"I think this is a terrible idea," Ymir proclaims as they head out in the cold.
"Well, Armin wouldn't be involved with something risky," Christa rationalizes.
Ymir casts her a scathing glance. "Have you met him?"
Good point. Christa sighs. "Annie needs our help," she declares, setting her jaw. "So we're going to help her. She's our friend."
"Hmph." Ymir crosses arms against the bitter wind. "Geez, can't the wind cut it out?"
"Visiting the kids will be fun," Christa tries as her hair whips across her face, stinging her cheek as it slaps it. Ouch. "Don't you think?"
"For you," Ymir mutters. "I don't have much patience for scrawny brats."
"These are kids who've lost their families! To the titans, or to disease or misfortune—or who've been abandoned—" Christa's heart twinges.
Ymir slips an arm around her shoulders, and she's instantly warmer. "I know. I'm just kidding." She blows out her breath, watching it create a perfect round ball of fog. "If only I hadn't owed Sasha and all we had to do was visit those grubby toddlers."
"I don't mind," Christa insists. "Helping you, Ymir. I don't mind at all, and I don't mind helping Annie either." She squares her shoulders. "I'm happy to do it."
"Do you even know what it feels like to be happy?" Ymir asks with a snort as she pulls her cloak around both of them. Christa can hear Ymir's heart beating as they walk.
"I'm happy now," Christa mumbles. Or she's as close to happy as she can be. Because she's helping her friends, and Ymir's close by, wanting her.
"Don't know if it counts," Ymir says. "But, if it makes you feel better, I don't know either. We're two lost kids. Maybe we can inspire the kids in the orphanage, do you think? To join the Survey Corps and get chomped by titans?"
Horror rakes through Christa. She yanks herself away, the cold dousing her in horror. "Ymir!"
"Sorry," Ymir says quickly. "I didn't mean that."
'Well, what did you mean?" Christa demands.
"I meant…" Ymir lowers her voice as they break out of the forest. Wrapped in coats and scarves, people rush past them without a second glance. The gray sky above looms, threatening more snow. "I meant that there doesn't seem to be very much of a future here in these walls. That's not something even you can deny."
"That's why we're in the Survey Corps, though," Christa insists, grabbing Ymir's arm with her free one; the other clutches a basket of cookies. Ymir turns to her, mouth open. "So we can defeat the titans. So we can create a future."
Tears fill Ymir's eyes, and Christa's stomach flip-flops. She's never seen Ymir cry, not even once. "Aren't you in the Survey Corps to try and kill yourself?"
Christa's insides chill over. A man with blond hair and a mustache glances back at them, sneering when it sees the wings of freedom on their cloaks. "N-no!"
"But don't you want a heroic death?" Ymir presses.
"What kind of death do you want?"
"I don't want to die at all. Not again."
Christa frowns. She remembers what Ymir said about her people, how she sacrificed herself to appease them. Even if she didn't mean it literally. Did she? How? "But you joined the Survey Corps anyways, for me." And it's something that niggles at her, the guilt—if Ymir dies, it'll be my—
"Don't think that way," Ymir snaps. "Because you know what I'd like even less than me dying? You dying."
Christa stops in her tracks. Ymir continues on, and then freezes. "Aren't you coming?"
"Why?" Christa asks her.
Ymir scoffs. "So you actually believe me?"
Christa looks up at her, and Ymir's gaze softens. She reaches down to brush Christa's hair out of her eyes.
Ymir wants me. She loves me. Christa still has to remind herself of it, because it seems so implausible—like something out of a fantasy, or one of the books she would read under that tree she spent so many days under, trying to pretend she was someone, anyone, other than Historia Reiss.
Ymir smiles, and the slight lift of her lips, the unusual softness in her eyes—it's Christa's favorite look.
"You want me," Christa says cheekily.
"Don't start." Ymir rolls her eyes, but Christa pecks her on the lips.
"Come on." Christa takes her hand and pulls her through the crowded streets, and for a moment Christa really does feel like a protagonist in one of the stories she's read. She hums one of the carols from the night before.
"So, you really like this Christmas stuff?" Ymir asks, her voice low.
"Yeah." Christa looks up into Ymir's face, scowling again.
"It does seem like your kind of holiday," Ymir admits. "So what are you getting me for Christmas?"
"Huh?"
"Didn't you hear Erwin saying things about gifts?"
"Yeah, but he also said not to—" Christa gulps. Her mind races ahead. What can I get Ymir?
What can she get the girl who actually wants her, who loves her?
"I'll make this easy for you," Ymir says. "I'll just tell you what I want." She strolls on ahead.
"Well?" Christa calls as she chases after her. The basket of cookies bangs against her leg. "What is it?"
Ymir turns to face her. "Do you want coffee?"
"Huh?" The rich smell of cream and espresso fills the air.
"I have enough money to buy us both coffee," Ymir says, nodding at a shop behind them. 'Do you want a cup?"
"Do we have time?" Christa asks, worrying her lip between her teeth.
"We do," Ymir promises, heading towards the door. She pauses with her gloved hand on the handle. "And, Christa. What I want is—" She leans down to whisper in Christa's ear. "I want to know your real name."
It's really an unfair thing for her to ask, and guilt gnaws at Ymir's stomach as she pays for two coffees. She's sick of plain black tea.
"Survey Corps, eh?" asks the burly man behind the counter. "I'm guessing this is the only time I'll see you in my shop."
Ymir rolls her eyes as she hands over the money.
"Why do you waste our tax dollars?" demands a small woman with flaming red hair. "So much money and so many deaths and you still haven't found out anything useful—"
The order in which you phrased that tells me all I need to know about you. Ymir's familiar with this type: the complainers, supposedly with a worthy cause, but who only cares about protecting their way of living. "That you know of," Ymir shoots back. "We're closer than ever to uncovering the true origins of the titans. We may even know."
The woman's jaw drops.
"Flora, unless you're going to buy my best coffee, leave the girls alone," grumbles the man behind the counter.
"Ymir, why did you say that?" Christa squeaks out as she hands over a steaming mug. "We're not really any closer, you know."
Switch out the we for I, and it won't be a lie, Ymir thinks. She sips the scalding liquid. Creamy and sweet—too sweet for Ymir's taste, but Christa will like it.
She doesn't know if she'll ever tell Christa the full truth. "We're closer than you know," she repeats.
"Hm?" Christa frowns, and the way she looks at Ymir—eyes so blue, wide and hopeful—Ymir wants to scream.
"You know what kind of person I am. How will you react if I tell you the full truth?" Ymir asks, gulping more of the liquid. It burns the roof of her mouth.
"Careful, Ymir!" Christa scolds. "What do you mean by 'the full truth?'"
"You're not ready for it."
"Ymir, don't patronize me." Christa's eyes narrow, and her tone takes on that darkness that sends Ymir's heart fluttering—it's the voice of a queen. You do have what it takes, Christa.
Why not? Ymir remembers their conversation in the forest that winter night during training, when she saved Daz and made Christa promise that the day Ymir revealed her secret, Christa would reclaim her name. Are you ready for her to do that? It'd be dangerous.
But living a lie—living as Christa—is killing the girl Ymir loves. "What if I told you," she begins. "That Eren isn't the only one in the Survey Corps with the ability to transform into a titan?"
Christa's jaw drops. Her coffee sits untouched, but she reaches out, and oh fuck, why—she grabs Ymir's wrist, she touches her, she isn't repulsed or betrayed. "You can?"
"It's way better than that," Ymir tells her with a snort. "I was a mindless titan for somewhere around sixty years—yes, Christa, I'm technically about seventy-seven years old. I ate people, Christa, do you understand?" She keeps her voice low, but fury tangles it up, and she has to stop, gulp air before continuing. "I was a—"
"Mindless," Christa muses. "Like in Trost?"
Ymir can't respond now. She feels frozen. Here it comes.
"That must have been horrible," Christa whispers, tears filling her eyes.
What? "A nightmare," Ymir mutters. "It felt like living in a nightmare. And to turn back into a human—a shifter—I had to eat another shifter. I don't remember anything about that, though. Nothing about whom I ate. And who knows how many hundreds of—"
"Ymir," Christa interrupts. "This is—not your fault."
It might be more my fault than you know. Ymir chugs more coffee. "Hey, I paid for that. Aren't you going to drink it?" She feels like crying again, and hates it.
Christa hesitates, and then picks up the cup and takes a sip. "Historia."
"What?"
"My name." She meets Ymir's gaze. "My name is Historia Reiss."
"So you're a princess," Ymir muses. "Historia."
Her cheeks pink. "Illegitimate—I should never have been—"
"But you were born," Ymir hisses. "People have said the same about me since I can remember. But I was born. I'm alive. You're here. What are you going to do about it?"
Historia finishes her coffee. "We should get going."
"Fine," Ymir acquiesces, but humiliation crawls down her spine. Now you know. Now you know. And she doesn't know what Historia will do when she's had more time to process.
"Historia Reiss," Ymir whispers, barely loud enough for Historia to hear. "It's a much nicer name than Christa Lenz."
Historia's mouth opens.
"To the children," Ymir directs, pointing up the road. They leave the main town, although Ymir stops by a Military Police checkpoint.
"What do you want?" asks the man in charge, a bottle brazenly gripped in his hand.
"You know Marlowe Freudenberg?" Ymir asks. "Or Hitch Dreyse?"
"No, I don't, and I'll thank you to get your—"
"Please, sir," pipes up Historia, widening her eyes. "We were in training together, and we really were hoping to see them again. They're part of the new recruits—I don't know if you could get a message to them, tell them to meet us at the orphanage in an hour or so—"
"I'll see what I can do," the man whispers, entranced with Historia's beauty.
"Thank you so much," Historia coos, reaching out to pat the man's grubby hand. "Let's go, Ymir."
"Do I get a hand pat?" Ymir questions as they scurry away.
Historia reaches out and kisses her hand, and Ymir's stomach clenches. Why? Why do you still like me, now that you know what I am, what kind of—
Historia bursts into giggles. "I can't believe I did that."
Ymir can't hold back her grin. "Did you see his face? It was as if I was an old hag—which I guess I technically should be—and you were the princess—oh wait—"
Historia playfully pushes Ymir's shoulder.
Two children, both pig-tailed and dirty, peep out from behind a tree. Historia drops to her knees.
You want them to know that they're worth something, Ymir realizes as she watches Historia share the gingerbread men with the kids, one of whom hides behind the other. Her heart aches. There's no end to your kindness, is there?
You deserve to be queen.
"What does that mean?" asks one of the girls, tracing the wings of freedom on Historia's cape.
'It's the wings of freedom," Historia explains. "From the survey corps—it means—"
"Hey," Ymir says, crouching down. "It means we can fly."
"No, you can't," scoffs the little girl, with freckles like Ymir's own.
"You can," Ymir tells her. "Want to try?"
"Huh?" The girl blinks, and Ymir reaches down, grabbing the girl by the waist and lifting her over her head, charging around the grounds. The girl shrieks, but laughter filters through her shrieks. "I'm flying!"
The children gobble down the cookies and the girls take turns braiding Historia's hair. Ymir chases the boys around; despite claiming all last night that she sucks with kids, Historia thinks the opposite is true.
She's a titan. She's been a mindless titan. And eaten who knows how many people.
You're not a monster, Ymir, Historia thinks as she watches Ymir scoop one chubby-cheeked little boy up for what has to be the tenth time, making him fly around the confines. You saved me.
And Historia has the feeling she's not done yet. And—dammit, let me save you, too.
But the sun starts to set, coloring the sky like a bruise, purple and red and yellow clouds swelling over their heads, and neither Hitch nor Marlowe have shown up.
"I don't they're coming," Ymir hisses. "We'll have to go to them directly."
"But that's—" Historia protests.
Ymir arches an eyebrow.
We have to. Historia swallows. "We'll be back," she promises one of the little girls, Fiona, who has dark hair and looks strangely familiar, although Historia can't place whom she reminds her of.
They leave, striding back up towards the town, when two Military Police members, unicorns sewn onto their jackets, fly by.
"Hey!" Ymir hollers. "I think you're looking for us."
It's them, Historia realizes. Hitch, with her narrow face and curly hair, Marlowe with his solemn frown.
"How's Annie?" demands Hitch. "If you've—"
Ymir guffaws. Marlowe glowers at her, taking Hitch's hand.
Historia cringes. "Annie's fine. Quite well, actually. She wants to stay with the Survey Corps."
"Is she insane?" exclaims Hitch.
"Considering how you sent her to spy on us, probably," Ymir says.
Marlowe's face crumples with shame. Even Hitch studies her boots.
"What're your names again?" Marlowe asks.
"Ymir. And this is—"
"Historia," she says, hearing the name declared as her own again. It's mine, it's mine, I am Historia. Not Christa Lenz. "We have a letter. From Annie to you." She digs in her pockets, retrieving it. "We haven't read it."
"She talked me out of reading it," Ymir admits as Hitch tears it open, eyes scanning the page.
"Dammit," Marlowe breathes.
"What?" Historia demands. "Do we need to—"
"She wants us to spy for you," Hitch says bluntly. "And you can tell her that no, we haven't revealed a single piece of information about that holiday you're celebrating. Christmas."
"You didn't?"
"Do you not believe in your bosses that much?" Ymir drawls.
"Thank you," Historia hastens to add.
"We think you might be in the right," Marlowe says softly. "There are—questions—and the Military Police is corrupt."
"So?" prompts Ymir. "Will you do it or not? Because we don't have all day to decide, okay? We'd like to get back before it starts snowing again or something."
"We'll do it," Marlowe declares. "Or—I will. Hitch, you don't—"
"You're a bloody idiot," Hitch snaps. "I'll help. Annie's my roommate. She's my friend, and you're my friend, and without you guys—" Hitch doesn't finish.
"Tell Annie we'll come as soon as we know for certain who's behind this," Marlowe says.
"You do realize that we'll have to use some nontraditional, non-Marlowe-approved ways to get this information, don't you?" Hitch asks. "Best way to talk is to supply a decent bottle of wine."
"I leave that to you to sort out," Ymir says.
"If it's for the right reasons, maybe it's not wrong," Marlowe muses aloud.
"You just want to do the right thing, don't you?" Historia asks. She feels for him. Just like she always wants to help people—love people— "Helping the Survey Corps is the right thing. For—for—" She can't quite say it. "You'll be fulfilling your duty to the king, I assure you."
Hitch snorts.
Ymir cocks her head.
"We'll be there in a few days," promises Marlowe. "On your Christmas. Tell Annie."
"Will do." Ymir takes Historia's arm, and they hurry back, the cold still slicing at their faces. "So. Historia."
"What?" she asks.
"They'll be helping the true ruler—because you are the heir, aren't you? The Reiss family should be on the throne instead of the Fritzes." A strange look takes over Ymir's eyes.
Historia shakes her head. "I don't know."
"Well, I think you suspect, don't you?"
Historia throws her hands in the air. "Maybe. Maybe not. But if not—why go to the lengths of murdering my mother? Why—" She covers her mouth. "I don't know."
"If you were to become queen, a lot of our problems would be solved."
"Our as in the Survey Corps?" Historia starts to grin. "So you're even acknowledging yourself as one of them, now."
"You have to do it," Ymir tells her.
"I'm not made to be a queen, Ymir."
"You're made to be anything and anyone you want to be, Historia," Ymir insists, whirling her around to face her. The confidence burning in Ymir's eyes—she really believes that—but I can't, I can't!
She shakes her head, and Ymir groans.
"Let's be quiet. We're entering the town." Historia shuts her jaw, clenching it so tightly her teeth ache. Why would anyone assume she has the ability to be queen, to rule over people? She's nothing but a bastard child, an unwanted one.
I want you.
Historia glances over her shoulder, at Ymir's impassive face.
If Ymir can leave behind her titan life, can't you leave behind whom you were born as? Not your identity as Historia Reiss, but you're not unwanted anymore. It's not a brand you have to bear forever.
"Hey," pipes up a small voice next to her.
Jolted from her thoughts, Historia looks down to see a small child, wrapped in a tattered cloak, smudges smeared over its face—she can't even tell if it's a boy or a girl. "Are you okay?" Historia asks, crouching down.
The child's fist shoots out, and he strikes Historia in the cheek. She falls backwards, and he snatches her basket, flying down the side street with it.
"Hey!" Ymir bellows as Historia's bottom slams into the cobblestones. Her jaw hangs open in shock. "Are you—"
"I-I'm fine," Historia stammers.
Little brat. Ymir takes off after the kid. He's fast, but her legs are so much longer that it's not even a contest. She rips the basket from the child's hands and he cries out. Ymir grabs his shoulder and shoves him back against the wall. "Stop fighting!" she orders.
"Ymir!" Historia shrieks as she races towards them. A red splotch mars her cheekbone.
The boy pants, chest heaving, eyes enormous and terrified.
"What were you thinking?" Ymir demands. "Hitting a soldier. That's just stupid. Go for the older ones who can't keep up."
"Ymir!" Historia scolds.
The boy blinks. "You—"
She doesn't like the look on his face, the way his nose is red and running from the cold. It's too familiar.
"Here," Historia says kindly, kneeling down and pulling out a handkerchief. "Blow your nose."
"Unfortunately for you, kid," Ymir says. "We already gave away all the food that was in that."
"You're hungry?" Historia's eyes widen.
"Of course he is, Historia. He lives on the streets. Probably begging when he feels like it," Ymir says.
The kid glares at her.
"What?" she asks. "It sucks. I know it sucks."
"I don't have any—"
"I still have some money," Ymir says begrudgingly. "Let's get him something to eat, or else we'll never get back, will we?"
"You're buying me food?" the kid demands. "Why? I hit—"
"We all do nasty things to survive," Ymir tells him. "Just don't forget to be kind, either. Or some crap like that. It's what she's thinking." She jerks her thumb towards Historia, who looks at Ymir with huge eyes, as if she's seeing a new side of Ymir.
"We should take him to the orphanage," Historia whispers.
"I suspect he already lives there and is just running late," Ymir says loudly as she stops by a vendor selling hot, cinnamon-coated bread.
The kid nods.
"Well, we'll walk you back," Historia declares as Ymir purchases the stick, handing it to the kid.
He looks at her, still in shock. "Why?"
"What she says. Don't forget to be kind." Ymir ruffles the kid's hair. It's greasy, matted.
"It's what you've said," the kid points out.
"What's your name?" Historia asks.
"Franz," he whispers.
Like Franz and Hannah… Ymir's heart, the one she likes to pretend doesn't exist, hurts. "Let's get you back, kid."
They make the journey in silence, Franz munching on the cinnamon stick. When they reach the fence, a worker heads towards them and Historia crouches down to Franz's eye level. "We'll visit," she promises.
"Why?" he demands again, voice ragged. "I'm not—I'm—"
"You're worth the trip," Historia assures him, wrapping her arms around him. "And so much more."
"Hey," Ymir says. He looks up at her, eyes wide. "We're not telling on you, don't worry. But next time, make sure you're here for my flying lessons." With that, Ymir turns on her heel and stalks away. Now, the sky's completely black. One patch glows lighter, as if the moon's trying desperately to break through the crowds.
"You surprised me," Historia says quietly.
Dammit. "It's what Christmas is about, isn't it?" Ymir grumbles.
"Yes, but. There's more. Isn't there?" Historia looks up to her, and that look on her face—she wants to know. She cares.
"You know I begged," Ymir grumbles. "After I got into the city, after Wall Maria fell. I took a refugee's position on that boat, you know. I was an interloper and I took someone else's spot. And sometimes begging didn't work out, and stealing was my best bet."
"You saw yourself," Historia realizes.
"Yeah." Ymir laughs. "And in case you had any doubts about what a bad person I am, I—"
"How are you bad?" Historia demands. "You call me on my bullshit, Ymir—no one else does that. You're kinder than you—"
"Maybe I just wanted to impress you," Ymir tells her, spinning around to face Historia. She walks backwards, and she thinks how she doesn't even know—everything's a muddled mess to her, and she can't discern what's her desires, what's her—
"I don't care," Historia declares, tears choking her voice. "I'm on your side, Ymir. No matter what. I'll always be on your side."
Ymir shakes her head. "Maybe I'm just trying to ensure you won't rat on me—"
"Ymir." Historia cuts in. "Enough of your—" She tugs at Ymir's cloak. "I told you already. I'm on your side."
You're so special, Historia, and I don't think you even realize it, Ymir thinks. Who else would love me like this? Would know all of these things and still even care?
Screw it. It may be selfish, but Ymir needs this. She leans down and presses her lips against Historia's. Historia digs her fingers through Ymir's hair, and Ymir only realizes she's crying when she pulls away.
"I love you, Ymir," Historia insists.
"I love you," Ymir sobs, wiping at her eyes.
"I'm going to need you when we get back," Historia whispers.
"You don't need me for—"
"I want you, Ymir." Historia meets Ymir's eyes. "I'm going to tell Erwin about who I am—that I'm Historia Reiss, not Christa Lenz. And you—I'll keep your secret until you're ready." She trudges ahead, and Ymir's left to watch her as the moon finally breaks through, shining down on them. "After all, you kept mine."
Thanks for reading! Up next: Reibert.
