A / N: Part One, Act One. The full illustrated version can be found on Archive of Our Own, complete with cover, chapter, and character illustrations by various artists under the same name.

Cover art by Hatsuraikun on Deviantart.

Chapter 1: Keep Moving

In a time lost to the pages of history, in a forgotten land where the emergence of science outweighed the enigma of faith, an entire village seemingly vanished overnight without so much as a trace, leaving one meek, insignificant child as its only survivor. Alone and forced to fend for herself, after much trial and hardship this child blossomed into woman who united the world with a mysterious power and became a mighty ruler. Unlike those before her, she ruled benevolently, with her mind close to her heart, ever beating in favor of those less fortunate, of those less able to pull themselves from the tragedy of war; ever bleeding for those who sought to continue the tyranny of the past, the disappearance of hopes and dreams for so much to fill their chests and stomachs with greed. She spent a long time rebuilding the world in her image, forcibly if need be, and years of even more trial and hardship passed before all was peaceful, all was quiet, all was calm, until she was usurped—murdered in her sleep when her eyes were shut—her body disemboweled and decapitated and her mysterious power split nine and then the world plunged into a great war that lasted a lifetime longer than she herself had lived. Its victors rewrote history, the defeated ousted, butchered, enslaved as the world came back under a thump of oppression and savagery until history dared repeat itself again. Another rebellion, another great war, colossal, violent, and more devastating than the last; another beheading, a new victor, the shackling of the old, and, in the midst of this all, the child that was reborn. But, the world… the world was unforgiving. Its wounds never healed and the scars tarnishing its surface left it puckered and sore with horrendous, atrocities galore. The child was taken, growing up beaten and bruised, then sacrificed for the greater good before her rule truly had chance to begin.

The year is 845, and the world was still cruel. Humanity has been beset by monsters known as Titans for a hundred years. A seemingly endless tide of giant, humanoid devourers, and nobody knew where they originated from, what their purpose was, and, most important, most dire, how to effectively end them once and for all. So, in desperation, the people shut themselves behind three fifty meter high walls for their own protection, thinking themselves safe. Only, they were being kept in the dark, gathered like cattle in cages for the inevitable until, one day, one red-colored, quiet, unassuming morning after dawn, this all changed when they were given a grim reminder of what it meant to be locked away.

And, in the midst of this all, a child is reborn, and all she remembers is the blood, tissue, and bone. All she remembers is the torment of the mindless. All she remembers is the face that haunts, the face that always reminds her of the cruelty of the world. That it always has been and that it always will be; that it should always be held in a certain light, and that she was never meant to be born, molding herself as someone who was nothing, who thought herself worthless. Crimson nightmares, bringing death, the world her enemy, her string, and her fate. Tied to the world by a thread, a reluctant causality in a world which resented and cursed her as it always would. So, she ran away from her fate and the world, in retaliation, in retribution started its end, but, the child, the girl, she kept running, and running, and—

ᚲᚨᚷᛖᛞ᛫ᚾᛟ᛫ᛗᛟᚱᛖ |Ω| ᚨ᛫ᚷᚱᛁᛗ᛫ᚱᛖᛗᛁᚾᛞᛖᚱ

… Running.

Running, running, running away.

She wanted to keep running further and farther away. Though, her legs, her legs wouldn't carry her anymore, and so the girl fell.

The ground began to shake.

She tried to stand, desperately tried, but, her arms wouldn't move, either. She was forced to listen as it got closer, and closer, and closer still, until, finally, its shadow loomed over her and something, something sharp, hooked underneath the skin of her back. It hoisted her up and she cried out in pain. Unthinkable pain, as its teeth sunk into her legs, ripping into her, tearing up to her waist. It gouged at her innards, pulling them out as she vomited blood. Spitting and coughing, juices spilled down her chin. They dripped onto her chest and upward its hunger moved. Her ribs were crushed when it reached her chest, and gasping for air while she tried to suck in more, her heart was about to burst, veins clotted from the strain. Ready to explode, she let out a scream that died in her throat. Snot fell from her nose and tears her eyes as the world became dark.

Frightened awake by the horror in her mind, the girl slammed the back of her head into a tree, panting heavily. Nauseous, sick to her stomach, she wanted to throw up, and looked down at her hands. They were normal. Normal, human hands. Then, she winced, feeling something wet, something red. Blood. She was bleeding, and laughed, tears falling from her face. Staring at her now bloodstained fingertips, she stuck them down her throat, wanting to gag. Wanting her past to wash away with her tears. Though, she had to keep moving, and, slowly rising to her feet, drew her bloody, saliva-covered hand across the tree and looked up to the sky, searching for stars that weren't there. She didn't want to go back to the way she was. Didn't want to be that way again, and agony split through her skull, her vision filling with blinding shades of red; scarlet flashes of pain as she tried to expel the monster from her mind. As she tried to remember it: her name.

But, she had to keep moving, and stumbled on, wandering the wilds, fighting her hunger, fighting the urges, the scent of it, and wiping those bloody, saliva-covered fingers into blackened, slushy mud, her nails scraping the hard soil beneath, the blood which still licked her tongue. The blood of innocents, the blood of the damned, the blood of the dead. She heaved. Harsh, ragged gasps of dry air, spittle drooling from her mouth, sticking to her skin, and nothing more as, with them, came again those images of panic and of fright. They crept back into her mind, like a caged beast roused from its black slumber. And, the sounds. Screams. Cries. Crawling up her throat like worms toward the surface. She felt them, wriggling around, working their way, working their way, up, and up…

The girl curled into a fetal position on the wet ground, as if doing so would make them go away—make them disappear. And, lying there, finally, she vomited. Flesh-tasted bile spilled out. It seeped into her hair, her clothing, her skin. Soaking her, as that haunting voice of hunger whispered into her ear. But, of course, they were still there.

She chuckled to herself.

At her own stupidity.

Of course they wouldn't simply disappear; seared, branded, and burned into her brain forever. The smoldering remains, smoke billowing toward that red sky. Red as the blood staining her once clawed hands as they dug into the ground, her small, beady black eyes staring down upon them against the sun: her prey. How she snatched one, the rest running for their lives in her wake. Its insignificant whimpering. Garbled noises made dangling above her head as her jaws widened. Biting down, the taste, the feeling. Blood—swallowing, spitting, devouring, savoring—and bone—snapping, breaking, pulverizing, crushing. These memories assaulted her and she buried her face into the earth to suffocate them, to overcome them, only to collapse from their weight.

… Outside that decimated village, a gathering of monsters much like her self stood waiting, watching her every move. They began to speak. Childish attempts at communicating their thoughts into one word. The word being spoken to her. The word being chanted to her. Repeated. Repeated. Repeated. Over, and over, and over.

Hands shaking, mind breaking, the girl concentrated all her thoughts on that one word—that one desire to know her name—and bit down so hard on her hand she hit bone to keep from howling because of the pain. Except, nothing happened. Nothing, except, more pain. More blood. More vomit, as another memory came to her: a shelter of light within a distant, dark dream. Of someone caring and kind. Someone who told her that no matter how painful it was, that she must keep moving. That she needed to get back on her feet and keep moving.

She listened.

Pushing herself up and staring at the messing of her face in the mud, she couldn't die here and scratching and tearing herself on thorns, continued following a path overgrown by time until she reached it: a shelter of light.

Though, unlike the one pictured in her mind, dredged up from that slumbering darkness, this one was in ruins. Ravaged, raped, despoiled—just a shell of what it'd been and she was afraid of what lay inside, lurking, and she would've moved past it, continue even further on, if not for that voice. Oh, that gentle, loving voice, beckoning her from that dark. It persuaded her otherwise. Intimidated, pressured, pushed, even. And that same voice—that someone, caring and kind, turning vile and cruel, ordering her forward. Into that darkness, into that unknown, to brave the peril, swallow her dread, and conquer her own fears. It shouted. Screamed. Keep moving, keep moving. And, before she realized it, her body was at its splintered doors, arms weakly creaking them open, blood rushing through her veins as her heart pounded in her ears. Thump. Thump. Thump. She had to keep moving, and forced her way inside, tripping, tumbling on.

Falling in a dusty heap, eyes to a collapsed ceiling above, nothing moved, nothing stirred. Only silence reigned, and the voice that drove her grew quiet, as she sat up to catch her breath on one of the old and rotten wooden pews lining either side of her, assessing even in her own collapsed state a lone podium flanked by two large statues at the front of the room. Behind them, was an altar, and slowly, but, surely, she continued her way towards it and, reaching it in time, its worn and aged plaque, rusted and cracked, was cold to the touch, and small dark shapes began to appear as her hand wiped across its surface. Knowing them to be letters, she stepped back and squinted, trying to sound out the word they formed. She couldn't, and, instead, looked at them again, closer—the statues. The depiction of what they were. What they were called—long abandoned, long forgotten, only, she couldn't, she was so very tired...

The girl doubled over beside the podium.

It was hollow in back.

Scrunching herself into the void space, she put her knees up against her chest and rested her chin on top of her hands like before, an infant inside her mother's pregnant womb, eyelids heavy for the first time in what felt like ages, and it wasn't long before she was fast asleep.