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Historia celebrates Eren’s court release by dropping by to see him.
She’d never really thought much of him back when they were trainees, though she had simultaneously admired and pitied his lofty goals and lack of shame. Sometimes, she felt bad for him, thinking of the rude awakening he’d no doubt have when he died in the jaws of a titan. Otherwise, she tried not to pay too much attention to him, annoyed by his easy, no-nonsense earnestness and positively unnerved by the way she felt his eyes bore into the side of her skull in class sometimes, as if trying to peel away layers of skin, fat and bone.
But in the cabin in the wilderness, their positions reversed. Eren acted, or tried to act, the same way he always had when the 104th came together, but it seemed obvious to her that things were not the same. Perhaps it was because he too, was a failure of humanity, like her, like Ymir, and she saw his snarling face in her dreams sometimes, the accusation that condemned her to being Christa, to clinging to Christa, except that Christa had been shattered beyond repair, stomped to pieces under Ymir’s heel, ruined by her departure. But being Historia was just another kind of play. Historia wasn’t any more real than Christa. No one, not even herself, knew who Historia was.
“I like the you right now much better,” he’d said with his obnoxiously upfront insight. She hadn’t been able to understand it then, but standing in a cave underground, wondering what Ymir would do, needle poised above the ludicrously clear blue path of a vein, she’d gotten it. She watched him fall apart, diminish himself, and she’d felt angry—why couldn’t he see that it had nothing to do with him? That he’d been manipulated and lied to? If he was sucking the truth out of all he’d ever said, that he’d be the one to kill titans, that he would see the ocean, wouldn’t it mean that he had lied about her too? Wouldn’t that make her the fool, nursing that odd kernel of indignation and surprised pleasure for days afterward, to take out and examine and mull over in solitude?
Friends, so she said in the cave, stamped and sealed it with a righteous fist to his head, irritated with the realization of how much he reminded her of herself, and that’s what they’ve remained. When she’d finally given the Commander and the Captain a piece of her mind and told them where they could shove their lofty, romantic ideas of rebellion and sockpuppet royalty, she had seen him grinning like mad in the background, even as she tried to shout down the Captain he respected and admired so much. For his part, the Captain had the stony poker face of someone who had just sucked on a lemon, but he also seemed to give off an odd air of relief. The Commander had just laughed.
There was reason for laughter. The Commander was aware, like the rest of them, that the idea of Historia being a queen was absolutely ridiculous. Historia neither wanted, nor knew how to handle such a position, and replacing one monarch with another wouldn’t change the problems plaguing the government, and by extension, the military. She had been an excuse for drastic action, borne of desperation. She couldn’t say she liked that, being some kind of chess piece or storyboard.
“Sorry,” the Commander had said quietly, with the same, uncharacteristically heavy expression that pinched their brow when they spoke of Eren’s health seriously, “That wasn’t fair to you. It wasn’t fair to you at all.”
The Captain never apologized. She resented him for that, though it was almost funny how he skulked around her, kept out of her space. He nodded stiffly in greeting to her when she passed, acknowledged her presence and trained her just the same as the others on their team, but he never admitted that he was wrong, or made motions to make up for his lapse in judgment.
“I don’t understand why you like him,” Historia said once, perched in a chair next to Eren’s cot.
“Sometimes I don’t either,” Eren admitted with a sigh, staring morosely at one steaming stump of an arm. “Do you hate him?”
“I resent him,” Historia had replied, completely truthful.
“I would too, if I were you,” Eren agreed quietly.
“…he’s not a good man,” Historia said, pushing, looking at Eren’s face.
“No,” Eren said, looking back, fists curling tightly into the thin infirmary blanket. “No, he’s not.”
That had surprised her a little. It shouldn’t have because Eren, for all his steadfastness, was also strangely mercurial, and he was shifting again, changing again and she couldn’t tell when and where she tread into new territory. Nevertheless, Eren continued to follow orders somewhat obediently, though a divot in his brow made it obvious when he though his orders were questionable or ill-advised. If he was conflicted about serving under the Captain, he never said a word, at least not publicly. Somehow, they seemed close, Eren and the Captain, and despite how the Captain treated her, Historia found that she couldn’t begrudge him that. The Captain had been a huge influence on him, and Eren knew his crimes as well as she. Between the former Commander Smith, Armin, her own father, and Eren’s father, the objective standards of morality were always under flux. Being good, or being bad, sometimes seemed to be a joke.
So it is that Historia has no real idea how on earth Eren ended up living with not only the Captain, but also the former Commander. With things as they are, it isn’t surprising, but living in a house together is vastly different from bunking with eight or more other fellow soldiers in a makeshift cabin barracks in the middle of nowhere.
He’d sent her letters, thin envelopes enclosing large sheets of paper with only a couple lines of text scrawled across them. Every letter bore impeccable address, meant to go straight into her hands, or at least the Garrison post. The bright red stamp covering the upper left corners of the envelopes made it clear that the letters had been processed through Sina post. She wasn’t even sure how he was able to send correspondence, under probation as he was.
“Maybe he’s finally learned to stop running his mouth,” Ymir had said, a warm weight nested against Historia’s back, reading Eren’s third letter over her shoulder. “We can dream.”
It’s quiet here. We’re close to the woods. If I’m quiet enough it feels like I’m just living out here on my own.
I read a lot of books. You should ask Armin for recommendations, you can’t go wrong with him.
I started an herb garden yesterday. Instead of weeds, I think I dug up too much grass.
Cooking is hard. Sasha might have to save me.
With the abundance of land and plenty of desperate families willing to move in no matter the risk, Sina had found itself losing power in the aftermath of the Fall of Walls, decentralized both politically and geographically, even more so as the Underground that had once helped support channels of corruption began to change. With Military Police power weakened and somewhat delegitimized, Sina Underground led the most vocal push towards early outward expansion into reclaimed Maria land, and beyond. There were suggestions of a citizenship and papers incentive for those who were willing to settle early and see if the land was still viable, rumors of an inside man in one of the military branches who knew how to smuggle people out beyond the gates, to the new frontier.
Captain Levi, Historia had remembered at the time, was rumored to have come from Sina Underground. But she couldn’t imagine that the man who had threatened her into agreeing to be a puppet queen would have the ability to create the proper, discrete channels for that type of project.
Under those conditions, Eren should have never been able to send any sort of correspondence. If his letters had gone through Maria channels, they would have been destroyed by local authorities. She knows now that Commander Smith had probably been pushing them through for him, and it’s something she still can’t quite wrap her head around. Eren had never seemed to have any particular feelings toward the Commander, aside from required respect of the chain of command. Then again, Eren had been more intimately involved in military politics than she, from the sheer instability of his position, and it wouldn’t have been impossible for Eren to have gotten to know the Commander better during tactical meetings.
But he looks good, healthy, maybe even happy, crouching in the garden dirt next to her in the brightness of weekend’s sun. His eyes are lively, shaded by the broad-brimmed straw hat perched haphazardly atop his head, his spine and shoulders relaxed and at ease as he feels the soil around his plants, checks the leaves, stems and roots for unwelcome pests and rot.
“Onions and garlic,” he says, pointing, the row markers long overgrown by abundant, sprawling greenery. “Radishes, spinach. Herbs over there, mint, basil, thyme. The lemon bush. Oh, and I want to put in squash next fall.”
He doesn’t seem to notice the long look that Historia gives him. “Next fall?” It’s near the end of winter, almost spring.
“Yeah.” He looks her in the eye. “Next fall. I’ll be back from the next expedition in time, won’t I? Erwin can get it started for me.”
So casual, so solid. She supposes that’s just how Eren is; he doesn’t know how to operate any differently. She doesn’t need to ask him where he’ll go now that the court has cleared him.
He shifts a little, rubs at his calf and winces. “Can you grab me some gardening tools? They’re in the cabinet near the back door, the wobbly looking one.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks, frowning.
“My legs,” he says, not serious, but not dismissive either.
“I thought you were done with PT, isn’t that how you got cleared for the next expedition?”
He makes this dry little sound. It doesn’t sound pleasant. “It’s a work in progress.”
She can’t help the odd bolt of concern and annoyance that shoots through her. “Maybe you should work a little harder,” she says as a parting shot, heading for the thick wooden slab that serves a back door. She pushes it, but it doesn’t really budge, just makes an awkward, creaking groan and slides into the doorframe crookedly.
“Sorry, it does that sometimes!” Eren shouts from behind her. “Just shove it a little harder, that’s what I do.”
She should have expected that, like Eren would have the finesse to think of anything else. Bracing herself, she rams her shoulder into the door, slamming it open, right into Captain Levi’s face.
All things considered, it’s glorious. He doesn’t make a sound, just sinks slowly into the crouch of the extremely pained, clutching at his bleeding nose, a purple bruise forming right in the middle of his forehead, the wooden crutch in his hand clattering to the floor. The apology she was prepared to make evaporates in her throat, and as much as she wants to laugh she also feels apprehensive, steeling herself for his anger, though she no longer worries about physical threats. He’s never laid a finger on her since that day.
But she ends up waiting for nothing. He levers himself back up with a grunt, scowling, prodding gently around his nose with blood sticky fingers. Pathetic old man, she had spat at him back then. Rivulets of blood still run down his forearms, fingerprints are smeared on the bridge of his nose, red stains the edge of his collar and he frowns even harder at the taste of metal in his mouth. He seems mortal, fragile, brought down by bad timing and a thick door, seems battle-weary and worn down. A pathetic old man is what he is, but she doesn’t feel as much delight in understanding that as she thought she might. Eren snickers quietly behind them, but it’s almost as if she can hear him right next to her ear.
Captain Levi just stares at her quietly, lingering pain etched into the corners of his eyes, “I guess this means we’re even,” he mutters at her, picks up the crutch and shoves it in her hands, leaving crimson streaks, before turning and making his way back into the house.
She turns to look back at Eren, eyes still wide in surprise.
“Looks like you got to hit him after all, didn’t you?” Eren says. Remnants of his laughter still curl the corners of his mouth, but mostly he seems resigned. He holds his hand out in wordless request for the crutch she clenches numbly in her hand. When he takes it, he slides his fingers into exact position over bloody prints. Holds, for a second, for two, eyes downcast, biting his lip, before he heaves himself upright, lets his hand fall to the worn rung he must have gripped so many times before.
“Want tea?” he offers as he starts a quick, if limping walk back to the doors. Her gaze shifts back to the rusty smears sunk into the wood. She wonders if they’ll wash out.
Captain Levi drifts by in the corridor while she waits for Eren in the living room, now in a clean, cotton black shirt instead of his usual white, collared ones. It softens him, makes him look small. The toolbox in his hand clanks and clangs with his every step. She realizes with a start that there must be something that he does now, something other than killing.
“Will you ever apologize?” she asks him, throwing the words out.
He stops in the corridor, swipes a maybe self-conscious finger under his apparently unbroken, bandaged nose. The way he looks at her is quiet and heavy, not sharp, not accusatory or desperate. “Would it do anything?” he says, voice low. “It wasn’t right. But if I said it now, would it do anything?”
“Yes,” she snaps.
He searches her glare, like he doesn’t understand it, the need for acknowledgement of his actions, blinks, almost languorously. Pathetic old man. Slight wrinkles, gentle crow’s feet, the faint tinge of red on his skin. He edges around her like a wounded animal, except the one who was hurt was her.
“Sorry,” the Captain says, the former Captain, who bleeds and falls over and gets people crutches. “You didn’t deserve that.” His lips press together, bloodless, and his tools clatter dully as he shifts his grip.
Eren sets down the tea with a pointed clatter of china and porcelain, and the Captain sweeps away quickly, heading toward the door at the end of the hall. Historia is left behind, feeling unsatisfied and empty, despite getting what she wanted. It feels petty, almost, even though she’s completely justified. Eren just gently nudges a cup of tea towards her; stops to watch her trace the pathways of wood grain running along the polished surface of the table.
“He made this table,” he says, matter-of-fact. She can hardly believe it. It’s a gorgeous thing, smooth, curving lines so different from the rough-hewn, sharp-edged single-set furniture found in all military buildings. “He made or remade about a third of the furniture. That’s what he does now. Woodworks. Argues with other old men. Goes to the market.”
“He’s quiet,” she says, taking the proffered tea cup.
“We’re tired,” Eren replies immediately, drinks his first couple sips nonchalantly, wincing at the heat, or maybe at the realization of what his response really means.
“That doesn’t sound like you,” Historia says primly, lifting the cup to her lips. It smells like roses, maybe even a bit of mint. “Weren’t you the one who said that you have to fight in order to win?”
Eren seems to shuffle around a little uncomfortably, but doesn’t offer a comeback with his usual false bluster. That’s a bit strange, in and of itself. Eren doesn’t just let people have the last word. But maybe it’s unfair of her to expect that; he’s changed. He’s very still, when he wants to be, all of him tense and frozen when he hears loud, thunderous noises, and he’s more subdued, and she wants to say that he seems passive, but it’s less passivity and more a matter of trust, more a matter of openness and understanding. It’s not that Eren doesn’t like her, or doesn’t think that she’s a friend, but whatever it is that he has here, she might not be able to comprehend it. Some days, she wishes she were confident enough to really take a stand, hold her head up high and say she hated definitely, loved absolutely, but sometimes she thinks love is less rapid drowning and more of playful waves, lapping at her ankles, surging and rippling like water disturbed by the paper boats she sometimes saw children floating in still puddles. Just the same, she wonders if she could let go of circumstance, let go of old and pathetic, desperate and scared, but she finds that she can’t because she’s made it a habit to look ugliness in the eye, to look at it and recognize it.
“Stay for dinner,” Eren says. He’s been very hospitable. Historia had expected to leave early, or to be bored, but the house Eren has helped make is very different from the one she built him in her head. He took her to the market, quite a bit smaller than the one in Trost on weekends, and she felt a little surprised by the bombardment of friendly faces and greetings.
“The boys”, they’d said, Erwin, Levi and Eren, and they’d drunk the last of winter’s mulled wine as Eren traded them small sachets and sealed packets for coins, herbs and remedies or just lavender pouches for fresh linen drawers.
Historia watches the steam rise from her cup, writhe in the air, and vanish. The bright coolness of mint lingers on her tongue. Eren has a good thing here. Historia, too, has a good thing waiting for her at home.
“Maybe another time,” she says. “I’d like to bring Ymir.”
Erin grins, mischievous, like when he was twelve. “Don’t worry, I won’t poison you,” he says.
“I trust you,” she says, and watches him blink his eyes in surprise. She’s not sure if it’s true, she’s not sure if it isn’t a product of the moment, but the words fit well on her mouth and she likes the way the words tumble from her lips. She’ll learn him, one day, like he learned her, and when they change, they’ll just learn it all again. She’s dreamed, she’s pushed forward, she’s worried and fretted herself to death, cursing her face in the mirror, put now, she thinks, is a good time to stay still, to rediscover old horizons and find the topography of new terrain.
“I’ll come again,” she promises, and watches his smile grow.