A Soldier of Royalty
Armin lied in bed—wide-eyed, confused and slightly aroused. Ymir was straddled across him—her fingers gently combing through his hair, her lips peppering the edge of his mouth with small kisses.
In any other case, he would have been freaked, but there was too much at stake. If he made so much of a peep it would blow his cover. To Ymir, he was Historia—someone who trusted her beyond comprehension—Historia would not be scared; Historia would not weep—and he had to fill that role.
She said something between each kiss—Armin had to blink a few times to keep his composure. He caught small phrases like "I'm sorry," and "I won't leave you again," to him she sounded a bit frantic—perhaps she was wanting Historia's forgiveness or perhaps comfort after some sort of trauma.
She had an earthy scent; he wasn't sure if it was her natural scent, or if it was the scent of travel—in fact, she kind of stunk. Despite it all, he didn't mind much.
Her lips lightly brushed against his. Even though the whole situation was awkward, it felt strangely comforting. His lips kind of tingled.
He wanted to kiss her back.
So he did.
Armin woke up on his side; he had to get up and get dressed before anyone saw him like this. Ymir's arms were wrapped tightly around him. He tried to move, but he was stuck. He really didn't want to ask her to let go, in fear of her reaction when she woke up and found him in her clutches instead of Historia.
Ymir's nails dug through his shirt. Had she done that all night? He wasn't sure, but it was starting to hurt.
Armin was groggy. The sun was shining brightly through lacey curtains—it couldn't be noon, could it?
Ymir pushed her face into his back and nuzzled. He gently pried at her arms for her to let go, and to his surprise she did, and broke from her snuggle and flopped over to the other side. Her mouth was open and her arms were stretched. He couldn't help but admire her a bit, even though her brown hair was an absolute mess. She was well toned and—
Armin averted his eyes from her. Instead, he opted to look at the dress he'd have to get into. He frowned. He hated that thing—it was itchy, way too frilly, and humiliating.
The dress was old. He was told that the dress was originally made for a princess—that the previous queen's dresses were way too long and he would have to be fitted.
He picked up the pastel pink dress; he scrunched up his face showing his disdain. He pulled the dress over his clothes. It was a tight fit. He bent down, slightly stiff, and rolled his pant-legs up to his shins. The end of the silky dress fell neatly over his legs.
After putting his hair into a sloppy ponytail, he grabbed his wig that was lying on the dresser counter. He positioned it carefully, making sure strands of his slightly darker hair didn't show through.
He took one last look at Ymir. Seeing as she was dead asleep, he grabbed the bedroom key and locked the door. It was best if no one knew of Ymir's presence. He didn't fully trust her, but she had her use.
Armin shuddered from the pit of his belly. Just thinking of Ymir's reaction to him not being Historia terrified him. There was no way he'd fool her in broad daylight—he was lucky enough to get away with it last night. A whole day would be like throwing himself into a titan's mouth—which was a very plausible scenario.
It was too easy to imagine Ymir slitting his throat in rebellion with a knife she had hidden in a back pocket.
Or maybe smothering him with a pillow?
A hangman's noose made from curtains?
Armin knew the list could go on. He assumed Ymir would be craftier when it came to ways of killing him. He really hoped she wouldn't barge out looking for "her Historia" anytime soon. If she was even awake.
He was only "queen" for three days now, he had hoped his ruling not end before it even started—it was only when he was in the battlefield he expected to die from a titan. Not be killed by one in the middle of Sina, in a castle, and in drag of all things.
He could already hear the sneers and jeers by the public when word got around that their late-"queen" was in fact an ordinary kid disguised as queen. He would bring more shame to the Survey Corps than ever before; they wouldn't even be deemed failures—they'd just be laughed at.
Absorbed in his thoughts, he bumped into one of his maids. She was a young girl—if he had to guess—around his age.
She had long pale brown hair, adorned with a maid headpiece, and wore a simple skirt with an apron.
"I-I'm sorry Your Majesty, it won't happen again!" She bowed as she sputtered her words; her voice was squeaky, something similar to a mouse.
She seemed really nervous before him, and it made him straighten his shoulders. He found it different really, he was the one to bump into her after all, but the Queen was a powerful presence. It was something he'd have to get used to.
"It's not your fault…" He wracked his brains for a name but he couldn't remember it. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't quite know your name…" He put on a soft, guilty smile, one he saw "Krista" do before—assuming Historia would act as "Krista" during her rule.
"Emma, Your Majesty." She kept her bowed position, and had seemingly gained most of her composure back. She then continued on. "I d-don't mean to interrupt your train of thought, but it's time for me to fit you for your new dress."
Armin flashed her a small grin and followed her to the wardrobe—all the while eyeing the library through his peripherals for a future reference.
He knew he was going to be fit today; directly after he would have breakfast and then meet with his council. Later, was supper and leisure time.
The dressing room was large and ornate. He had only been in there once, preferring to keep his casual clothes and dress in his own room for easier access.
Emma searched a dresser drawer before triumphantly drawing out a long knotted rope. "I found it, Your Majesty!" she said with a small giggle, which Armin found quite endearing. She turned around and saw him looking at her, and she flinched, as if she thought her previous behavior had been disrespectful.
He raised a hand, "I may be Queen, and part of Survey Corps, but I assure you, I won't use you as Titan-feed."
Upon hearing that, the young maid smiled and walked over to him, carrying her measuring rope—it was almost a skip.
"Your Majesty, do you need help removing your clothes?" Armin's face must have shown his dismay as Emma looked down at her shoes shyly. "I mean so I can get a proper fitting…" Armin blinked; his mouth still agape. He was happy he had the foresight to wear his clothes underneath—but he hoped to God he wouldn't have to undress any further than that.
"I can get it myself." He said, his voice carried a tone of defiance. He hoped he didn't sound too sharp—he didn't want to scare her. The friendlier he was with the people in the castle the better.
He quickly wriggled out of his dress, all the while being careful not to disturb his wig. The dress was tight in the middle, he didn't notice while wearing it but after it came off it became easier to breathe.
"I could have unzipped it for you, Your Majesty...err…" She looked him up and down, and gave him an embarrassed smile. "Can you take off your other clothes too?"
Armin rubbed the sweat off his hands onto his pant-legs, and quickly took off his vest, leaving his shirt on and his collar propped up. He'd go no further than that.
He blushed. It was so obvious. He hid his face into his hands. "I'm sorry! I'm not comfortable with taking off anything more." His voice came out in a pitiful squeak and then cracked.
His mind was moving a mile a minute and for the first time in his whole life he actually wanted a Titan to eat him. Heck, even going back to Ymir sounded nice.
"You don't have to be shy, Your Majesty," One thing he noticed was she always sounded soft-spoken, as if she was unsure or timid. She walked over and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Your measurements will be safe with me…and besides you're the most beautiful Queen I've ever seen!"
Armin stared at her wide-eyed. Conflicted, but flattered. For starters, he was the only Queen she's ever seen…and beautiful? He didn't know how he felt about that.
She on the other hand was pretty. Something about her small stature and kind disposition reminded him of "Krista."
She pulled the measuring rope up to his shoulders and wrote down a number. Armin watched her with mild interest.
"Your Majesty, can you raise your arms?" He nodded and did as she said. Soon he felt her warm arms wrap around him. He looked down and—oh. Armin blushed—he wished he hadn't looked. She was definitely a girl, unlike him.
She was well-developed for a girl her size, and rightly looked much softer than the girls he saw in the 104th. Feeling lewd he mentally scolded himself and turned his head away. Who was he, Jean?
She must have caught him staring because she kindly assured him that he was just a late bloomer and his would grow someday too. Beet red, Armin buried his face into his hands again as she continued to finish the rest of his measurements. His fingers poked inside the wig and he didn't even care. It was just too much.
"Your Majesty, I've finished taking your measurements," She paused, smiling modestly as she held up his vest. "Would you like to wear a slip under your dress instead of your casual clothes? They looked really uncomfortable…"
"Eh?" Armin blinked. He wasn't quite sure what a "slip" was and he wasn't quite sure if he wanted to know.
She scratched her cheek nervously and then flashed him an embarrassed grin. "It's like underwear, Your Majesty."
Lady underwear. He knew it'd be something awkward. He didn't like the thought of that—on him anyway.
"No thank you, Emma. I'll be ok—a little uncomfortable perhaps, but manageable." He was really happy she never said anything about his clothes being guy clothes, because he had no ready excuse. He was also very happy she never forced him out of the clothes he left on.
What if they all knew and were just too polite to say anything? Armin gulped. He tried to push back that thought.
"I can bring you one later, Your Majesty." She stood there with a smile on her face; her arms held neatly behind her back. Armin didn't really want to tell her no again as she seemed pretty relentless on giving it to him.
"That'll be fine." He tried to sound as eloquent as a queen would even though he knew his whole fitting routine was basically a flop. Not that Emma seemed to suspect anything, but he was certain his royal image was pretty much ruined.
With as much dignity he could muster—leaving his vest off—he squirmed back into his dress.
Hid bid farewell to Emma, and started to make his way toward the dining hall. He kept his vest in the crook of his arm. He was going to drop it off in his room, and then he remembered. Ymir. Shoot. She had to be awake by then, and he wasn't just going to barge in there. He had to think of a plan first, or at the very least take some form of self-defense.
He looked around, trying to find a suitable place to set aside his vest. He spotted a large vase. It was covered in cobwebs, and behind it was even worse. It was covered in dust and if he had to guess, it wasn't cleaned in weeks.
He grabbed a handkerchief from his vest pocket and cleaned the area behind the vase quickly, before neatly setting his vest down.
For the past few days, Armin had breakfast alone. Today had been no different and it was quiet. Breakfast had consisted of bread and tea, and while the meal was simple it tasted better than what he was used to in the Survey Corps. As he had finished eating, Emma told him his council was ready for him.
As he followed Emma to the council room, Armin bit his lower lip nervously. It wasn't much, but he was able to sneak a butter knife from breakfast into his sock. The knife was cold, and it annoyingly pressed against his leg to the rhythm of his walk.
As they walked into the council room, Armin could hear hushed murmurs.
"Look it's the queen!"
"Good afternoon, Your Royal Highness." They stood up and bowed.
Upon hearing their address he straightened his back more—shoulders back and chest out. The respect he was given by the castle made him feel a drop of pride. Armin wiggled his toes in his shoes. It felt nice—being respected by the people who would normally scoff at a soldier in the Survey Corps like him.
"Now, let's start with the disappearances of the food in the meat pantry." One of the councilmen said.
"Has anyone caught any signs of them?"
"Do you think it could be a rat?" Another asked.
"A rat?! Only if it was a rat of titanic proportions—we're talking a whole ham, not a few bites."
Armin tried his best to stay interested, he was their Queen, but it was hard to stay focused about someone dipping into the food storage. He had more worries on his mind, and the stuff they were discussing was all very petty. It was nothing about humanity or Titans.
Armin raised his hand to catch their attention. They all silenced.
"What about other districts who are in need of supplies?" Armin said, secretly hoping his falsetto voice sounded natural.
One of his councilmen stood up. He was a bearded old man and when he spoke his voice was gruff due to age.
"Your Highness, we already have that covered." Armin blinked and he placed his hands in front of him. He must have misjudged them—his face felt hot.
The council carried on the discussion, some discussing other districts, others discussing the economy of Sina. Armin swallowed as he took in their suggestions; while he was the one to start the discussion of the citizens, it still felt foreign to him—it wasn't like formulating stratagems while in the military. Armin knew that he would have to think on it for a while; there were too many parameters to consider. He wouldn't want to make a mistake that could potentially hurt people.
He stood up and adjourned his council. He took careful notes—he would make proper judgment on them later.
After the councilmen left, Armin sat back down and placed his head on the table. The thought of confronting Ymir made him feel ill. He wiped his sweaty palms on his skirt.
"Your Majesty, are you ok?" Emma asked, lightly tapping his shoulder.
"I'm fine—just a little…nauseous, but I'll be ok." The time he had been dreading the whole day was coming soon, and he knew there was no way he could procrastinate anymore. Well, he supposed he could take a stroll in the garden but fifteen minutes wouldn't make much of a difference.
"Would you like me to take you to your room, Your Majesty?"
"No thank you, Emma."
"Your Majesty..." she looked left and right and twirled her hair. "You don't really think there's a rat in the pantry, do you?" Armin gave her a weak shrug. He could feel his knees start to shake.
"What do I do if I find it?"
"Either kill it or take it outside." Armin said, he was being uncharacteristically blunt—he had his own rat he had to take care of, only he wasn't sure which one of them would wind up being the rat.
Emma let out a small whimper.
"But I don't want to hurt or touch it, Your Majesty."
"Then…" Armin's eyes widened, and he moistened his lips. "Let it live here."
Emma tipped her head, looking perplexed. "We can't have rats living in the castle, Your Majesty…"
"That's only if you don't do anything about it."
Armin looked behind him, making sure there was no one creeping behind him before he pulled off his wig. He held the butter knife behind him as he unlocked the door with his left. His heart was beating fast.
3…2…1! He opened the door with intensity, so much that it hit the other side. He rushed in as his military training told him to and he held the knife in front of him—with a determined expression and shaky knees.
"Hey, Krista I was wondering when you would—"
"YMIR!" He gritted his teeth and raised his knife. His legs were screaming to run, his mind was telling him to stand his ground and his insides were saying to upchuck.
"Armin?" Ymir slung her right arm onto her hip and blinked three times—approaching him slowly; clearly confused.
"B-back off you monster!" Keeping his knife pointed at her, he slid foot sharply toward her, hoping to subdue her.
Ymir's mouth twisted into a grin and she moved her hand up to her mouth and snickered. He could tell she was trying to hold in her giggles but wound up bursting into cackle. So much so she was on the ground, kicking her legs. Armin lowered his knife—stunned. She wasn't going to get mad and kill him? Armin's mind reeled.
"I can't believe this whole time you were in that stupid thing I—Had—No—Idea—" He could tell it was a challenge for her to speak between laughs. Her eyes were even tearing up."—And last night—what a riot—I wondered why "Krista" was so—why "Krista" was so scrawny!"
Scrawny. Annoyed, his eyebrow twitched, but he let it slide.
"Speaking of which, where is Krista?" She asked, wiping a tear off her eye. Armin froze.
Ymir, fully composed, looked at Armin, examining him closely. Her eyes wavered with worry. Armin looked down, his bangs shading his eyes. He sniffled.
"Krista…" His pulled his fingers into tight fists.
"Armin?" Ymir's voice shook. His head snapped up, looking her right in the eye.
"Krista is dead!"