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Point a finger on a star and Historia would declare it a freckle. An evocation — a souvenir, where all that remains is a single, physical attribute marked on the surface of one's skin. It doesn't have to be profound for her to distinguish; not necessarily in need of depth, either. Historia could count the amount of times she had pointed a finger somewhere, despite the absence of the night and the dampness brought by a downpour.
Though as the days hurried past, so does the memory of a heartfelt bearing. Narrow eyes claimed daunting, tip of the nose so polished it would have impaled. Flat lips Historia would stare at once, twice, more so an umpteenth time she'd desire to lean in. Hair dipped in hickory, its length nearly tickling the dark of her nape, and the miniscule constellations that painted her existence whole.
Ask Historia the first time, and perhaps she wouldn't cease in a mere hour talking about her once-known adoration. Through a four-letter name she would sink her head to, imagining what it would have been like to press herself against familiar warmth all over again.
Ymir.
It resonated like a missing vow, grazed across soft lips — constantly — never ending. Historia whispered the name as if it was a chant she'd have to say each day. An affirmation, a speech, a reminder of what was once hers now long gone.
She'd seen it: the last time such a face appeared. A second of contact upon a piece of paper granted her the gift. Only a single touch apparently had brought her to tears as well, for the last sight she'd have to engrave in her heart was a face unveiling defeat over the sovereignty of regret.
There was no smile, no teeth, no gums, no tongue. Just the void of an open ballad reverberating from her throat; oh how Historia wished she heard, listened. The harsh voice she used to feign offense had brought her to sleep one day, but that was the only time she had been spoiled. Ymir decided to brush off the humiliation through a canon of insults, and yet, Historia received it with a laugh so genuine she couldn't even hear to believe herself.
However, the minutes that pass only postpone the memory used to remember what had been. Sultry days of you and I, hushed assurances in between our distant fretting. To watch someone's back never felt so agonizing, because all that's left for her to do is stand steady in the midst of the discord. That was what Historia had done, anyway; stare and maintain a disposition, despite her fragmented resolve.
Hours have become immeasurable — Historia figures it's an illusion as she sat through the afternoons. The one thing she's supposed to carve on her eyes faithfully departed. Relenting her sighs planted a routine in her system, and it didn't help fade the gnawing injuries manifesting within. In her heart she'd endlessly remind herself of how stubborn the sentiments have been before her transition to the throne—
No, no, never the throne — before her transition to what Ymir had presumed living deep inside faux spirits.
Historia Reiss.
The Cattle-Farming Goddess. The Worst Girl Who Ever Lived. The True Ruler of the Walls.
And the witness of a love so full of yearning.
It felt aggravating. Her anger once sprouted, but now it simply wilted into the desperation of return.
Because Historia Reiss was starting to forget.
The fear has begun to overpower her will to recall. There was never a day where she did not attempt a full picture before her — that was all she could do. To think, to try, to imagine lingering touches at the dead of the night, to the point she'd hold nonexistent fingertips in the middle of her chamber as they danced to the song of the stars glistening beyond the skies.
Unfortunate as it is, Historia feels all the more upset of her drooping ability to do any of it. Slowly and surely, the time has arrived for the memory to dwindle. Of what her future could have been, of how the past might have changed, and of why the present brought upon the extensive hours missing a person that could have filled the rest of an anticipating lifestyle.
Historia carried a compelling pretense. She'd never choose to take it off, not until she acknowledges the authenticity of her environment. But for tonight, just tonight, without a second thought, she tossed it away — along with the vases, the ceramic decor sitting idly on the bedside, the thousand stacks of papers each requiring a single line of her signature; the cluttered dresses in her wardrobe, the tangled sheets covering the mattress; the pillows, dusty books, and the crown that first brought her here—
An entire, requisite mess of emotions.
The sound of all that flocked the floor alarmed the exterior, and the retainers wasted no time barging in her chamber. The rest of the Survey Corps — her once-renowned friends — seemed to have followed suit, and they were put in charge into restricting the Queen of her impulsiveness. Blinded by the extent, Historia tearfully wrestled the mighty grips of Mikasa and Jean to grab a hold of another pot to shatter, but the included strength of Connie and Eren made it difficult for her to pursue.
(It wasn't a lie that it completely slipped her mind that the regiment would be staying for the night after another one of their urgent conferences.)
Sasha had pressed a palm against her mouth to suppress an inevitable choice of words. In hindsight, she was speechless. The yelling only forced her tears to go astray, and Armin was the only comfort left to imitate the same amount of disbelief emerging upon them.
On that night, Historia Reiss lost the remaining lucidity reasoning the consequences. It was never just her two missing figures; the past that crumpled every inch of her liberty, and her future that resided in the wills of those around her.
///
Rarely did the Queen find herself acquiescing another man's presence.
Fortunately for her, it wasn't just any man; Jean Kirstein welcomed himself into the threshold of her study, his tall stature ever growing in the years they have occasionally seen each other.
Each encounter granted curious, authoritative eyes. The formality etched between them flourished honorably, as he was only a mere soldier defending her citizens from outside the walls. Historia believes otherwise, of course, for they have both spent an exhausting amount of hours in the beginning of their sufferings back in training. It was evident, how they both harbored surrender, the longing for freedom, and the pain of losing someone all at once. Historia couldn't ask for anyone else at this very moment.
"Good Morning, Your Majesty." Jean bows when the door closes behind him, the guards no longer in sight.
Historia had found it necessary to assure him, "Hey, Jean. It's alright. We can dismiss the honorifics." She held out her hand over the opposite seat as she offered, and Jean walked quickly to comply.
The scent of the tea captured Historia's attention for a while. Inclined to take a sip, she asks Jean to have a taste, to which he politely refuses in the meantime he was inquisitive.
"I didn't think you'd call me now of all people," he says. "Nobody predicted it, you know? Everyone's rather worried."
"Or curious?" Historia let out a chuckle. "I'm sorry, Jean. I did say I wouldn't take too much of your time, but I suppose I'm reminiscing now all the times we used to spend together. I feel ashamed, honestly."
"Why would you be?" He waved a dismissive hand, grinning. "Even if I did try to get a single foot close to you, Ymir wou—"
Shit.
Jean realized the magnitude of his words. He knew how rigid Historia would appear at the mere mention of that name. It is now him to blame, apparently, because it was simply ignorant to permit himself an insensitive facade the moment Historia authorized a leisurely talk between old comrades.
In haste, he sits upright, arms raised in a defensive manner. "Historia, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
But the faint cheer in Historia's lips contradicted his apprehension. "It's okay, Jean, really. You don't have to confine whatever it is you want to say. I've moved past it. Grown up." She takes another sip of her tea, and Jean trusted so, deflating in his seat.
"... Ymir would hiss at anyone who dared to come near you," he softly continued. He puts an arm over his nape, scratching a certain spot out of uneasiness. "Or anyone she felt skeptical towards, I guess. But I promise I had no ill intentions or anything, she was just being a shitty moron."
Now Historia laughed at that.
"Yeah, you're right. I always wondered why some of our fellow cadets avoided me for a while. Found out once she'd been giving everyone a side-eye, so I accidentally broke her jaw when I slammed my head into her."
Barked laughter filled the room, the fragments of each memory occupying the vicinity fusing into a single wavelength. Jean never seemed more genuine throughout the years, let alone allowing his pretense to fracture beyond someone he'd rarely bat an eyelid towards. He was surrounded by his own circle, full of cheer and the mockery he'd come to bark back, as well as his very own constant reminder that his place now is a well-deserved, properly earned badge of honor.
"Marco, huh?" Historia whispers suddenly, and Jean nods. "You weren't too discreet. I don't blame you."
"He did help me a lot. Pushed me to my limits, told me something I didn't consider about myself." The clouds sauntered amidst the sky; like flocks of loose cushion, soft — tender — and Jean always wondered if Marco was there to lay above them. How comfortable each cloud was, he wouldn't know unless he asked, but Jean knew he'd only receive the pale gust of the air in return.
Historia felt the same.
She'd ask a few times, no matter day or night, or even in between when the sun radiated through the afternoons. The longer the hours she had spent doing so, the more her weariness began pulling her eyelids. Patience perhaps had been her specialty from the start, yet the tolerance for such a virtue had long gone faded along the debris floating within the sunlight.
Everything else fell into place right after. Her comrades' presence was enough evidence already. Jean's is just a fortunate piece destiny seemed to follow.
"I'm happy for Marco." The smile that crept upon her face defined more than what she intended to show. Jean has gone through so much to recognize it. "He doesn't have to worry about being forgotten. As long as you're alive in this world, you have the chance to mark the features you'd last seen now fleeting above the horizon."
The tea has gone cold. Jean never once took a sip from his, and Historia merely considered two.
"Historia…"
"You draw," she continued. "Connie once showed me a small notebook back in the barracks. There was Mikasa — always Mikasa — and then him, Sasha, Marco."
A faint tinge of red seeped the totality of Jean's cheeks. "They were all scraps. I didn't think you'd seen any of them." He expressed a breathy laugh, one of which he suppressed as a quiet huff. "I never did trust Connie after that. But what can I do?" He planted his elbow on the desk, and his chin rested atop his palm as he looked down. "There was a time I couldn't hold anything in. If he showed anyone else aside from you, god knows what I might have done to those who knew and that rotten notebook."
"I understand. Mikasa would have ditched you." A poor attempt in humor as Historia elevated the atmosphere. "Believe me, Jean, I never felt more amazed when I saw it. You're no doubt skilled."
"Thanks, but the cat's out of the bag now." Jean sat up straight. His eyes were locked on the window, where the capital raced below and the skies rippled in a sequence of blue serenity. "Marco's face was all I could draw. The rest I tried, those who passed before us, but I couldn't bother myself to forget what he even looked like. For some reason, it felt unfair if I did."
"Your fear?"
Jean nods. "Apparently." His voice began to fade.
Historia looked at him, eyes downcast herself. "Mine, too."
Then Jean hurried his gaze across the desk, lips slightly ajar, brows lifted alongside. Reluctance possessed his nerve to question despite not knowing what to say.
The air shifted somewhat. Historia had looked somewhere else, right across the window just as Jean had seen. On the pillars that carried the weight of her empire, her eyes sat absentmindedly in the blurry memory of what might have been.
So, in a quiet deliberation, she asks, "Do you remember what Ymir looked like?"
Historia closed her eyes for a beat; waiting became her first approach to curiosity. And blue eyes were always deemed a mystery in the first place, that Jean knows, when after the Krista Lenz rodeo he figures what kind of person Historia Reiss would be. It was a slip in his continuum now that she would still be looking for a face to remember all this time, but it didn't feel exactly right for him to answer such a question.
"A bit, maybe," he says instead. "She always carried that scary look in her eyes, that if you placed her close to Captain Levi, there's a possibility you'd misjudge them related. Though Captain's more of a terror than she was."
Of course she remembers. Even children had claimed how terrifying those eyes looked, despite the kindness radiating from her irises. Historia recognized them almost immediately.
A soft thump on the floor brought Jean to gaze around — the seat opposing him turned vacant. Somewhere in the corner of the room the coat of arms imprinted on white fabric bid him good morning, and a wooden drawer creaking in front as Historia pushed it close.
At the center of the desk she had slid a brown notebook gently, attached to it is a pen that rolled to its side. Jean eyed it for a moment, then averted his gaze back to the Queen who settled down.
"I have a request, or I suppose, a favor," she mutters out of absolute timidity. Anywhere but Jean her pupils bounced upon. "If that's okay."
Jean swears he sees Krista again in a flash of a millisecond. He takes the notebook into his fingertips, barely large for his palm to hold. A miniature journal without a single ink blotching its pages, all parchment fresh from the dust of this room's drawer.
For the benefit of Historia's abashed mentality, he pulls himself to realize. Ah.
So he takes the pen and draws, skipping the first page in case the Queen pondered the words needed to be written there.
The birds that flew past became adequate entertainment as charcoal strokes against coarse surface, the remaining source of noise accompanying the show. Historia found it unnecessary to spare even a glance towards Jean's progress; she'd have to wait, grow patient, and maintain a bona fide temperament adapting to the silence of it all.
Faulty streaks and the effortless blemishes start to fall into place; they flow naturally, leaving the spots once mistakened to move onto another, with seldom erasures need not to be drawn over. Those eyes have taken its daunting, flaunting lips curved into shape, nose accentuated just like how it had huddled close; a constellation of sorts, then a strand forming thousands sinking to the charcoal's lackluster. There is no brown — no hickory, only the hues of grey dissolving into scattered particles. It's enough of what's left.
Jean finishes. Closes the notebook and puts the pencil down beside it.
He's uncertain of the past, but for Historia, the possibility of her recalling wouldn't be too difficult to reach if he didn't choose to sit there.
"I'm sorry, Historia." He smiles, though it didn't reach the corner of his crescents.
"I'm sorry."
It was all he could say due to the fickleness of his impression.
There was no time left to commemorate the grief encompassing the proximity. Later that morning, Jean was addressed to return with the Survey Corps in hopes of returning back to Wall Maria before the sun set. Historia once promised the commander momentary time of Jean's lending, to which she had no right to ask for extension now that she'd received what she yearned for.
Historia doesn't open the notebook until the dusk breaches.
///
The ceramics have been replaced since the night she forced everything to fade. From the decor to the vases, the bed sheets to the pillow cases, all that she had tossed onto the floor and trampled upon.
Nobody questioned it. Nobody dared.
Only Commander Hange sat her through an hour's appointment of interrogation mixed with therapeutics. Historia learned to place her trust in them somehow; the parchment of a love letter was delivered through the gaps of their fingertips, after all. Carefully and mindfully dispatched, from one yearning to another.
The notebook on her bedside table was practically scolding her for being so stubborn all these years, even now. It reminded her of how stupid she was, how stupid she is, and how stupid she would always be.
But it's fine. Ymir did slap the foolishness of her upbringing, and look to where it brought her.
For how long she could bear, the domesticity of the situation didn't match the palpitations screeching against her ribs. The moon illuminated so casually that it drew a single tear out of Historia's eye; it spills on her cheek, down to her chin, until it drops on the leather surface of the cover of the notebook. Time has taken its pace through the opening, and Historia caresses the texture of the parchment she's used to.
Once upon a time, Historia met a girl. No other occurrence ends well, so Historia knew what had to become of her. A crown entered the picture, sitting on her golden, then an empire anticipating the majesty of her leadership.
In the end, what remains is a letter. Sent from the distant lands beyond the walls, where the monsters crept about their greed and cataclysmic convictions. The last memory Historia permitted herself to sink into.
And when she turns the page, Historia's first thought is disappointment. Because — because —
This is where her touches used to linger. This is where her gaze used to thirst for reciprocation. Where her words used to adore, the dreams that used to undergo knowing promises.
This is what Ymir looked like.
And Historia never felt so ashamed for letting the image slip past her heart so easily.
Certain things have come and gone, but she will never forgive herself for such a mistake. Perhaps this weighed more than the transgression she accused Ymir of: betrayal, and yet, the Queen has taken the crown of being the traitorous goddess every being instilled against her since birth.
The one crime Historia has committed will be known for the rest of her living. Up until the page never withers, there's still a bitter chance for her to recall the rest of what she lost.
On the very first page Historia quivers to land the tip of her quill. It takes a moment, but the notebook closes, keeping the remnants of tears imprinted into that one page and the other that follows.
A memory of the days I've risked to love.