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Once upon a time, a young woman lived in a far-away land with her stepmother. She was a servant to the aging woman whose name she never quite learned, but it gave her shivers down her spine when it was said by visitors and never did she try to repeat it.
“Historia, Historia! Let down your golden hair!”
It was a familiar call, not an altogether pleasant one but not unwelcome, for this call usually brought her food and a break from her solitary confinement. Sometimes there were even paints too, like the last time she ran out of burnt umber and Prussian blue and told her stepmother, who came back with the paints hidden under loaves of bread and salted meat.
Historia hadn’t always lived in this tower, though. She reflected on her days outside of as she hoisted the heavy braid and dropped it out the window, hearing it slap against the base of the tower and barely feeling the tug of her hair being pulled. She used to live with the stepmother in the cottage below, making food in the kitchens and doting on her every request until one day a man stopped at the door asking for taxes. When Historia had explained that her guardian was in bed at the time and wasn’t to be disturbed, she was ushered out of the way. Later she was told to never answer the door again, and banished to the tower for good measure. She longed for the heat of the kitchen and the feeling of grass under her bare feet as she picked vegetables for soup.
“Historia, you’re distracted again,” her stepmother remarked as she climbed through the window. “You must watch me as I climb in case I fall. After all, the basket is heavy this time.”
“Is it?” Historia replied, her voice rising with her excitement. A heavy basket always meant she was getting something special, and that was quite uncommon.
Her stepmother settled herself at Historia’s writing desk, taking note that the stationary was low and she would need some more soon. She rummaged in the basket, taking the food carefully wrapped in a green cloth out first to reveal several trinkets at the bottom of the basket.
“First,” she handed her almost-daughter a silver tubular object, which she frowned at first glance.
“What is it?” She asked, uncapping it and running her finger over the nib. “A pen?”
“Yes,” she replies. “You can refill the ink in it, though. You will never have to dip your pen, just refill the cartridge inside.”
“That’s amazing,” Historia breathes. Among the rest of her surprises are more books, some empty for writing in, and pieces of soft cheese that they have to pick the paper off of. By the time the sun is setting, her stepmother resigns herself back to the cottage once more, and Historia was left alone again for the next couple days.
She sighed as she finally pulled the remainder of her hair from the window, letting it drop onto the floor just as the sun outside began to dip below the tops of the trees. She flicked a shorter piece from her line of vision, irritated with the length she was required to keep it in order to get mere living provisions. In truth, at any given time she wished she could cut it off, but that also meant that she would be stuck up here without any company for a very, very long time… something that she felt her sanity would suffer without.
Historia breathed deeply, resorting to her favorite way of ending the day: singing. She often sang outside of this time too, but it was usually a hymn from one of her books or a poem that she’d thought of earlier. But tonight was different: instead she narrated the events of the day.
She went on singing for some time, tidying her rather spacious room and preparing herself for bed, adding a few spots of color to her still life painting as she went. It was so routine, so normal, that she thought she might be hallucinating when a body suddenly appeared at her window sill with little to no sound.
“Hey,” said a young woman dangling from nothing but metal cords in front of her window. “Can I come in?”
Historia clutched her paintbrush, giving the first answer she thought of. “I’m not allowed to let people in.”
The woman swung inside, the cords retracting into the gear that was strung around her body. “Then don’t get caught. Your name is Historia, right?”
“Y-yes,” Historia stammered.
“I’m Ymir,” said the intruder, offering her hand. “It’s nice to meet you finally.”
Historia surveyed Ymir. She was taller, with skin the color of cinnamon and hair tied back to reveal freckles dappling a narrow face. Despite her somewhat alien appearance to the sheltered girl, Historia shook her hand, surprised to find it rough and calloused.
Ymir surveyed her too, grinning the more she looked. “You’re very pretty, Historia. Bertholdt wasn’t kidding at all.”
“Bertholdt?” the blonde asked, confused. She felt her ears grow hot after the processed the first part, an unidentifiable feeling in her head.
“Reiner had him come and check if you were here some time ago,” Ymir explained. “I’ve been watching that woman come into your tower every week, so it took us awhile to get this all figured out.”
Historia frowned. “What do you mean? You talk like I’m someone important. And please, don’t compliment me.”
Ymir laughed, a short barking noise that made the space between her eyebrows crinkle. “You’re a blonde babe, how could I not? And, can I explain everything later, I know it’s hard but I kind of need to get going with you now.”
Feeling her cheeks match the color of her ears, Historia decided to ignore her blonde babe comment. “Why should I go with you?”
“Don’t you want to see the outside world?” Ymir asked, tightening one of the belts around her chest. “I need to strap you onto me, though.”
“I do,” Historia fumbled with her words. “But I’m in only a nightgown.”
The cinnamon skinned woman laughed again. “Come here, get on my back. You will be warm, and I will get you clothing when we reach camp.”
“What about stepmother?” She asked while Ymir secured her to her back with extra straps. “What is going to happen to her?”
Ymir breathes a little more harshly than before. “She knows you’re going. She won’t be too happy, but Bertholdt has a way with people…”
Historia shrugged, realizing her dreams of leaving the tower would come true. “Let’s go, then.”