―1850―
Historia opened her eyes, and the room was bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun. Her limbs felt numb, fuzzy with lack of movement. She rubbed the drowsiness from her eyes and pushed herself up from the table, feeling disoriented. The fleeting visage of a woman was lurking in her mind, for reasons she could not discern. Jet-black hair, green eyes that reminded her of her own.
"What is it?" Eren asked from the bed.
Historia gave a small gasp of surprise; she didn't know he'd been there. She recovered quickly.
"...I was dreaming about something. It was important, I think. But I can't remember anything."
Eren sat up.
"Really? That happens to me a lot, as well."
Historia stared blankly at him. Eren got to his feet and walked over to look out the window.
Silence fell. Historia lowered her gaze to her interlocked fingers.
And she realized that the half-forgotten dream was still floating around in her mind.
"Wait..." Historia began tentatively, "there was something. A face. It was a woman's face. She had green eyes and long, black hair, and..." Even as she spoke, the dream was already fading, as if the mere act of recalling the woman's existence was enough to dissolve her from her memory. She frowned, clinging to the image with a frantic repetition in her mind (black hair, green eyes), willing her presence to remain a little longer. "I don't know her, but...at the same time, I feel like I do, somehow. I can't describe it."
Eren eyed her strangely.
"Are you sure that's what she looked like?"
She nodded.
"Well, in that case...I think I've seen her before."
The fog of slumber evaporated from her mind as she sat up abruptly in the chair.
"What?"
"She looks a bit like my mother. But she's not. She's younger. Green eyes, black hair, like you said. She's wearing a dress. A white dress. And she's in front of a mirror, brushing her hair." His brow furrowed. "It's as if I'm right there beside her, but she's completely alone. I don't know how I can see her up close. It's almost like..." he trailed off.
"How do you know all that? Where did you see her? Who is she to you?" Historia demanded.
"I don't remember when I saw her. I don't know her name, or where she is. I don't even remember seeing her. I just know, somehow, that there's this concept of a black-haired, green-eyed woman inside my head, and that she just happens to fit the description you gave me."
"That's a funny coincidence, don't you think?" Historia muttered. "This woman is in both of our heads, and we can't explain why."
Eren shook his head, exhaled in a display of thinly veiled frustration. "I really can't tell you anymore. I wish I could. But when I try to, the whole idea of her just...fades away. There's nothing." He turned to her. "Does that make any sense to you?"
"Somewhat."
There was another period of silence while Eren turned back to the window. "It's nearly sundown..." he sighed. "I'm sorry."
Historia kept her attention on her hands. "What are you apologising to me for?" He turned from the window.
"For everything, I suppose. I can't recall anything about this woman, whoever she is, I failed as a Titan, and now we've got to waste all this time on tricks, hoping that we'll succeed. And besides, I thought you still wanted to rescue Ymir."
Historia shook her head. "I don't think 'rescue' is the right word. She made up her mind back there, about the life she would lead. I won't interfere. All I have now is more confusing information that's supposed to tie me back to my rightful family—" here, she chuckled bitterly, "—whatever that means."
"So? What are you going to do about it?"
She shrugged passively. "You tell me."
Eren frowned. "Armin and Jean are out there right now, risking their lives for all of us. Aren't you concerned?"
She glanced up at him.
"Why should I emphasize with someone I don't care for? You know Armin, just as you thought you knew me. I don't know him. I don't care." Eren stared at her with a look of faint horror. "Krista would've worried. She was a good girl." A thin smile twitched on her lips. "But she's gone now, and here I am. Nobody ever loved Historia Reiss. She never loved anyone, either. Her situation isn't even that uncommon among the children in the Under Cities." She sat back in her chair and sighed. "I expect this is such a great disappointment to all of you, isn't it? That I'm not the girl you thought I was?"
Eren just shrugged.
"Well, I dunno about the others, but I remember thinking your old personality was always kind of..." he sought, briefly, for the right word, "...forced. It was a bit creepy, to be honest."
She blinked. Looked down at the table.
"...Oh."
"But there's something I like about you now."
She looked up at him, doubtfully.
"What do you mean?"
"You're you. Just a normal girl who's absurdly honest."
And he would not know it then, but his words would prove to be far more impactful than either of them could ever imagine.
She hadn't told the Scout Regiment everything.
Oh, she'd given them the gist of it. She'd told them of her understandable, yet thoroughly mistaken attempts to reach out to the whore that she'd once called a mother, of the man who'd shown his face on that fateful night, ten years too late, and claimed to be her father, and of the tall men in hats who'd taken her from him.
But she hadn't explained everything. She'd left out the details of life on the settlement, because they were not at all noteworthy. They had all been there, and who wanted to be reminded of those terrible days, anyway?
She did not tell them her name, again, for obvious reasons.
And she did not tell them how empathy, while instilled deeply in the personality of Krista Lenz, did not come easily to Historia Reiss.
―1842―
As a young child, Historia quickly learned that empathy was nothing more than a ploy to trick the innocent and vulnerable into letting their guard down.
The elderly couple she called Grandmother and Grandfather were largely indifferent once met with conversation that did not concern general farm work. They were as much family to her as the rocks and trees.
The other children were no better. They jeered at her when she approached, or turned her away. If this did not deter her, they sent her running with threats and stones. Twice they chased her.
One particularly vibrant memory was of a drafty spring afternoon. She'd met another girl on the outskirts of the farm.
Elise.
Elise was not as inherently cruel as the other children, but she was weaker, physically and mentally. Afraid. She clung to their company like a dog to its master. Unlike a dog, her loyalty was derived from fear.
But that was just as well, Historia thought. A dog could be befriended.
In a lapse of judgment, she offered her hand to the other girl as one would do to an unfamiliar animal. She would not harm her. Elise disregarded her hand entirely and took a few steps back, spat:
"Get away from me, bastard!"
Historia did not know what the final word meant, but it was uttered with such contempt, such derision, that she understood that it could not be a good thing. Not knowing what to do, she snapped back:
"You're a bastard as much as I am!"
This juvenile retort only earned her a cackle.
"You don't even know what it means, do you?"
And as much as Historia wanted to open her mouth and declare that yes, in fact, she did know what a bastard was, she knew that the satisfaction of flaunting her feigned knowledge over this girl was simply not worth it. Better, she thought, to be construed a coward than a liar.
"So you're a bastard and a fool!" cried Elise.
Historia rippled with anger.
In her mind, Elise was on the ground, teeth chipped and face bruised from where Historia had punched her. Elise was screaming, too, but not for long, because when Historia forced her hands in her mouth and ripped out her stupid, feeble tongue, she couldn't mock her anymore. She couldn't breathe, either. She couldn't do anything but open and close her mouth like a fish as blood issued from the ragged stump of flesh that had been her tongue and from where her teeth had scraped Historia's knuckles raw.
On the outside, she was calm. Content, even.
She let Elise and the other children call her whatever she pleased, because she could always dream.
Later that day, she asked her grandparents about the word, to little success.
Grandfather ignored her completely. Grandmother was not much more helpful.
"We have books, girl," she said curtly, "go read and find out for yourself."
So Historia took it upon herself to learn with a feverish intensity. Every day, as soon as she was done with the work expected of her, she threw herself into their meager supply of literature.
And over the days and weeks spent poring over the dog-eared pages, she began to learn. Not about the mysteries of bastard, regrettably, but of other things.
Friendship. Children had friends they could talk to. But she had no friends, and she did not want them.
Parents. Mothers and fathers cared for their children. They spoke with them, held them, scolded and taught them. But what good was that to her? Her grandparents were not parents of hers. She knew this, because they had made that concept perfectly clear within the early weeks of her indoctrination. They had also buckled under her relentless inquisition concerning the strange, fair-haired woman that sat and read books, every day beneath the maple tree out front, never working (in evening, she wore a fine dress and boarded a carriage for the innermost walls of the Capital, but this was so commonplace in its occurrence that she did not inquire about it).
So Grandfather told her.
"That woman is your mother." He spoke the word mother as if it was to be interpreted in the loosest possible sense. "If you have a lick of sense in your head, you'll stay away from her."
When Historia had, again, asked why she was to avoid the woman, Grandfather, in a rare moment of honesty, grunted and replied:
"Because folks get ideas about women like her, and they're not always wrong ones."
Then they were alike, Historia thought. Both detested, both unwanted for reasons her young mind could not yet fathom.
And as she sped through the pages with a ravenous hunger for knowledge, she wondered what other similarities tied her to the woman she called Mother.
One day, Historia mustered the courage to try and approach Mother. Surely she would respond in some way. There must be a reason she kept her distance. Perhaps it was a test of some sort.
Her shoes swished in the grass, ankle-length, as she walked over to her, stopped a few feet away to be safe. But the woman did not look up from her book.
"H-Hello, Mother," she mumbled, voice thick with anxiety, heart pounding.
The woman stiffened at the sound of her name, but went on reading.
"Mother?" Historia tried again.
No response.
So Historia steeled herself. And she ran to the woman and flung her arms around her, crying: "Mother, it's me!"
The woman gasped in surprise, in panic. Historia felt larger hands grab her, toss her away. There was a sharp pain in her nose as she hit the ground. The taste of warm metal filled her mouth and she wiped the blood from her nostrils, ecstatic at this simple act of acknowledgement.
And then Mother spoke her first words.
"If only I had the courage to kill you."
Unlike the children and Elise, there was no distain in her voice. There was only resignation. She looked at her through the weary eyes of someone whose capacity for venom had dried up long ago. Historia noticed that Mother's eyes were green, just like her own. They were also wet.
Mother seemed to realize this at the same moment Historia did, for she turned and walked away, book in hand, shuddering slightly.
She never came back again.
There was no concern as to how she had sustained her injury, but that was expected.
Historia had since learned the meaning of the word bastard. She had learned exactly what her mother was to the rest of the world. And as days came and turned to weeks, the realization struck her.
Grandmother and Grandfather, the other children and their parents, everyone who lived on the land were of the same mind. They did not care whether she lived or died. The only reason she was allowed to live at all was on account of her necessity to the farm.
So why should she care about them? What empathy would they ever give to her? What was empathy to their kind, if not a cruel joke?
She wallowed in her anger and resentment. And it was during this period that she found solace in the company of the farm animals. They would not judge her. They could not, if they had tried. Their minds were not wired to ascertain the qualities of their master, but to work and listen. So they became her companions. She talked freely to them. If they had possessed the capacity, they would have understood her most intimate thoughts and wonderings.
But they were mindless beasts.
She would daydream sometimes, of what might be. She would dream of escape. Of love without pretense.
The bitterness in her soul, meanwhile, only grew in its influence.
She snapped one day, upon a sweltering, summer's afternoon. Grandfather had requested her to draw what little water remained in the well. She took her usual path, near the trees and dry soil, away from the other children.
A rat lay, quivering on the earth. Its leg was twisted in a grotesque fashion, tendons and fur and bone bared to the elements. A thin trickle of spittle dripped from its slackened jaws. A predator had caught it, obviously. But here it was, mangled and undigested.
She stared at it.
It stared back. Judged her.
You will never be loved, it said.
Goddamn the little bastard!
She dug her thumb deep into its eye, and the creature emitted a high-pitched moan of anguish. She felt nothing. No rush, no sick, sadistic pleasure. Her eyes narrowed, brow furrowed in concentration, teeth gritted.
Make it bleed.
The creature convulsed under her tiny, calloused hands. Then it stopped.
Grandmother wasn't pleased by her delay.
"What took you so long?"
The anger and bitterness had long since subsided, leaving a cool emptiness in her stomach.
"There was a rat."
The elder woman scoffed.
"Hurry along, then."
―1845―
Three nights to the day Wall Maria had fallen, a man came knocking.
"Hello, Historia. My name is Rod Reiss." He offered a hand. "I don't expect you to remember me. I'm your father."
"But...you're the Lord of this settlement. How could I be related to—?"
"I'm afraid there's no time to talk at present. There will be soon, I promise you."
Historia nodded. But as she did so, she realized the man was not alone. She gasped despite herself.
Mother.
The woman would not meet her eyes.
The three of them departed towards the carriage waiting in front of the house.
And then Mother screamed horribly.
Historia saw them. Men, over a dozen of them, all clad in dark hats and overcoats. Two grabbed her mother.
"My Lord," one began, "I implore you to reconsider. Have you lost your nerve because Wall Maria has fallen?"
Mother whimpered.
"Mother?" Historia asked quietly.
The woman's reaction was immediate.
"No!" she screamed, "I am not this child's mother! She has nothing to do with me!"
The first man who had spoken, the tall one, looked to her father for confirmation.
"Is this true, my Lord?"
Historia looked frantically to her father as well. He met her gaze in a combination of sadness and warning. Then he sighed.
"Yes."
The first man chuckled darkly.
"Just as we thought."
And Mother was shoved to her knees. A blade pressed to her neck, drawing the first few drops of scarlet.
"N-No! My Lord, you mustn't—"
The first man talked over her. "You never worked in the Lord's mansion. You never even existed."
And Historia felt nothing as they cut the woman down.
"If only you'd never been b―" was all she could say, and then the blade flashed. Blood filled her mouth and lungs and she fell to the earth, choking pathetically.
The tall man walked calmly over to Historia, now, and laid a hand upon her head. He brought the dagger up to her face. It was still warm, tainted with blood.
This was how it would end, she thought. This was what they wanted.
"Wait," her father said sharply. The man stopped. Historia twisted her head to gaze in astonishment at her father.
"Her name is Krista Lenz."
The man with the knife looked from him to her. Then he grunted.
"Good enough."
There was a blow to the back of her head, and Historia knew no more.
A/N: Next chapter: the Military Academy! Not exactly the Historia Reiss you were expecting, eh? It's only going to get better from here on out!
It'd be kind if you'd leave a review!