The years to come were merciless with the rising numbers of disappearances and horrendous murders piling before the Queen's feet. Especially as her people became addled with their obsession of blood ministration. Taverns dumped barrels of grog in the streets, replacing it with drums of thick, coagulated blood for its patrons, and brothels sold body and needle alike. It seemed the world became what violence intended—blood, blood, and blood, but without fear for its consequences.
The turning point was when the old district of St. Valencia burned, the Queen could only watch its raging fires roar and hear the symphony of beast and men howl over its destruction. The Queen had abandoned her throne and instead had servants deliver a modest chair to the closest window that overlooked the forsaken quarter of her city.
"Queen Frieda, a new delivery," the servants would come with letters from the Blood Church in the middle of the night.
It became a routine as the last of the fires were extinguished, leaving only the charred and smoke-choked remains of Old St. Valencia which were forever closed to public since then, but rumors still circled of mysterious figures disappearing into its forbidden doors. Queen Frieda resumed her throne, but the chair by the smoke-stained windows remained as it became a favorite spot to brood for the Queen. Nothing and nobody spared the Queen of her failure to rise as the incisive monarch she was intended to be, but, not all the guilt was placed on their monarch. In fact, the majority was shoved onto the newly appointed princess, Historia Reiss.
It was her fault, they said, it was her mere suggestion, that the city of St. Valencia was beginning to crumble into disarray, and that the very apocalypse was sealed to their fate by just her existence. The queries of Historia's legitimacy to any royal title or holding were ceaseless. They came just as often as the suspicious letters from the Blood Church. No matter how the Queen replied, terrible conjectures were made of the new bastard princess as some even lamented on the Queen's undying kindness and love for all. Even for the damned and evil such as the Omen of Saints.
"Princess Historia," a servant faintly knocked at her door, announcing that supper was ready, and placed the hot dish on the ground before her chambers and left. After a few minutes, Historia opened the door to her vacant hallway, staring down at the meal, and picking it up, examining it closely.
Historia exhaled, bringing it inside and closing and locking the door behind her as she went to the latrine and dumped the plate inside—spoon and all.
She sat at her desk, staring at the towers of books that spiraled upwards in her room—topics ranging around blood and the otherworldly. She even kept her rejection letter from the college of Byrgenwerth—the very one the Frieda wrote herself, imploring Historia's acceptance as the true sign of the monarchy and church being in alliance, but, Historia's infamy plagued her even then. All she seemed to prove was a nuisance to her sister's ruling, causing great clamor no matter how much she isolated herself in her chamber. But, at least the letter would serve a purpose—a crumpled bookmark that saw better days.
"Not eating? This is a new record." The voice only ever came so often—it was so infrequent she could count on her fingers how many times they met. Historia couldn't figure out if it was a phantasm or if there was truly a voice talking to her in her head. She sighed, holding her eyes closed, pressing her hands firmly on her book, attempting to will it away.
"Y'know, you need food to survive," and her eyes opened, tricking her into seeing that beautiful woman again, sitting in the shadows in her lounging chair.
It was almost refreshing to hear another person speaking to her, worrying about her like friends should, but it was also unnerving to know that someone—if it was real at all—was able to sneak past all the guards and servants and into her room, unnoticed.
Most of all, slip past even her sharp senses.
"Perhaps," Historia didn't hold her tongue. The servants and all the people of St. Valencia and beyond knew that she had a monomania of a woman that came to her—when she was younger she was naïve and would always ask of a woman named Ymir until doctors had to give her medicine to make 'the voices and hallucinations' to go away. It was a product of her neglectful situation before her adoption into the royal family, they said.
"But," she turned, staring at Ymir whose eyes glowed in the darkness, smiling shining like metal in the moonlight, "would you eat poison?"
"Poison? Well, I'm certain I would," Ymir remarked, kicking off the floor and floating by her and towards the latrine, staring down it.
"Seven days in a row they attempted to assassinate you?" Ymir asked.
Historia felt her throat and heart burn as her heart sank and as if her very blood grew cold. Over the years, she had studied how to summon demons and Gods and monsters and beasts, hoping she'd find the link between her and the being that was Ymir, but she found nothing. And she wasn't a fool to think Byrgenwerth was just a college—it was a haven of eldritch knowledge. One that might've brought her closer to Ymir, and…
"They try to mask the potent scent through an abundant amount of sweets." Historia kept her eyes on Ymir.
How fleeting and fickle this entity was—Historia wouldn't let her stray from her eyesight, afraid she'd disappear without a trace like before.
"Hoh," Ymir chuckled, leaning back and laying down in mid-air, levitating to the middle of the room, and watching Historia observe her.
"You have no shadow." Historia remarked through a hushed whisper. Ymir was just amused at the statement, closing her eyes.
"How old are you now, Historia?" Ymir asked, curious.
Historia frowned.
Why would it matter at all? Certainly a beast or thing with such sublime power wouldn't care for useless information.
"How about we do a trade of information?" Historia countered, causing Ymir to roll over and stand once more, bringing a gloved hand to her chin and thinking.
"I already know the answer," Ymir mocked a brooding posture, "have you not the courtesy of small-talk?"
"Why should small talk matter to you?" Historia curtly pressed, afraid that her aggressive behavior might cause Ymir to disappear. Her visits were always painfully short.
"Oh, tsk, tsk," Ymir clicked her tongue, conjuring shadowy dancers in the room, gesturing to them with a grin, but Historia didn't relent—she kept her hardened gaze at Ymir, ignoring the shadowy puppets who beckoned her to dance.
Ymir's face darkened a bit as she clapped, causing them to stop altogether and melt away with wispy screams.
"You are a queer creature," Historia stated, "you possess great power—I saw it myself—truthfully, I am burdened by just having met you—when I feel scared, I somehow materialize this arcane and devilish weapon that makes my arm throb in pain, and this only ever happened when I met you."
"Oh? Is it really fear that makes you harness it?" Ymir sat back down in her seat, bored and tired, but she did not wait for Historia's response.
"Y'know, the last time I saw you, you were such a sweet little tot. It was a celebration of your kind—pies and candied hams and of gay things—and you saw me and smiled so sweetly! You even shared your little cache of cookies you had with me…"
Historia gave Ymir a sidelong glance.
"It was my first Yuletide."
"Ah, yes, that word, Yuletide, lovely holiday—but, now, what has happened? You look like a beautiful ghost, and you brood and brood like an old man who wasted his life." Ymir leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her knees.
"If I may ever be so bold," she whispered this time, "I would think you're dead."
"If only," Historia retorted, "maybe then I wouldn't be hated by the world."
"Hated? Oh, you sweet child… they do not hate. They're afraid of the unknown." Ymir attempted to soothe her as she went to Historia, walking.
"Even back when you last saw me," Historia mustered, "they did not care—they'd still try to poison a child… A child's blood on their hands meant nothing…"
By the time Ymir was only two feet away, she disappeared and the whole room went into disarray as papers and books went flying and falling in a thunderous ruckus. Historia about jumped out of her seat had it not been Ymir's hands on her shoulders, standing behind her chair.
Her mere speed and agility to flank Historia made her entire room a mess…just by the wind it created…
"Yes, I know," Ymir was quiet, contemplating, and then exhaled, sad, "didn't I say I'd eat poison?"
Historia felt her teeth dig into her tongue, realizing a mistake in her theories about Ymir—
"I know, I know," Ymir's voice was low, "how dare I—me, this unforgiveable beast—do something that might not be so awful? It's as if I'm not what you think—eating poison sweets with you on Yuletide. In fact, I remember stealing all but one of them. What a devil I am! Next time, should I leave the rest for you?"
"The cheek!" Historia scoffed, ripping herself from Ymir's hands and slapping her shoulder. Historia went to the opposite side of the room, pacing, and offended at Ymir's prodding.
"The pride!" Ymir mocked, holding her shoulder in feigned pain.
"Why must you come and go as you please? Why do you even entertain me with your presence? What is it that draws you near me? I must absolutely know, y-you entity!"
"This entity is named Ymir," the wretched one groaned, hanging her head backwards, bemoaning the lecture she was receiving.
"And clean my room! Perfect order!" Historia growled, uncaring whether she would incite Ymir's true wrath or not. The woman clicked her tongue, snorting, and waved her hand as everything floated altogether, returning to their respected places.
Historia watched, red in anger. Her eyes caught something—a piece of moldy bread from unidentified origins returning behind her dresser—
"I swear to the Gods, Ymir," Historia couldn't stand how much of a little imp she was, "not everything! Throw that in the latrine!"
"Oh, well, if you insist," Ymir snickered, guiding any garbage and dust to it, dumping it inside.
"And, don't forget to answer my questions!"
Ymir finished her little chore and grumbled, glaring at Historia.
"Why should I? I'm above you in the cosmic hierarchy. You should be receiving orders from me," she concluded.
"Yes, but I shouldn't be burdened with—with this!" Historia tried, but the thing wouldn't manifest. It only ever did when she was frightened. Just like the first time she was poisoned—the thing appeared in her hand and only the bravest of the doctors attended her, sweating and shaking in fear that he'd meet the same fate as Grisha Jaeger as she fought for her life…
Ymir watched, trying to hold back a giggle at the failure.
"Stop it! This isn't even funny!" Historia was near tears, because never had anyone made fun of her dire situation—being poisoned, several assassination attempts, people rioting on her birthdays, and even hearing the servants and their disheartening gossip.
Ymir shook her head.
"My dear, it quite is… Here you are, a mere mortal, demanding me to confess all. And, after all the years of training, you cannot even summon your Moonlight Rifle."
So, that was its name. At least.
"Moonlight Rifle?"
"Oh, dear, you never asked it for its name? How rude! I wouldn't appear for you either if you were being this impolite." Ymir frowned, crossing her arms.
All of this was madness, causing Historia to finally shed tears.
"I always call for you! I always ask you to come! You never do! I'd pray to the Gods every day for your return! But, you never come! Except for strange times! Did you not see the chalk cirlces on the ground—the diagrams I made to summon you just to see you?! What a terrible, dishonorable demon you are," she held her face, sobbing.
"You tell me to murder a man who would've been my family, and in return I save the Queen, my sister, but, at what cost, Ymir? I am now considered only one step above beast, and several from any hint of humanity. Why not do this to Levi? He would've been considered blessed by the Gods for saving the Kingdom from the doctor!" She hissed, stilling the hiccups that threatened to come.
It was silent as Ymir stared down at Historia, watching her cry. In fact, she could feel the waves of misery radiating off of her like a frothing ocean, threatening to drown her with her own neglect and guilt.
"Oh, child," Ymir muttered, ashamed, "I've been cruel, haven't I?"
In a blink of an eye, she swept the room in shadows, taking Historia into an illusionary world of meadows and bowers. She took Historia's tearstained hand and led her under a crystalline oak. Historia couldn't comprehend what she witnessed, nor would she quite remember it all, but she did understand the spell Ymir put her under—calming all her senses like the sedatives Frieda often used. All Historia could do was weakly cling to Ymir's mantle and how she could feel the powerful currents of electricity pulsating through its fur.
"The fortunate shouldn't be rewarded for their luck alone, and the skilled can already pull themselves through their own woes," Ymir's voice was like a song as it thrummed through her reality, causing marvelous lights to play in her eyes as seasons passed them by.
"The Gods are sympathetic of mortals," Ymir spoke, rubbing Historia's back, "and, ever so much more to those who're destined to achieve greatness."
Historia's hand went limp to the ground as her brain was benumbed by what she felt—the sensation of a million vile parasites at her fingertips, writhing and crawling, brushing against her deadened hand, squirming. Historia's eyes grew heavy and the world itself was made of flesh, bone, and gaping holes that spewed noxious fumes as visceral fluids moistened the living cavern.
"And, I just cannot help but follow your short life," Ymir admitted, lulling her into the mercy of sleep, away from what reality was, "it might be fate."
Ymir's eyes watched the centipedes gnaw and eat at the swollen, pus-infected flesh of the floor, laying their bloodied eggs in infected burrows, and eating each other with fervor, but their antics did not interest her as they used to—her attention and her fondness belonged to the girl in her arms, and the rifle that infused with her hand and arm, pulsating like aroused veins.
"Though, I don't believe in fate," Ymir teleported Historia away as she sat in the bewitched tombs of humanity.
"So, you must forgive me, for your fate isn't pretty, dearest Historia…"