
"You’re insane," Historia whispers, still bent.
"Yeah. And you married me."
Ymir brings her back up effortlessly. As soon as Historia is upright again, Ymir’s hands slide along her back, up to her neck, lifting her hair in a soft caress. Then she leans in, her lips brushing the skin just below her ear, the fine line between her jaw and shoulder.
A kiss.
Then another.
And another still.
Historia closes her eyes for a moment and then “I love you”, she says
The world can wait, For now, this is enough.
“I love you more”
.·:*¨ ༺ ༻¨*:·.
"Do you really want to do this?"
Ymir’s voice is harsh, low, taut like a drawn wire. Her hands are clenched at her sides, as if she’s ready to launch herself at something—or to hold herself back. Historia looks at her with tearful eyes, her cheeks already flushed.
"I don’t want to. But if no one else steps forward—"
"Don’t talk crap! You think this is some kind of selfless act?!" Ymir takes a step forward, her jaw tight. "You’re condemning yourself. Receiving the Beast Titan means living thirteen years. Only thirteen."
Historia raises her voice for the first time.
"And how many do you have left?!"
Ymir freezes, wets her lips, and looks at Historia, who is clenching her fists.
"You’re about to die, Ymir. And what exactly am I supposed to do?"
Historia’s voice trembles now. The tears start to fall, fast, uncontrollably.
"Should I just stay here and live a whole life… without you? Watching time go by, while every place I go reminds me you’re no longer there?!"
"Historia…"
"No. No, I get it." She shakes her head, pulls back.
"You’ll be fine. You’re fine with dying this way. But me? What will become of me when you’re gone?!"
She breaks into a strangled sob, burying her face in one hand. Seeing her love like that, Ymir steps closer, her arms close around her, she pulls her in tightly and holds her close. Historia sobs, her tears soaking her wife’s shirt, her hands balled into fists.
"I’m not mad at you," Ymir whispers, her chin resting on her blonde head.
"I’m mad at everything. At this system, at the people who use us, who look at us like pawns to be sacrificed. And I love you. I love you so much that all I want is to hide you from all this. To keep you safe."
Ymir kisses her softly on the head, her hands trembling slightly, but she doesn’t let go. They stay like that for a long moment. Then Historia pulls back slightly. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, takes a deep breath, and moves toward the window. The sky is hazy, the wind barely stirs the curtains.
"I talked to Eren."
Ymir stiffens, but says nothing, she waits.
"He told me there’s… another way. That I could avoid inheriting the Titan."
Historia turns to look at her.
"I could… get pregnant. They would never give the Beast Titan to a pregnant woman. It would buy us time."
Ymir stays still for a second, her brow furrows, then her eyes darken.
"And how would that be possible?"
Historia looks at her in silence, then lowers her gaze, and that’s enough—Ymir understands. But the thought hits her like a punch to the gut.
"Oh."
She turns to the side. Walks a few steps, then comes back. Drops into the nearest chair and buries her face in her hands. Her elbows on her knees, she’s struggling to breathe.
"Fuck, Historia…"
Her hands cover her eyes, her mouth—everything. When she speaks again, her voice is broken.
"So… the plan is… give your body to someone. Let him into our life, to save yourself. To avoid a Titan. And what am I supposed to do? Just stand by and watch you?"
Historia moves closer, kneels in front of her.
"That’s not what I want."
Ymir looks at her.
"But you would do it."
A knot tightens between them.
"Would you be okay with it?"
"I need a minute," she blurts out, but the reaction makes Historia flinch, and she hates herself for it, so she takes a deep breath and rubs her temples.
"I don’t know, Historia," she murmurs. "I only know that every part of me is screaming that this is wrong. Not because you’d have a child, but because they’re forcing you to do it like this. Damn it, you’re only nineteen, you became queen at fifteen—when will all this end?"
Historia stays kneeling in front of her. She looks at her wife, whose face is now hidden in her hands, and she sees her trembling. She reaches out and gently touches her hand, her fingers brushing the back of it with the carefulness of someone afraid of causing more pain. Then she speaks.
"Ymir… listen to me."
She begins, her voice cracked with tears.
"If I have a child… I don’t want you to even think for a second that it wouldn’t be yours too.
You are my wife. The love of my life. And nothing, no one—not even those who decide our wars or treat us like tools—can change that. Not even blood."
Ymir lowers her hands. Her eyes fill with tears she can no longer hold back.
"I don’t know if I’ll be able to watch you go through all this," she whispers. "I don’t know if I can handle… the idea of someone else, even for a moment, in your life. But if that child is part of you… then they’re part of me, too. Because you’re everything I have."
Historia smiles at her—a tired, fragile smile. She takes Ymir’s face in her hands, gently, and wipes away her tears with her thumbs.
"You’re protecting me even now. And I’ll love you, in every form. It’ll be our family. Even if the world doesn’t understand."
Ymir nods, slowly, sniffles, and strokes her cheek with her thumb. She looks at her as if to say: If everything else falls, I’ll hold you. As long as I can. As long as I exist.
.·:*¨ ༺ ༻¨*:·.
“Meat…”
The word slips from Sasha’s lips in a whisper barely audible, more like a sigh than an actual sentence. It’s weak, broken, almost childlike, but it’s all she can still say. And that word, so out of place, cuts through the air like a blade.
Ymir hears it. She doesn’t react right away, but her heart clenches all of a sudden. Because if “meat” is all Sasha can manage to say, it means everything else is already fading away.
Ymir’s hands are completely covered in blood. Dark red, thick, still warm. It runs between her fingers, seeps under her nails, sticks the sleeves of her jacket to her skin, and soaks the worn fabric of Sasha’s uniform right where the bullet hit her, her chest, just below the breast. Too close to the heart.
She’s kneeling beside her, bent over.
She’s pressing her hands against the wound with all the strength she has, as if pressing hard enough could stop it, as if she could convince Sasha’s body not to let go.
But the blood keeps flowing, slow, unstoppable, and under her palms she can feel the skin grow soft, the heartbeat slow… then vanish.
There’s no more pressure.
Only flesh giving in.
“It’s okay. Breathe, Sasha. Just breathe.”
Her voice comes out low, broken, like a prayer she’s not even sure she believes in.
She’s speaking into nothing, but she can’t stop.
Connie is nearby, kneeling too. He can’t say anything. He just stares at Sasha, as if expecting her to get up any second. His face has gone pale as a sheet. His lips move, but no sound comes out.
Behind them, Jean is shouting orders at someone. Asking for bandages, for help, for anything. But no one answers. No one seems to know what to do.
Time, for a moment, has stopped moving.
Ymir keeps pressing, even though her hands are now sliding over bare flesh, even though the blood is running down her wrists, soaking into the seams of her jacket, sticking everything to her. The smell is overwhelming. A metallic, iron-like stench that burns her nose and fills her throat. It’s everywhere. It’s all she feels.
Sasha breathes with difficulty. Her lips barely part, and a thin line of blood runs from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes are half-closed, semi-transparent. They move slowly, as if searching for something, or someone, but they can’t focus on anything.
Ymir takes her face in her hands.
Her fingers are trembling.
“Look at me. Sasha, please… look at me. Keep your eyes open.”
But Sasha doesn’t answer.
She can’t even follow her gaze anymore.
Mikasa and Armin arrive. Jean rushes in behind them, clutching the medical kit in his hands.
Armin kneels and opens it quickly, spilling everything onto the ground in panic. His hands are shaking so badly he can’t tell one gauze from another.
Mikasa gently touches his shoulder, kneels beside Sasha, and calmly moves him aside.
“Make room,” she says, steady and in control.
Jean backs away silently. He doesn’t say a word. Covers his ears, turns toward the wall, and clenches his jaw. Then he walks away, stiff steps, like he refuses to watch. Like not seeing could keep him from feeling.
Ymir shifts just enough to give Mikasa a spot to work from, but she no longer knows what to do with her hands.
They’re still bloody.
They’re useless.
Armin finally finds the bandages and hands them to Mikasa.
She takes them and presses them to the wound. Tries to stop the bleeding. She does everything with precision, but there’s something in her eyes that betrays her. She knows it’s too late. Ymir realizes it at the exact same moment.
Sasha lets out one final breath.
A dry, empty sound. Then… nothing. Her chest doesn’t rise again.
Connie begins to tremble. He drops to his knees, lowers his head, and rests his forehead on the arm of the girl who no longer responds.
“No… No, no, no… come on, Sasha, please…”
Ymir stays there. Says nothing, doesn’t move, the only thing she can do is watch that potato girl fade away.
Ymir slowly stands. Her legs are stiff, heavy.
She takes a step back, growls, then punches the wall.
She slides slowly to the floor, defenseless. She kneels. Rests her forehead against the cold stone.
She doesn’t scream, doesn’t cry, but barely breathes, and her shoulders rise and fall as if she’s trying not to choke.
Sasha is gone.
And Ymir has nothing left to say.
Because there are no words. Only bloodier hands. And a void taking the place of everything else.
.·:*¨ ༺ ༻¨*:·.
The wind blows gently, stirring the tall grass that covers the ground around the cemetery.
The air is still, gray—it could rain at any moment. After all, thinks Historia, even the sky had to weep.
The grave is simple. A block of pale stone, engraved with a steady hand.
835 – 854
Sasha Blouse
Rest in peace with an eternal feast
In front of the tomb, Historia is on her knees. One hand resting on the ground, the other clutched to her belly, which stretches the cloak around her. Her face is lowered, her breath slow and heavy. She’s not crying now, but her cheeks are streaked with poorly dried, old tears.
In front of the tomb, she’s placed a small bundle of cloth tied with a ribbon. Inside, a piece of bread and a whole apple.
“I couldn’t find decent dried meat,” she murmurs, her voice low. “But at least it’s not overcooked.”
Behind her, Ymir watches in silence. Hands in her pockets. Her eyes fixed more on Historia than on the tomb.
Historia’s legs begin to tremble slightly. She tries to stand, but it’s difficult.
Ymir moves immediately, kneels, gently takes her arm.
Historia accepts the help, and Ymir slips an arm around her back, fingers spreading along her side.
She lifts her slowly, and once she’s standing, Historia remains there for a moment, leaning against her.
“I miss her,” Historia says, after a while. “Not just for who she was but, you know, for what she brought.” She wipes away a tear. “She kept something alive, even when everything else was dying.”
Ymir kisses the top of her head. She says nothing.
They remain like that. One with her arm wrapped around the other’s waist.
In front of a grave they never wanted to visit. With a child stirring, silently, somewhere beneath the skin. And an absence that burns more than the breeze that blows.
Historia looks at the bread and the apple on the hard earth.
“Sasha would have made fun of us. She’d have said it’s not worth resurrecting for this lunch.”
Ymir scoffs softly, but smiles. “She’d have wanted a roast. One of those big ones. And she’d have asked for seconds.”
“And asked to keep it all for herself.”
They stay there a moment longer, then Ymir turns toward her. Looks at her profile, then raises her gaze to the sky. The clouds are low, heavy, and the wind has changed direction.
“Let’s go, before the rain catches us.”
Historia nods. Adjusts the cloak over her shoulders, takes a step back from the grave, then another. Ymir stays beside her, a step behind, her pace unconsciously matching hers.
They’re about to reach the bend that leads to the downward path when they hear footsteps behind them.
Quick, but not rushed, they turn slightly, just enough.
It’s Niccolò.
He walks with his head lowered, a bouquet of white roses clenched in his hands. The petals flutter lightly in the wind, delicate.
When he lifts his gaze, it meets Historia’s for a brief moment.
But Historia lowers her eyes, unable to hold his gaze, and then clings tighter to Ymir. Her arm loops through her wife’s.
Niccolò stops before the grave. He kneels slowly, the white roses stay between his fingers for a long moment, before he lets them fall gently to the ground, beside the bundle left by Historia.
Ymir and Historia don’t look back again.
.·:*¨ ༺ ༻¨*:·.
The screams bounce off the thick walls of the room. One of the midwives, the younger one, has a tense face and trembling hands. The other, more experienced, keeps her composure, though sweat beads on her forehead.
The windows are shut, but outside the wind howls, angry. The sky is dark, the world out there on the verge of collapse. Inside, there is only one body fighting to bring another into the world.
Historia lies on the bed, the sheets soaked with sweat, blood, and strain.
Her forehead is beaded with sweat. Her hair sticks to her face. Her hands clutch the blankets with a strength that seems inhuman. Each time a wave of pain rips through her belly, her head lifts slightly, her lips part in a strangled scream.
"Just a little more... deep breaths, but keep pushing," says the elder midwife, trying to stay calm.
"I can’t do it!" Historia’s voice is broken, full of tears and rage. "I can’t… I can’t do this alone…"
The second midwife grabs her hand, squeezes it tightly. "You’re not alone, my queen. We’re here. Breathe. Again."
But Historia shakes her head. Tears stream down her face, her arms tremble.
"I want Ymir… I want Ymir here…" The words are blurred with groans, her breath fractured.
Another contraction, another stab, another scream.
Her head falls back. Her eyes roll for a moment. Her heart pounds in her ears and pain wraps around every bone, every fiber. Then, suddenly, darkness. Historia’s body goes limp, her arms fall to her sides, her grip loosens.
She no longer feels her body. She doesn't hear the voices, the hands, the room. It's as if she's floating in a space without weight, without time. An unnatural stillness, with nothing comforting about it.
Then something moves.
There’s a figure standing just ahead, under a bright sky. She has long black hair, loose and flowing down her back. She wears a simple, light, summery dress. Her shoulders glow under the sunlight. Her face is hidden, turned away. Historia recognizes her even before she turns around.
“Frieda…?”
The voice comes out as a whisper, lost, like a child calling out in the dark.
The figure turns slowly. The face is young, familiar, serene. Frieda smiles at her like she used to, when they met in secret.
“Look at you. You’ve truly become a woman, a beautiful woman,” Frieda says softly, with no surprise. As if she had always known.
Historia swallows. Her heart aches.
“I can’t breathe anymore…”
Frieda reaches out a hand. “Come.”
They walk together for a few steps. There’s nothing around them, only tall grass, and in the distance… a tree. The real one, the same one from her childhood. The one she used to hide under. The one where, deep down, she dreamed of being someone else.
When they arrive, Frieda bends down and takes something from a basket left among the roots—a straw hat. She places it gently on Historia’s head, like she used to when she was little. She strokes her cheek. The gesture is warm, familiar, unmistakable, and Historia leans into it.
“You have to go back.”
Historia looks at her, confused. “I can’t, it’s too-”
Frieda slowly shakes her head. “You have to fight. For them.”
She glances down at her belly, still whole in that muffled reality.
“Your little girl needs you. So does Ymir.”
Historia stiffens. The name is a blade.
“Ymir…”
“She’s coming back,” says Frieda. “She promised. And you know it—Ymir always keeps her promises.”
She takes both of Historia’s hands and squeezes them tightly.
“Go home, Historia. The time of chains is over. Now there is only life.”
The wind shifts. The tree bends slightly. The light fades.
And Frieda disappears, like water slipping through fingers. And the room returns. Historia jolts, air stabbing into her lungs. She coughs, her face contorts, her hands clutch at the sheets.
“She’s awake!”
“She’s holding on! She’s doing it!”
The voices are distant but she hears them. A contraction hits her without warning, pain pierces through her—but this time she screams, and she pushes.
Because Frieda was right.
Because her daughter needs her to be strong. Because Ymir is coming back.
.·:*¨ ༺ ༻¨*:·.
The scent of toasted bread and warm eggs fills the still-dim kitchen.
Ymir woke up early, as always. She’s wearing only a loose shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows and moves with ease. She flips the eggs with one hand and sips overly hot tea with the other.
She hears a small thump from upstairs, light footsteps and a creak.
“Hey, little one…”
A blonde head appears at the top of the stairs, hair tousled, a blanket clutched in one fist, and one pajama sleeve slipping down to her hand. Frieda stops at the top, rubbing her eyes with a tiny fist.
Ymir smiles.
“You woke up on your own?”
She turns off the stove, dries her hands on the apron, and slowly climbs the stairs until she’s in front of her daughter, who raises her arms to be picked up. Ymir lifts her and kisses her flushed cheek.
“Where’s mommy?” Frieda mumbles, resting her head on her shoulder.
“Mommy’s at work, sweetheart. You know, doing queen things.”
“Mmmh…”
“Want to go see her later?”
Frieda nods softly. Ymir carries her back down the stairs, rocking her in a slow rhythm.
“All right. But first… breakfast, right?”
“With lots and lots and lots of honey?”
“Only if you don’t tell mommy.”
The little girl smiles into Ymir’s shoulder, who seats her in a tall chair, her blanket on her lap and a tiny spoon clutched in her fingers. In front of her, a warm cup of milk and a plate with toasted bread slices, cut into uneven triangles, slathered in butter and honey.
Ymir moves between the table and the stove, pouring herself more tea, occasionally glancing at the child.
“Slow down, Frieda. If you eat that fast again, you’ll scare us like last time.”
Frieda looks up at her, mouth full, eyes wide and innocent, then starts chewing slower.
“Good girl,” Ymir murmurs, sitting across from her.
As she finishes her toast, Frieda leans on the table with one arm, cheek against her sleeve. She’s almost falling back asleep, but Ymir gets up just in time.
“Come on, sleepyhead. If you want to see mommy, we have to get ready.”
Frieda grumbles, but lets her mother lift her up and carry her to her room. Ymir dresses her in a flowy little dress and a jacket, combs her hair and gathers it into a messy ponytail. Then she hands her a blue ribbon and ties it behind her head.
“Perfect,” Ymir says, kissing the top of her head and adjusting her collar.
Frieda spins around suddenly.
“Wait! My plushie!”
Ymir sighs but smiles, fetches it from the bed and tucks it under her arm.
“Now can we go?”
The door opens onto a clear morning, the air fresh but not cold. Two uniformed guards, posted along the perimeter, stand as soon as they see her.
“Lady Ymir,” they greet respectfully. One of them gives a slight bow even to the little girl. “Princess.”
“Good morning,” Ymir replies, helping Frieda up into the carriage step. She climbs in after her and makes sure the girl is comfortable. She pulls the blanket over her legs and taps the wood to signal the coachman to start.
The carriage begins to move slowly, wheels creaking, hooves clopping rhythmically. Ymir looks out the window for a moment, then turns to Frieda, who is already falling back asleep, her head resting against the plush toy. Ymir gently strokes her hair.
“We’re almost there, little one. Mommy will be happy to see us.”
The carriage stops at the castle’s side entrance, reserved for staff and close guests. Ymir steps out first, reaches for Frieda, and gently sets her down.
“Come on, we’re here.”
The little girl, who had clung to her stuffed animal until then, lifts her head suddenly.
Her eyes (so much like Ymir’s) light up, and without another word, she starts to run.
“Moooommy!”
Her dress flutters, her shoes echo against the stone floor. The plushie is left behind, forgotten on the first step.
Historia is there, at the end of the hallway, wearing her usual green uniform and holding a bundle of papers. She’s speaking with two advisors, but the moment she hears the child’s voice, she turns.
The smile that spreads across her face is instant, as if no meeting, no war, no royal burden could stand against that name shouted with such joy.
Frieda throws herself into her arms without slowing, and Historia bends down just in time to catch her.
“Hey, little one!”
She lifts her off the ground with an exaggerated groan. “You got heavier! How much did you grow in two days, huh?”
Frieda clings tightly to her neck with all her strength.
“I thought you went away!”
“Never without saying goodbye,” Historia whispers, rubbing her cheek against her daughter’s head.
Ymir catches up at that moment, scooping up the forgotten plushie. She stops a few steps behind, watching them quietly. The two advisors, seeing them reunited, exchange a quick glance and excuse themselves with a small nod.
Historia watches them leave with a faint smile, then turns back to Ymir, who approaches silently, plushie still in hand. She offers it, and when Historia takes it, Ymir leans in slightly, hands brushing her sides, and kisses her softly.
“Good morning, my queen,” she whispers against her lips, pulls back, and gives a theatrical bow, making Historia roll her eyes—but she doesn’t stop smiling. And Frieda watches them, partly amused, partly impatient.
“Mommy,” she says, tapping Historia’s chin with a tiny finger, “I had lots and lots of honey today!”
Historia looks at her, feigning a stern gaze.
“What did you do?!”
She slips her fingers under the jacket and tickles her belly. Frieda squirms in her arms, laughing loud, her giggles bouncing off the stone corridor walls, echoing like a wave.
Ymir sighs and raises her hands.
“It was supposed to be a secret, you little traitor.”
“I knooow!” Frieda shouts between laughs.
“But mommy has to know everything!”
Historia and Ymir look at each other and smile. Historia leans in again and searches for her wife’s lips. Ymir bends down, lifts her chin, and kisses her again, this time longer.
They only break apart when a tiny voice interrupts.
“I want a kiss too!”
Ymir and Historia turn simultaneously toward Frieda, who’s watching them with a serious expression and a fake pout. They laugh and move in together, each kissing one of her cheeks at the same time. Frieda laughs, pleased, as if she just won a prize.
Then Historia squeezes her waist a little tighter and pretends to groan.
“Okay, little one… back in mommy’s arms. You’re getting bigger than me. And heavy.”
Ymir laughs and lifts the girl from her arms with ease, settles her on her hip, and Frieda rests her head on her shoulder. Then, the sound of footsteps resumes, and the castle begins to pulse again, gently.
But for a moment, only this remains:
A mother laughing,
a daughter clinging to her neck,
a woman watching them both as if they were her whole world.
Three years have passed since the Rumbling.
The world is still piecing itself back together.
There are cities to rebuild, fallen friends, wounds that never truly healed.
But there is also laughter in the halls, rushed kisses, breakfasts with too much honey, and hands that find each other at night, in the silence of a shared home.
Ymir never thought she’d live this long.
Historia never believed she could be free.
But now, against all odds, they are here.
And this is more than they ever dared hope for.