historia vitae magistra
washington d.c.
a.d. iv non. nov., 2766 a.u.c.
The sound of the heart monitor was steady and familiar. Beep-beep-beep. Hello, old friend. Found a different host? Good. I'll never need you again, Historia thought, watching the lines of Levi's heartbeat roll endlessly into peaks and dips.
He was awake, his deeply set blue eyes glowering miserably ahead of him. It was very early on a Saturday morning, streams of white light trailing in through the window. The television was on, singing some sad song of terrible news somewhere, someplace, but not here. Here there was good news. For one thing, Levi was going to be fine. And aside from his initial grumpiness, he didn't seem all that traumatized from his experience. His aura was nice and bright, gold as the bursting sunshine that trickled through the window glass.
There was also the factor of Mikasa being unwilling to leave his side.
"Am I getting outta here today, or what?" Levi asked, his eyes never trailing from the television. Eren was still slumbering on a bench outside the room, soot still clinging to his face and ash whitening his hair. He'd gone to the hospital immediately upon returning home from his mission, and had not showered in two days, causing him to look homeless. Mikasa had confided that she'd had to fend off multiple members of the hospital staff who had tried to wake him and kick him out during the night.
"If all goes well," Mikasa said, her eyes following Levi's gaze. "Though I think you should stay a few more nights."
"Eat shit," Levi said dully.
"Your condition might be better," Armin said from the corner of the room, "but you're honestly lucky to be alive. The first time you were stabbed there, there was some torn tissue, but it wasn't enough to cause any huge problems. The second time got your lower intestines."
"Yeah," Levi said, his eyes falling sharply upon Armin's pallid face. "I got that."
Armin had decisively positioned himself as far away from Levi as possible while staying inside the room. Historia as leaning against the wall beside the door, keeping an eye out for Erwin. He'd gone with Hange to get food. Historia tugged at her thigh highs, glancing at Armin as the boy sighed, his shoulders slumping. He's so pasty looking, she thought. She wondered if he'd puke.
"You're lucky the surgery was hasty and successful," Armin said quietly, "that's all."
"I wasn't gonna die," Levi said stiffly. "I can take a stabbing or two. The real nasty shit here is Mikasa's arm."
Mikasa's arm had been set in a cast, and was now in a sling around her neck. As far as Historia knew, the break wasn't too bad. Once they got home she'd be able to heal it easily. Levi had been the one with a weak aura, all flickery and dulling when she'd first entered the room post-surgery. Thankfully all she needed to do was some miniscule tweaking to make him feel a thousand times better.
"I'll heal you both when we get back," Historia said.
Levi eyed her warily, the first time he had really looked at her that morning. "You have to heal Petra too," he said darkly.
"I will," Historia swore. "But I can't do anything if they've decided to amputate her leg."
His nostrils flared in response, and he sat up straighter, looking pointedly at Armin. "What the fuck is so important that you've gotta leave at the crack ass of dawn?" he snapped.
"I know you're angry," Armin said softly, "but Petra's going to be fine. Eren wouldn't have left her if she weren't doing okay. Trust me. He's not frightened for Petra. He's more relieved than anything. I'm sure they're doing skin grafts on her, if that makes you feel better."
"It doesn't," Levi stated.
Armin grimaced, and glanced at Historia. They watched each other for a moment or so, and she turned away. She met Mikasa's eye instead, noting how the girl seemed to be paying more and more attention to her. Historia wasn't sure how she felt about that, if she felt anything. In truth, she was feeling rather apathetic as of late.
"After I heal you…" Historia said quietly.
Levi glanced at her. She felt herself freezing up under his harsh gaze, her lips parting and smacking closed, her teeth gnashing against her skin. She averted her eyes, her hands growing clammy with sweat. Levi made her nervous. He had a gaze that was plainly unsettling, as though he could sense the weakness in her, the odd little desire to twist an aura ever so slightly, and turn everything pretty, deathly pale. She could taste the metallic tang of silver on her tongue, feel the tingling bursts of shuddering, failing light.
"What?" Levi rested his head back against his propped up pillow. "Spit it out."
Historia stared at him, feeling that she might not be able to contain the urge to pull a little on that dusty golden light, and drink in the energy as it dulled and burst apart into shattering silvery streams. She could make it so. It'd be too easy. Like lifting up her pinky. Levi wouldn't stand a chance.
"I…" Historia uttered, her voice wavering. She tilted her head, watching the gold swirl around Levi's childlike face, and she watched the particles dart away from him and move cautiously toward her, tickling her cheeks as they reflected inside her eyes, burning brightly and growing brighter and brighter as she swayed, power pulsating as she hesitantly rose her hand, her heart thudding in her chest, and silver on her mind and melting hotly on her tongue. Armin was suddenly at her side, and she was snapped from her reverie as he steadied her.
"Levi," Mikasa said sharply. "Stop scaring her."
"I didn't do anything," he said dully.
"I…" Historia found herself leaning against Armin for support. She stared at Levi's aura, golden and alive, and she banished it, biting her lip and forcing it away form her sight with a flick of her wrist. It was much easier to breathe without golden light clouding her every thought. "What was I…?"
"After you heal us," Levi reminded. He sounded bored, and irritated, and she pulled away from Armin. She liked him well enough. He was kind to her, but he didn't tell her the truth. He didn't see what was underneath her innocent face. He wasn't Ymir, no matter how desperately she wished him to be, because she needed to be told that she had no right to steal life from others. She needed the comfort of Ymir's presence, her words, her touch, anything. Armin was half a stranger.
She didn't feel obligated to be anything to him because she was his sister. Unlike him, of course, for she knew he wanted to be a brother to her if it was a possible feat. She wasn't sure if she wanted it, though. She could probably use the support, but Armin was in need of support as well. And he couldn't be saved by her. At least with Ymir, she could be selfish, and keep her alive as long as she wanted. With Armin, he was so fragile, so mortal, and that made it so hard to get attached to him.
If I could manipulate you, she thought, wishing he could hear her thoughts, I'd love you for it.
"Oh," she said weakly, shoving that terrible thought from her brain. "Right. After I heal you, will you go after Ymir?"
Mikasa turned to Levi. It seemed she was curious as well. And Historia was left to ponder over her own humanity. Why was it so hard to connect to people? She loved to be loved, but she had trouble reciprocating. And she wanted to love Armin. She liked the attention he gave her, even now, when she was just boring old Historia, who was so apathetic and so dull all the time. But she didn't know if she could. He was a glass figurine in an army of clay soldiers. She couldn't touch him, couldn't hold him still, and couldn't stop him from shattering.
"If we have a lead on where she went," Levi said, "sure. But don't waste your breath. Erwin's dumb power is bullshit. And I honestly wouldn't even know where to begin to track her."
I would, she thought, turning her eyes to the window. Shafts of light were blinking in and out, golden and silver and then, suddenly, a blinding white. She chewed on her bottom lip, considering all the places Ymir might go. The institute had always been their initial meeting place, but there were others. Could Ymir be somewhere easy for Historia to find? But what would she even do if she found her?
Historia didn't want to run away. She liked having a home. Even if it meant Ymir wasn't a part of it.
I should go find her, she thought. I don't know why I'm debating it. Ymir's more important, I should go find her, and follow her wherever she wants to go.
But Historia knew it wasn't about what Ymir wanted. It was about what she wanted. And she wanted a home. With people. She didn't want to run away and pretend anymore. She just wanted to stop with all this nonsense, and feel something. Anything. With Ymir it was always touch and go. Either Historia felt something, or she felt empty. Now it was always empty.
But, sometimes, she found that she wasn't so empty as she thought. Sometimes she cared. She didn't understand it, but it got under her skin. How could she care one minute, and be utterly empty the next? How could she want to cry, and then moments later find nothing in the world worth being sad about? How could concern burn her chest and churn up in her throat, when she didn't want to be Armin's sister? When she knew that Levi didn't trust her? When she'd hardly even spoken to Eren, and never even met Petra?
Emptiness was a cold, familiar feeling. But it was something.
"It might be easier to track Bertholdt and Reiner," Armin offered.
Ah. Yes. Bertholdt and Reiner.
The previous day they had gotten a phone call from Eren. It was a little unfortunate that she and Armin had been the only ones present at the time. Erwin had been at the hospital with Levi and Mikasa, which is what had put off their trip to DC. Armin had answered the phone, while Historia sat on the floor of the living room, still in her uniform, and staring blankly at the television screen as Bloody Face appeared. She and Armin had been systematically switching back and forth between Hannibal and American Horror Story, grading them on their horror merit. Only half an hour before Bertholdt had walked in, staring at the screen confusedly before quickly pivoting and dashing out of the room. Historia paid him no mind. Armin had wondered aloud if he should apologize. Historia had asked him what for. And Armin had told her he didn't know. He just felt bad. Maybe we're more alike than I thought, she recalled.
Armin had answered the phone, and Historia had watched some poor suckers get slaughtered. She thought about their auras, what it'd take to make them all better, thought about the stitching of particles with the dance of her fingers, thought about how tedious that'd be, and she wondered if she'd be able to actually do it if the injuries were so terrible. She wondered if she could steal an aura fast enough to save someone else's life. She wondered if she'd ever need to.
She had felt a presence in the room long before Reiner's hands had crashed upon her shoulders.
"Boo!" he cried in her ear. She blinked rapidly, and tore her gaze from the television. He was grinning at her. "Did I scare you?"
"Um…" She let her eyes drift back to the screen, her attention flickering from Reiner to the fictional asylum. "No…?"
Reiner looked at her, and his eyes darted away. "Oh," he said. He lifted his hands off her shoulders, and dropped against the couch behind her. After a little while of watching, he spoke again. "You watch some pretty messed up stuff, wow."
"I like horror stuff," she had said quietly.
"Wow," he'd repeated himself, "shit. Can I ask why?"
"I… need a reason?"
"Nah." Reiner smiled at her. She'd glanced at him, her eyebrows furrowing. "Just curious."
"It's exciting," she'd said blandly. "And scary, sometimes, I guess."
"Only sometimes?"
Historia had shrugged, not really understanding where his interest came from. If Ymir had still been around, she probably would have skulked out of whatever hole she'd been hiding in and appeared to fend Reiner off, even sitting through Historia's shows in order to do so. Ymir didn't like horror. She was a big weenie.
She had not heard Armin's conversation over the sounds of the television's hum, so when Armin reentered the room, his cell phone pressed to his chest, she had not assumed there was anything wrong. Then he'd called out to her in his soft little voice, a voice that she was noticing had some similarities to her own.
"Historia, can you pause it? Hange wants to talk with you."
She had blinked up at him confusedly, but paused the show all the same. She rose to her feet, her white knee highs allowing her to tread silently across the room. "Why?" she asked, frowning at the phone in his hands.
"They want to ask you some things about Ymir," Armin said with a shrug, his eyes never leaving her face. She met his gaze, feeling that there was something peculiar about it. But Armin was such a peculiar person, perhaps she was just imagining it.
"Ymir," she'd repeated, the name warm against her tongue. She nodded quickly, reaching out her hand for the phone. Instead, Armin took her hand in his own and pulled her from the room. She followed him wordlessly as he dragged her down a hall, and then quickly swerved, pulling her into the bathroom and closing the door behind him, letting go of her hand only to lock it. He took a few stride backwards until his shoulder bumped against hers, and he glanced down at her. He looked a little horror-stricken.
I must be in a horror movie, Historia had thought, her gut twisting.
"What's going on?" she'd whispered as he ushered her away from the door. He was peering at the lone window, his expression a little distraught. He'd quickly typed something on his phone, and turned the screen to her. In the dying glow of the afternoon, she saw the words like little blocks assembled by a dumb little toddler.
Bert & reiner are traitors
Her mouth had gone dry, and she shook her head, throwing a look at the door. "How do you know?" she murmured, backing further away as a precaution.
"Eren," he whispered back, and then he paused, grimacing. He pointed to his head, tapping his temple. So he'd read their minds, then. Great.
"What do we do?" She had been unable to process her next move. But Armin, Armin was just so smart, he had to know what to do next.
Armin shook his head. His eyes were darting wildly around the room, and she watched him, with his pallid face and shaky frame. He'd licked his lips, running his trembling fingers through his hair. His glasses had been askew. "Reiner is impervious," Armin whispered.
"Not to me," Historia had replied, her eyes traveling to the door. Armin had given her a quizzical look, but had said nothing in response.
"He isn't our problem." Armin had flung open the window, sticking his head out as a gust of crisp autumn wind came barreling at them. He paused, his eyes flashing to the door. "Pretend you're talking to Hange."
"What?"
Armin had shoved his phone into her hands, and she stared at it numbly. She could hear footsteps over the soft snarl of wind. She pressed the phone to her ear, and whirled away from Armin, pacing back and forth as Armin stuck half his body out the window. "Ymir sticks to larger cities," she'd found herself saying, eying Armin's back. "You should try and check shelters. She's not really big on pride, so she'll take whatever charity she can get."
Armin threw her a thumbs up, but she didn't know if that was an all-clear signal or a that'll work signal. So she just kept talking, watching Armin as he ducked back into the bathroom. "Try Chicago," she had said. "Ymir hasn't been there in a while. Or Detroit. Or Boston. Oh, or Salem!"
"That was Reiner," Armin had said. "Not our problem. Our main concern is Bertholdt."
"They know we're in here," she whispered.
"They knew the whole time," he'd said calmly. "We can't hide it. But this isn't weird for us, apparently. Apparently we run off like this all the time."
She hadn't noticed that. "What are we supposed to do?"
"We could act like we don't know," he said casually. The room was frigid now, and wind whipped against the shower curtain. "But even when Erwin comes home, he won't be much of a help. He's a pacifist, and an extra body that we can't harm."
"Could we…?" Historia had been trying very hard to think of a solution. "Couldn't we… talk to them…?"
"Yes, of course we could," Armin had said softly, raising his glassy eyes to hers. "But if worse comes to worst, we won't be able to fight."
She'd slumped, and shuddered in the great gust of frigid wind that blew toward her. She realized that he was still trying to figure out how to handle this situation, which was startling to her, because he was the smart one. "We could," she whispered. "We… might stand a chance…"
"I'm not a fighter," Armin told her somberly. "And… even if I got a hold of one of them… I don't think my body could handle that kind of strain right now."
"Then I'll fight," she declared, striding to the closet and sliding the door open. There was a shelf inside it with some towels, and below that shelf was another with cleaning supplies. She'd scanned the contents of it, her eyes falling upon a broom. She recalled feeling suddenly very dizzy, and a little sick to her stomach, thoughts halting as she stared into the closet, her entire body frozen momentarily. Her muscles felt stiff. Unmoving. She felt her heart thunder in her chest, and she turned her face to Armin's. He'd begun to speak to her, and she only heard the latter half of his sentence.
"— never really explained the full extent of your power." He wandered to the window, casting his hand outside for a moment, his eyes dazed. "I have my theories, of course, but they're just that. Theories. Have you ever tried broadening your reach on auras, or pushing your grip on them?"
"I…" she uttered, her voice drifting uncertainly as it left her lips. Her stomach clenched in fear. "No. No, not… really."
She'd watched her knuckles as she closed her fist around the broom handle, lifting it from the closet carefully. It was nearly taller than her. She listened to his footfalls, and she turned to face him. His back had been turned to her. And then, as though struck by an epiphany, he whirled to face her, his eyes flashing wide as the wooden handle came crashing down upon his shoulder, forcing him to the ground with a mighty smack. His forehead smashed against the corner of the tub. She'd turned away before she could see the damage, her heart beating in her throat and tears stinging her eyes. She'd unlocked the door and treaded quietly out into the hall.
"Reiner," she called, wobbly as she held onto the walls. She was screaming in her head. "Reiner!"
He'd appeared in the hallway, his face stricken with confusion. "Historia?" He moved closer to her, his shadow bulky and his eyes darting. "Are you… guys okay? I heard a—"
"Reiner, we have to go," she gasped, pressing her hand to her head. Tears spilt onto her cheeks, and her throat was dry as she spat words into the air desperately. "We have to go right now. Get my body."
"Bertl?" Reiner had clearly been taken aback. Later, Historia had described his confusion carefully. She had told them the truth. Reiner and Bertholdt hadn't initially meant any harm. "Did you take Historia's body? Without her permission?"
Inside her head, she was screaming so loudly that she could feel the headache pounding viciously at Bertholdt's mind. She could feel his aura intermingling with hers, and it tasted acidic, and looked to her like a shade of gray shadowing her vision.
"I… I know, I know!" Bertholdt made her voice sound reedy and thin, not like the sweet little lilt she had spent years perfecting. "I panicked! But we have to go, okay? We don't have time to argue!"
"What did you do?" Reiner had sounded a little horrified. Bertholdt had not spoken a reply, and her lips trembled pitifully. You're so weak, she thought to Bertholdt, causing her body to buckle in shock. He muffled a sob against her hands.
"I'm sorry," he'd mumbled. "I— I didn't— this isn't—"
Historia had taken the intermingling particles of his aura and torn them apart from her own. The sound was like glass shattering against a rusty pipe, a cacophony of shrill blasts booming inside her head, a glass warfront raging in her head, bursting apart in a glorified shower of glass and dirt, glass bombs and glass grenades and glass bullets showering both their minds, and he screamed as she screamed, golden light bouncing off her eyes and blooming outward from her mind into existence and bursting as he was forced from her head and from her heart and from her body. She'd crumpled to the ground, her legs giving out upon the rush of her limbs returning to her, and she shook against the cold tile, her body wracking with uncontrollable sobs. She still didn't know if she'd been crying out of her own pain, or out of Bertholdt's.
"Historia…" Reiner had tried to touch her, but she skittered away from him, her limbs pushing her as far as possible from his extended fingers.
"D-d-don't touch me," she'd stammered, wiping furiously at her face. She had struggled to her feet and all but thrown herself into the bathroom, skidding onto her knees beside Armin's bleeding body. He was awake, on his hands in knees and staring at the puddle of blood he'd left upon the pallid tile. His hair was damp and pink from lying in it.
"Armin, it wasn't me," she blurted, her hands falling to her knees. He'd nodded mutely, his dazed eyes squinted at her in confusion. His glasses were half lying in blood.
"I…" he'd murmured, his gaze unfocused. "I… know, I…" He raised his eyes to Reiner, who had appeared in the doorway. His expression changed in a flash, his eyes hardening as he straightened up, blood dripping against his forehead, rivulets dragging down the concave of his nose, and he squinted. The door slammed shut, and the lock clicked.
Well, in the end it turned out that Armin had known all along that Bertholdt would skin Historia. He apologized for not telling her, but he admitted that he couldn't think much into it lest Bertholdt hear. Apparently Bertholdt could very easily access Armin's mind if he left it open enough, so Armin didn't allow himself to know important details about things that could potentially be harmful. Historia had been mostly concerned with his forehead, which she'd stitched up for him without a problem.
"You should get this checked out," She'd said as she smoothed back his hair to be certain the stitches were adequate enough. The cut wasn't very deep or long, but it had spilt a lot of blood in a short period of time.
"I wasn't hit that hard," he'd responded. "I'm more concerned for your mental health, actually."
"I'm not the one having hallucinations," she had retorted in a dull, quiet voice.
"Heh." He'd smiled at that, which had been a great relief. "Touchè."
Basically, they'd handled the situation pretty poorly.
Armin had apologized to Erwin profusely for it.
Historia had refrained from asking Erwin to force Armin into a CAT scan. No one knew about the stitches hidden under his golden hair, and no one knew how much blood he'd lost, and no one knew why he looked so dazed and unfocused. He almost definitely had a concussion.
Bertholdt and Reiner had been gone within minutes. Armin told them all what he knew from their minds. He'd been suspicious for a few weeks, but he didn't pry enough to know the details. Levi had, of coursed, chewed him out for that. Erwin had, in turn, scolded Levi, and then pulled Armin aside to speak to him in private. Historia felt like an outsider. Likely because she was.
They also knew that Bertholdt and Reiner weren't murderous, unlike Annie. While they were definitely dangerous (and unstable), they had left Armin and Historia alive in order to escape when they probably could have easily killed them. Or, at least, attempted to. Historia didn't think she'd let them get far enough to harm her or Armin anymore than they had already.
Now it made sense to Historia why Ymir had always picked on Bertholdt.
But there's so much that doesn't make sense, she thought. Like why they ran so fast. Did they figure out I could kill them?
Would she have been able to kill them? She didn't want to kill anyone, especially not her friends.
This was all so confusing.
"We'll deal with the Reiner and Bertholdt bullshit when you get back," Levi said. He'd settled back against his pillow, scowling up at the ceiling.
"When will you be back?" Mikasa asked, turning her face to them. Armin and Historia were standing side by side, staring vacantly ahead. Their empty gazes were similar, of course, but she knew they were different. Her eyes were empty out of apathy. His were empty from the accumulated strain of insomnia, migraines, a concussion, and constant waves of unrestrained empathy and telepathy. She counted herself lucky. She got the power that made her body feel constantly positive, never lacking in any area. She always had energy, and always felt normal, and never got sick, and never had to worry about something trivial like a concussion. Armin's body was so frail, and it made her almost angry, because this was something she could so easily fix.
If I knew I could keep him around forever, she thought, her eyes moving cautiously to his face, would I love him then?
"By tonight, hopefully," Armin said.
And when Erwin returned, they were off.
It was a three or four hour drive, and Historia spent most of it sleeping. She laid down in the back seat, listening to Armin and Erwin speak in their low tones, nothing in particular catching her interest, and she curled up into a ball and slept. She dreamt of Ymir. Fire eyes, and a laughing mouth, and starry freckles dancing like golden dust against her bronze skin. Ymir could be forever. It was safe to love Ymir. Safe and warm and stable.
Armin was none of that.
In her dream, Armin was sitting on a little rock in the middle of a grand stretch of water, a sunset licking up and down its bluish black waterscape, burning it up like it was brimming with oilslicks. There was no wind here, but there were stars twinkling against the steadily darkened sky, reflecting madly on the bluish, blackish, fire-stained sea, and sending freckles along its watery surface.
"You're selfish," he told her.
"I know," she replied. "That's no secret."
"No," he said. "But don't you ever get sick of your own awfulness?"
"All the time," she said. She was standing beside him, her bare toes wiggling against the crags and dips in the rock's black face, her feet barely finding traction on the wet stone, barnacles scraping against her heels as she attempted to gain some semblance of balance. "I'm sick to death of me. I wish everyone else was too."
"No you don't." Armin pulled his knees to his chest, embracing them in that childish way that reminded Historia of herself. "You love being loved."
He raised her face to her, and he smiled, his chapped lips going whiter than his ashen face, which grew thinner and thinner in the light of the dying sun, and stars burned inside his hollow eyes, reflecting universes he could never see, and she saw for a moment his resignation as his hollow face deteriorated, withered away as though time had taken a steady increase, and suddenly the world was flying by a year a second, and his entire body crumpled under the weight of year after year after year until suddenly he was only flesh and only bone and only blind eyes and spindly fingers, soft and leathery as they brushed her tiny, youth-soaked hands.
"You should let yourself love a little more," this wizened little man murmured to her. Tears were welling in her eyes, clouds stitching over the bursts of stars
His soft, weathered hands turned to hard, cold bone in half a heartbeat.
She screamed, his face nothing but a smiling skull, and his creaky fingers scraping against her wrist, bare phalanges digging into her flesh, clutching her hands and holding her tight. She lost her footing on the slimy surface of the rock, her toes catching on a slipper crevice, and she fell backwards with her stomach attempting to tear itself from her abdomen as her body crashed into the inky black swell of water surrounding her. It consumed her, sliding through her lips and filling up her lungs, and she saw stars bleeding around her, tails of fire swimming through the streams of black and waves of blue and blankets of bright, scorching white.
She was standing in a graveyard. Two rows of gray headstones, identical in every way, running parallel to each other into infinity. She took a step onto the freshly shorn grass, her bare toes wriggling with relief, and she left a flower on a grave. And then another. She made her way down an aisle of graves that went on and on for an eternity, and every step made her feel heavier, and sicker, and sadder, and suddenly she was crying, silent sobs wracking her tiny frame.
She recognized the names.
Was it her fate to be left alone in this world?
Is this her fate if she chose to let herself love a little more?
Row after row of graves?
Familiar faces withering up right before her eyes, until they were nothing but crumbling bones?
"I can't save you," she cried to grave after grave, "or you, or you, or you, or you, or you…"
She awoke with a jolt, tears and drool causing strands of hair to stick to her face. She wiped slowly at her cheeks, grimacing at the cold taste of saliva and the salty tang of tears. She sat up blearily, squinting at her surroundings. The car was still moving, flat countrysides rolling past her, mountains peaking in the distance. Ahead of her, Armin's small, fleshy hand offered her a sandwich wrapped up in thin white paper. She took it, staring at the spindly quality of his fingers, and the intricate webbing of his vibrant blue veins against the back of his hand.
"Are we nearly there?" she asked in a thick, sleepy voice. Armin nodded.
"Well, mostly," he said, watching her unwrap the sandwich and take a tentative bite. It was a BLT, which suited her fine. She wasn't picky about food, not since she'd lived on the streets with Ymir. When she was younger she had found tomatoes to be unappealing, but now she savored every last bite of the ripened, juicy slices. "Were you having a nightmare?"
She chewed mechanically. She swallowed. She took another bite of her sandwich, and nodded distantly. He nodded back sympathetically. She chewed. She swallowed. "It didn't seem so bad," she said, though she really wasn't sure. Her dreams faded so quickly, she hardly would have known it had been a nightmare if not for her tears and the aching lump that had surfaced inside her throat. It hurt to swallow, but she forced herself to. "The usual."
"You should try to sleep as well, Armin," Erwin advised. "While you have some peace of mind."
"I tried," Armin sighed. "It's a no go. But I'm actually fine, honestly. I'd rather be awake for this. It's so quiet, and… strange, I guess, to feel only my own feelings." He smiled at Erwin wistfully, still leaning over his seat to observe her.
"Oh," she said, lowering her sandwich. "Right. Your mind is free from outside influences, isn't it? How is that?"
"Wonderful," he admitted sheepishly. "I mean— ah, crap, I love living with Eren and Mikasa, but… my mind is so cluttered…"
"I've been looking at apartments in the city," Erwin said. Armin stared at Erwin with wide eyes. "It's your choice, of course, but I feel as though it would be more constructive if you slept in a place that wouldn't feed you someone else's dreams."
"Oh," Armin said quietly. He didn't disagree, she noted. He turned to face her, and she worried that he had maybe heard her thoughts. "Do you want to move out, Historia?"
She found herself puzzled by his question. "Um," she said, her voice a little feeble, "what?"
Armin blinked, and flushed, shooting a glance at Erwin hurriedly. The man sighed, though she saw a hint of a smile curling at his lips in the rearview mirror. "Armin is asking if you'd like to come live with us," Erwin said.
"Oh."
Historia took another bite of her sandwich. She chewed mechanically. She chewed. She chewed. She swallowed, and it hurt so badly as it scratched over the protruding lump that had surfaced inside her throat. It slithered through her chest, scraping against her esophagus. They were watching her. Armin's endless gaze, hollow and deep and clever beyond reason. Erwin's omniscient eyes, alight with some monstrous knowledge, some key point boom of accessibility that was utterly lost on her. They were two birds playing snakes and slithering on the ground beside her, pretending they could be like her, when they were like nothing she could ever dream of consuming.
"Oh?" Erwin sounded amused, and she wanted to burst into tears. "It's alright if you aren't certain, Historia. We aren't in a hurry."
The more time she had to think of it, the more time they had to influence her choice. She didn't particularly want to be influenced by anyone else, but this was her life in a nutshell. Following the paths of other people, people who clearly wanted her affection, and were willing to prod at her until she gave into them. Ymir was just the same. She knew exactly how Historia ticked, and when Historia had become Christa, she had adapted in kind. Ymir could manipulate her into destroying half the world, if she so pleased. Luckily, Ymir was actually too invested in humanity to wish for such terrible things.
Unluckily, Erwin Smith was not quite so innocent.
She took a bite. Chewed. Her mouth was dry, and the bread tasted stale. The bacon was undercooked. She swallowed. "I'd love to live with you," she said in her quiet monotone.
Ahead of her, Armin sighed. He shook his head. "Maybe not right now, Erwin," he said, surprising her. "We're barely settled into Hange's apartment. And there aren't so many people there now. I'll be okay."
"I see," Erwin replied smoothly. Historia stared at him confusedly, and at Armin, and she looked down at her sandwich, tears obscuring her vision. She didn't understand it. She didn't get how they could be so nice to her, knowing that she wasn't the sweet little plastic doll she'd been pretending to be. "Are you not going to eat, Armin?"
"Not really hungry," the boy admitted. "Maybe later."
You're never hungry, she thought bitterly at him. She pleaded with the universe to let him hear her. He didn't. She took a bite of her sandwich. She chewed mechanically. She raised her eyes, blinking back tears, and she stared at Armin's face until her turned to her. He looked away quickly, guiltily, as though he almost could hear her accusations, and feel her bitterness. If she could eat, so could he.
"You have to eat," Erwin said. "I can't even remember the last time I actually saw you eat, Armin."
"I ate this morning," Armin said innocently. Historia recalled the crackers he had consumed. Stale saltines. Two of them.
"I didn't see it." Erwin glanced at the review mirror, and Historia met his eye. "Historia, did he eat?"
"Yes," Historia said, though she wasn't sure if two stale crackers counted as eating for a boy as hollow cheeked and emaciated as Armin.
Erwin nodded, though she was certain he didn't believe her. She took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Repeated. He said to Armin, "You should still eat."
"My stomach is feeling a little upset, actually," Armin sighed. "I don't want to risk puking right now."
"Armin—"
"Look, a cow!" Historia cried, pointing out the window. Erwin didn't look, but Armin did, and he laughed. It was a good sound.
None of them talked for the remainder of the ride.
Upon arriving in DC, Erwin basically dropped them off on a curb and told them to have fun blackmailing the president. He had somewhere to be, apparently. As he pulled away, Historia stood for a moment, feeling strangely out of place in her thigh highs, high waisted skirt, and a pink jacket of Ymir's that was far too large on her. The autumn wind was biting at her bare skin, and she held her skirt as a gust threatened to yank it up.
"Do you know where he's going?" she asked as they made their way down a sidewalk.
"Nope," Armin said. "I give him his space, though. I don't like to snoop in his business."
"But you have no idea what he could be doing," she pointed out. "What if he's a traitor too?"
Armin gave her a level stare as they walked, her flat heels clapping against the pavement while the soles of his sneakers scuffed alongside her. "He isn't," he said firmly.
She wanted to ask him how he knew for sure. How could he possibly know? But she trusted his judgment. She could not explain her faith in him, but she could not shake it either.
"Okay," she said quietly. And they kept walking.
It was easy getting in. They followed a group of people through the gates, and then through the front doors, and suddenly they were in the White House. Armin's invisibility was a gift, she realized. They would never be able to pull this off if not for this advantage. Though, technically it wasn't actually invisibility, just a change in perception, so they would have to be careful. Armin also noted they could show up on camera. He didn't know for sure.
She held onto Armin's hand as he led her carefully through the halls, their breaths held every time they passed anyone, his gloved fingers growing moist from her sweaty palms. Armin knew his way around somehow, likely stealing a route from the mind of someone official who could direct them to where her father might be. Would this place have been mine if I hadn't hit my head? she wondered.
They entered the oval office like it was nothing. Historia didn't understand how it could be so simple. All they'd done was walk in. All she'd done was hold Armin's hand. This was far, far too easy. Something had to give. There would be a death, or an arrest, or she would lose herself and kill her father, or someone else, and she just didn't want that.
Her father was talking to someone on speaker. She counted herself lucky he was alone in the office. There had been men stationed at every entrance, of course. Maybe the call was just incredibly important. That made her angry. Actual anger spiked through her, making her feel sickened and electrified. She let go of Armin's hand and marched forward. She pressed her finger to the little red "end call" button, and listened to a voice get cut off midway through a calculated speech on legislation, or something.
He sat in his chair for a moment, looking a little stunned. His brow furrowed, and his mouth parted. Her finger was suddenly visible against the button, and his head snapped to look up at her face, a shout forming on his lips, and he hurled his chair back as he leapt to his feet.
"H—" he choked, steadying his shaky body against his desk, "Historia…?"
"Sit down, papa," she said dully.
He looked absolutely incredulous, his fingers clutching at his chest, and she wondered if he'd have a heart attack. That'd do no good. They needed information, not a dead president. Armin was standing by the door, likely soothing the minds of the secret service men who were clearly about to leap to this man's aid. Armin had this. He was getting better at manipulating minds without speaking.
"Historia," her father repeated, his voice wavering. She frowned at his face, noting the glistening film that lit up his eyes. He reached out, his fingers catching her cheek, and for a moment her stomach flipped, and her heart gave a little stutter of shock, and she thought she was going to cry, her throat constricting painfully. But she didn't. She turned her cheek from his hand, swatting his arm away.
"Sit," she said in a sharper voice, rounding the desk so she could put distance between them. Very slowly, her father picked up his chair from the floor, and sat down. His eyes darted to Armin in confusion.
"I…" He held his head, his lips trembling. "I don't understand… Historia, it's been so long…"
"Yes," she agreed. "And it still hasn't been long enough."
His expression gave away how appalled he was. How can someone so stupid become president? "Historia," he pleaded with her, "you have to understand. What happened was not my fault—"
"I don't care," she said.
"— I didn't know, I thought it was your medicine, I had no idea she switched the bottles, Historia—"
"I really don't care," she sighed, glancing around the oval office. Nice, she thought.
"— I tried, I tried to help you, to get you away from the stairs, but you thought I was going to hurt you, and I couldn't understand why—"
"Hey," she said to Armin, "would it be very bad if I punched the president?"
"It would be very, very bad," Armin replied, striding the perimeter of the oval. He was right behind her father, and the man jumped, craning his neck to look at the sickly pale boy. He looked a little terrified as Armin smiled. "Do it."
Historia backhanded her father so hard she was certain her knuckles broke. Pain burst though her hand and spiked up through her wrist and into her forearm, throbbing viciously as she listened to the crack of it, her father struggling to stay in his chair. Armin was massaging his temples, likely still feeding lies to the men outside.
Her father clutched his cheek as he turned his eyes back toward her. She stared at him with her gaze as dead as it could get.
"Look," she said, "I don't care. I don't care if it wasn't actually your fault. I actually already knew that."
He looked so terribly confused, and it almost hurt to see. "Then… then why—?"
"Because you're an asshole?" she offered. "You experimented on children? You're responsible for everything wrong with my life, and the lives of the people I actually kind of care about?" She rolled her eyes upward, feeling emptier and emptier with every word she spoke. "I… don't know, papa. Take your pick."
He took a breath. Armin was creeping along the perimeter again, quiet and flickering in and out of focus. Like a ghost. It was actually a little horrifying. "I don't understand—"
"We're not here for everything you know," Armin said, moving to Historia's side. "We're after something so much simpler."
"I know I'm your biological daughter," she said quietly. Her father said nothing, only stared, with his gaze growing as dead as hers. "I know your wife wasn't my mother."
"How could you possibly know that?" he whispered.
"Because her real mother was mine," Armin said. And then her father's eyes flew very wide, and she knew they had him.
"Armin?" he uttered in awe, blinking confusedly at the boy by her side. "You… you've gotten big…"
"I'm like, five-foot-four," Armin said, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows. "I also don't remember you at all, really. You can blame the institute for that."
Her father groaned, and he rubbed his face. "I could have you two arrested for this," he said.
"Yes, please," Historia said. "Do it."
"Go ahead," Armin chirped. "Arrest your own daughter. The press will be all over that."
"And I'll tell them that you messed up my epilepsy medication," she said, "and stimulated me to the point where I was convinced you were going to kill me."
"So after your six-year-old, epileptic daughter fell down the stairs because of your mistake, you stuck her comatose body in an institution for disabled and dying children who were being experimented on." Armin's voice was soft and moving, the type of voice that made the hairs on your arms stand on end. He used that voice when he was playing with minds. And by the look on her father's ashen face, it was working.
"And then you covered it up," she said. "You said I was away at school. Well, I'm sure everyone will want to know why I am failing four of my classes at the first school I've attended since I was six."
"Not Latin, though," Armin pointed out brightly. "There's that."
"Right, yes." Historia glanced at her crumbling father. "Thanks for teaching me Latin, papa. Really helped me out through life."
"Why are you doing this?" he croaked. His eyes darted fast, moving between them in horror. "What are you gaining?"
"We told you," Armin said. "We want information. About our mother."
"Who she was," Historia said.
"What you did to her," Armin said.
"Where she is now," Historia said.
"What you did to her," Armin repeated in his sweet sounding little voice, innocent of all spite. Yes. They were alike.
"How you met," Historia said.
"What you did to her." Armin stuck a finger between his teeth, and drew off his glove.
"Why you sent her to the institute," she said.
"What you did to her." Armin tucked his glove under his arm. "I'm going to give you thirty seconds to start answering. After thirty seconds, I'm going to forcibly take the answers we want, and then some. We will also publically ask for paternity tests, which will come out positive for Historia for certain no matter my own parentage, and you can't refuse unless you wish to appear guilty. So, start talking. Now."
He was shocked silent. His mouth hung open, his eyes were wider than quarters, his face was so pale it put Armin's sallow skin to shame, and he was shaking in his seat. It was almost exciting to see him squirm like this. They were doing pretty well. She was certain he was terrified of them, because they truly could screw up his entire life. But hadn't he screwed up theirs enough?
"She was a prostitute," he blurted. Historia leaned back, and she glanced at Armin. He had no reaction to this, it seemed. Perhaps he already knew. "She… I…"
"Wow," Historia said.
"Spit it out," Armin sighed.
Her father took a deep, shaky breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he slumped in his chair. Armin was drawing closer to him, and Historia rested her palms against his desk, the heavy sleeves of Ymir's pink jacket threatening to pool over her fists. Her father looked at her then, his expression crumpling in resignation.
"She was an escort," he said in a dry, throaty voice. "It was… she was my… usual… you could say."
"Gross," Armin said softly. Her father glanced at him uncertainly. "Don't stop talking."
He rubbed his face, defeated and jittery, and she thought it funny to see him like this. At their mercy. We should've gone on the Beta Squad mission, she thought. We would have been so much more efficient.
"The first time she got pregnant, I knew it was by me," he said. "I arranged to adopt the baby, because my wife and I could not have children, and your mother, she… was not fit to raise a child."
"How so?" Armin inquired.
Her father spluttered. "She was a prostitute!"
"Prostitutes can make a lot of money," Armin informed him dully. "It honestly just depends on where that money goes. You underestimate sex workers, Mr. President."
He stared at him blankly. He cleared his throat. "She was more than willing to give Historia up," he continued. "I was more than willing to take her. I wanted a child more than anything, and… she was mine…" He glanced at Historia, who felt her stomach turn at the sight of him. Her fist was healed by now, and she could definitely go for the thrill of punching him again. "I don't know if you're mine, Armin. I never had the guts to find out. I knew you existed because by that point, your mother had fallen very ill, and could not continue working, and could barely support either of you. I sent her money, but it was never enough."
"Yeah, you probably just honestly did not give her enough to support a child," Armin sighed. "I know she didn't take medication. She couldn't afford it. All her money went to me, if I'm recalling correctly."
Her father grimaced. "I'm sorry," he said robotically.
"I've met murderers more sympathetic than you," Armin told him in a quiet, empty tone.
Historia watched her father's face, and she was struck by how easy it was to horrify him. So she smiled, her lips pulling taut from the action, and she said in the sweetest voice she could manage, "That'd be me."
Her father jolted in surprise, eying her quizzically, and then his eyes flashing in absolute horror, his lips twisting as he turned his face away. Armin laughed alongside her, and said brightly, "Me too!" They high fived, and she couldn't help but laugh as well at how broken her father looked.
Amazing.
"Are you going to arrest us for that?" Historia asked innocently.
"Good luck," Armin said earnestly.
"They really did turn you into monsters," Reiss whispered, his eyes lowering to his desk.
"Pretty much," Armin said. "Can you keep talking? We're not exactly made of time here."
Reiss ran his fingers through his thinning hair, and he shook his head. He looked exhausted, but Historia knew they had barely gotten what they'd come for. He continued unsteadily, glancing around the office with thinning lips, and darting eyes.
"After her condition became so bad that she genuinely could not take care of you," Reiss told Armin, "I made an arrangement to have her taken into the facility. By that point Historia had already had her accident. I took you in, Armin."
"I don't remember that," Armin said quietly. He bounced his head from side to side, and then shrugged. "Well, not really. Bits and pieces."
"I did it mostly to spite my wife," Reiss admitted. Armin actually snorted at that, turning his face away. "But you were… a very good child. Easier to manage than Historia."
"Sounds about right," she found herself musing aloud. Armin glanced at her curiously.
"Well, I didn't have epilepsy," Armin said, "so…"
"No, you didn't." Her father folded his hands on his desk, and it seemed as though he was growing more comfortable with speaking to them, which was strange. "But either way, you were very quiet, and you never ventured off. I could always find you in the library. I don't think you even knew what half the house looked like."
"So you've always been a dork," Historia said quietly. Armin glanced at her, and smiled weakly.
"So, then what?" Armin asked, flexing his bare fingers. "You found out I had a brain tumor?"
"What?" Historia asked flatly.
Reiss ignored her, focusing his attention on Armin. "At first we thought it was epilepsy," he admitted. "Like Historia, and your mother. It became clear very quickly that that wasn't the case. You were sent to the facility. Shortly after, your mother…"
"Went insane?" Armin offered. Reiss grimaced. "Yeah, what the hell was that about?"
"Her procedure didn't stick," Reiss said. "It was unsuccessful. These things happen."
"That's why you don't experiment on people," Armin said darkly.
Reiss rose to his feet, standing up straight so he became taller than them. Armin took a step back on impulse, and Historia leaned forward, her palms scraping across his desk. Her father's eyes were hard now, and his jaw tightened as he stared down at them.
"Care to remember," he said sharply, "that you two are only alive now because of those experiments. Armin, you might not remember, but you were begging me to save you. Historia, you were nearly brain dead. Without sacrifice, you two would never be where you are now. You should thank me!"
"We were children," Armin said in a hoarse, vacant tone. "Children cannot be held responsible for the choices adults offer out to them. We could not consent to experimentation. You may have saved our lives somehow, but you made us into monsters in the process."
"You had Father Nick kidnap me," Historia recalled. Reiss looked at her desperately, and she shook her head. "He understood my powers perfectly. Who told him?"
Her father grimaced, and turned away. "Not me, Historia," he said quietly. "I'm not the monster you're looking for."
"You mean," Armin said, "you aren't in charge?"
"No."
"Then who is?" Historia was suddenly eager for information, more so than ever, and she leaned across the desk, her hair falling into eyes as she craned her neck up at him. "Dr. Jaeger? Ilse Langner?"
Her father rubbed his face tiredly, his exhaustion clear, and he drew his palms down his cheeks, his skin growing taut. He glanced between the two of them, his maybe children, and he shook his head. "I can't," he whispered. "I'll tell you where your mother is, but don't ask me for that."
Historia found herself angry again, her teeth cracking against one another, and she drew her fist up. Armin caught her wrist with his warm fingers, and she glanced up at him. His eyes were on her father's face, his expression firm and his eyes bright.
"Deal," he said.
They made their way out as they'd made there way in, and once again they were met with no trouble. It was an empty sort of success. They had gotten what they came for, but left with little to show for it. Armin held her hand from the moment they left the office to the moment they stopped in front of the designated hospital her father had plopped their mentally unstable mother into.
"We don't actually have to do this," Armin told her quietly.
"Why come all the way here," Historia replied, "if we don't at least see her?"
He said nothing. He merely nodded, and let go of her hand. She found herself wondering if they were feeling the same thing. The empty ache of knowing something wasn't going to live up to the expectations, that there was nothing they could do. She wondered if they were truly, truly alike, and she wished it, she wished it with all her heart, but that was the problem. She wished for things, and it left her with nothing. Armin was hard to love, but it was difficult not to care for him.
She felt obligated to follow him as he went to the front desk and asked for their mother's name. It wasn't Rose. They were sent to the Psychiatric Ward, and that left them both hanging closer together, uncertain of what they would find. Armin had sent Erwin a text to tell him where they were while they waited in the elevator, and Historia thought about Ymir. How would Ymir react to all this? Would she even care? No, probably not. She'd just go with it.
"This was a terrible idea," she whispered as they entered the Psych Ward. It was about as creepy as the rest of the hospital, not more so, which was a relief, but she felt uncomfortable being here. Maybe because she didn't trust her own state of mind, or Armin's, and this was the kind of place she dreaded ever being in.
"We can leave if you want," Armin whispered back.
"I didn't say that." She let the sleeves of Ymir's jacket fall over her hands, and she buried her nose in the collar, inhaling the scent of Ymir's shampoo. It was a grand comfort in this place of uncertainties.
They were led to a lobby, which was filled with patients who were mostly sitting around at little round tables, some of them wandering around, some of them watching television, or merely staring at a television screen. They were pointed toward a table toward the other side of the room, near a window, and Armin lead the way once again while Historia was left wanted to cry or scream or something of that caliber, but she didn't think this was a good place to do so, lest she trigger someone.
The woman sitting by the window was Historia. Add maybe twenty years. They had the same face, the same dead eyes, the same flaxen hair, the same flawless skin with a sweet rosy blush permanently dusted upon her cheekbones. It wasn't cute on this woman like it was on Historia. It made her face look blotchy and discolored. There were dark circles under the woman's hollow blue eyes, and the more Historia looked, the more the upper half of her face looked identical to Armin's. Even her fluffy fringe of pale hair seemed to scream an echo of the boy standing beside her.
She didn't look up when they stopped beside her. A nurse rested a hand on the woman's shoulder, but the woman did not seem to care what she had to say. Historia sat down at the table, empty, empty, empty, and she realized where she must have gotten such hollowness from. This woman was nothing but a shell. Historia didn't know what she'd been expecting.
How could the mother of two such vacuous people be anything less?
"Oh," the nurse sighed. "Oh, I'm sorry, she's not having a good day. She's been doing well the entire week, interacting and even speaking sometimes, but I don't think you'll get much from her. You said you're her… children?"
"Yes," Historia and Armin said in dull unison. They were both staring at her mother, this dead eyed stranger, and neither of them could move.
"I don't mean to intrude," the nurse said carefully, "but where have you been? She rarely gets visitors."
"We were separated," Armin said quietly. "I… we were fostered at different places— different states. We only just recently found each other again."
"Ah," said the nurse. "I see. Well, I'll be over there if you need me. Please don't touch her, or yell, or anything that might upset her or the other patients. Okay?"
"Yes," they said in unison.
They sat for minutes in silence. Minutes. Minutes. Historia folded her arms on the surface of her table. She put her head down. She didn't understand why her throat was aching so badly.
She felt a hand on her back, and she stiffened, glancing up at Armin. He sat down beside her, rubbing small, gentle circles around her spine. "She's thinking about us," he whispered.
She clapped her hands over her eyes and choked on a sob.
They were there for about half an hour when Armin asked her if she wanted him to try to get deeper into their mother's mind. She asked him if he could fix her.
"If I could," he said softly, "don't you think I would have by now?"
He told her that going into their mother's mind was a lot like going into Bertholdt or Reiner's. Very difficult, so much so that it almost hurt. There were too many things going on at once. He refrained from touching her, but he narrated the things he saw. Bits and pieces. Their faces came up a lot. Childlike and bright-eyed. She thought they were dead.
"Can't you let her know we're here?" Historia asked desperately.
"I tried," Armin said, "she doesn't think we're real."
It was like watching a television screen that only showed one picture for hours on end with the steady backdrop of a bow against violin strings. Their mother was something, but she was also nothing. Armin spoke in hushed tones, his voice wavering as he told Historia little things that made his hands shake. She reached out and held them as he knitted words into something comprehensible.
"She worked with Levi," he told her softly. "They were both prostitutes."
"Levi was…?" Historia couldn't imagine it.
Armin nodded. "She was older than him," he whispered, squeezing her hands. "She thinks he didn't belong in the business. He couldn't handle it. It made him sick."
"I can't imagine…" she whispered.
"She kept telling him he needed to save money," Armin said. "He wasn't good at that. After his powers manifested, he quit for a few years, and then went back because he needed a way to fund his addiction. And… he wanted to get away from his father…"
"Kenny Ackerman," Historia said. She ran her fingers over Armin's bony knuckles, not able to look at their vacant mother. She had not yet moved positions, but she had folded her hands on the table. "I've… been wondering, does that mean Levi really is related to Mikasa?"
"I don't know, Historia," he murmured, his eyes glassy and distant as he watched her face. "Maybe. I don't think it matters to them if they're related by blood or not, though. It won't change a thing."
Historia glanced at their mother, and she felt achy in the throat again. Her voice was reedy as she spoke. "Finding out we were related," she said softly, "changed how we saw each other."
Armin studied her dazedly. He was sickly pale, and his hands were too warm. "Yes," he said, "I guess so."
"I didn't want it to." She spoke with a trembling voice, her eyes watering as she watched her mother watch them. She could see her mother's mouth moving. "I didn't want to care. I thought it would be better if I didn't."
"Better for who, exactly?"
"I don't know," she mumbled, pulling her hands back and staring at their mother. "I don't know…"
"You don't have to want me to be your brother," Armin told her gently. "It's okay. We're two completely different people who grew up in completely different ways. We can't be siblings in any normal sense, except technical."
"Ymir would know how to help," she sniffled, wiping her nose on Ymir's pink sleeve. "She helped me come to terms with things. Now I… oh, Armin, I don't know how to act or— or think, I feel like I've lost myself somewhere..."
"I understand," he said firmly. "I wouldn't feel like living anymore if I lost Eren and Mikasa. But I would keep going. Like you're still going. Because you're so much stronger than you think you are, Historia."
"I just want to… feel… something…" She sunk into her seat, and buried her face in her hands. "Anything."
"You do feel things," he told her earnestly. "I promise you that."
"You can't know that…"
"Everyone feels something," he said, rising to his feet. "Even emptiness is a feeling. It'll get better, Historia. We're going to get better."
She lowered her hands, glancing up at him as he nodded in determination. She nodded back, stunned, and he turned away. He was a little unsteady on his feet. "I'm going to get us some hot chocolate," he said. "You should stay with mom."
"Okay," she said hoarsely.
And so she was alone with her mother, a vacant woman who must've been something at some point, but now Historia had trouble considering her to be real, and it hurt. She didn't know how to act around an empty shell. Oh my god, Historia thought, feeling sick as she rested her forehead against the cool gray linoleum table top. I'm a hypocrite. I'm a terrible hypocrite. Somebody please gag me.
She felt something against her hair, and she raised her head, blinking tearfully at her mother's beautiful, cracked marble face. Purple bruises dug deep into her dazed blue eyes, carving out swollen bags of skin, and drawing red lines through the whites of her eyes. Cold, bony fingers were snagging in her hair, pulling soothing trails down her scalp.
The woman was humming. "Meine Hände sind verschwunden," she sang idly, her voice unimaginably soft and lilting, honey sweet inside Historia's ears. Her mother hummed, drawing her fingers down and touching Historia's cheek. The woman had a rose on her wrist, red and blooming amongst twisted snarls of green thorns that crawled all up her bare forearm. Tears trickled over a frigid white thumb, and Historia muffled a sob against her hand. She lurched to her feet, turning her face sharply away from her mother's ghostly cold touch, and she fled the room.
"Armin?" she called, ignoring the sharp shooshing of a nurse. "Armin! I want to go home now!"
She pushed her way out of the Psych Ward, ducking nurses who tried to speak to her, and she called Armin's name as she wiped at her cheeks furiously, sobs crawling up her throat. She let her feet take her wherever, and that was a mistake, because suddenly she was sobbing in the Pediatric Ward, her body pressed up against a wall under a great blown up cartoon rainbow, and she was curled into a crouch near the floor, her mouth against her knees as she bit into her thigh highs, desperate to stop the creeping, crawling itch and ache of sobs and tears and screams. She hated how terrible she was. She would never come to see her mother again.
Someone had sat her down eventually and pacified her.
"Where is your family, sweetheart?" a kind blonde nurse who identified themself as Nanaba asked.
"I-I…" She hiccupped, flushing in embarrassment. "My brother… he… I don't know where he is…"
"It's okay, we can find him. How old is he?"
"Um…" Historia used Ymir's sleeve to wipe the snot from her nose again. "Fifteen…?"
Nanaba whispered to another nurse. "Okay," they said gently. "What's his name?"
"Armin," she said. "His name is Armin. He's five-foot-four, and his hair is long like this." She bunched up her hair so it curled under her jaw and around her chin.
"Armin?" Nanaba looked at Historia, and suddenly her sobs dispersed. The ache in her throat was replaced by a sinking in her chest. Nanaba had the type of look that Historia knew was recognition. And something like concern.
"Yes," Historia said, straightening up on a plush red bench. She stared up at Nanaba, her lips parting in confusion. "What? What is it?"
Nanaba bit their lip, and gave the hall a onceover. They straightened up and said, with a morose little voice, "Please follow me."
fun fact guys, the title of this chapter is a quote bye... cicero! yes, gotta love good ol' ciceroni
soo, yeah, this one is definitely one of my personal favorite chapters? i love historia chapters in general because i get to exercise my meta for her character which is always exciting
ah, so next chapter's a bit of a doozy. apology in advance to becca. i really, really tried.