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The wind is a strange affair on Paradis. At least Annie thinks so as she busies herself with keeping her skirts in order as the carriage that drove them to the plains of Mitras trots away.
Armin only laughs and kisses her cheek. She knows it’s playful, but she’d like to see him in one of these one day, just to see him struggle.
There’s one thing Annie forgot to account for when she agreed to marry Armin. They’re now a package deal. Always, all the time, everywhere. He is at her side each time Hitch ropes her into errands, carrying boxes and bags like the gentleman he is. He rubs her feet at the end of a long day. He cooks breakfast for her. He scolds her when she doesn’t dress warmly enough for winter because she’s not used to not being able to control her body temperature. Then he brews her tea with extra honey when she gets sick because she doesn’t listen to him.
They get an apartment up in the Utopia district, which they hardly set foot in, and instead live on the road. Nothing ever happens in the north. There are more sheep and cattle than people there (which is precisely why Annie agreed to buy property there in the first place).
When they’re traveling South, they sleep in a pile in Mikasa’s guest bedroom, and when Armin stays weeks at a time in the Embassy in Mitras, they either stay at the orphanage or at the palace.
He keeps buying her dresses, pale blue floating things that surround her knees as the wind surges through the wide streets of Paradis, covering her thighs as she bends down in the lush grass. They all come together to join Historia on her monthly picnics.
The princess is a lively little thing, curious and not as cautious as Historia would like her to be, climbing trees and chasing pigs around, tumbling into muddy puddles, and drinking rainwater as it falls. What Annie initially thought was a lack of restraint is, in fact, a much simpler symptom of peace. Little Ymir isn’t afraid of this world. She hasn’t known war. Its taste doesn’t linger on her tongue as she bites into figs and slices of jammed apples.
Armin carries her on his shoulders, and she laughs, not thinking that her open throat is easy to slice through. He bounces her around, her voice clear and full of giggles as she demands that he continue.
Annie frowns at the spectacle. The idea of someone so free and innocent feels foreign to her. She wonders if it’s envy or relief. Maybe both.
Ultimately, she is glad for the kid. They fought Eren so that someone could have this kind of childhood. Sacrificed a friend’s dream for a stranger’s memory.
Historia cuts another piece of cake for Mikasa. She kisses her on the cheek like she so often does, fond and grateful for her friend to be by her side. She serves a slice of apple pie and a piece of lemon cake to everyone, the desserts all resting in little porcelain plates. It feels domestic. Normal. Annie didn’t often have the privilege to eat eggs or sugar, and her eyes widened when she discovered that lemon can be something other than sour in the mouth. Peace truly changes everything.
Armin winks at her when she takes another hurried bite of the soft, moist batter. It melts on her tongue.
Annie tries to recall bits and pieces of who Historia was before she lost sight of her. The girl in the barracks before she became the warrior in the crystal. Now she’s an ambassador of the coalition and a subject of the Queen of Paradis.
The Queen is as kind as she remembers, but not as naive. Maybe she never has been. Annie was never as good as Pieck when it came to reading people. The warriors each had their forte, developed and mastered along the path to a nation’s demise. People were not on Annie's agenda.
Down the hill, Connie is trying to beat Niccolo at a game of horseshoe in the lush grass, the ghost of Sasha heavy between them. The princess insists on throwing a shoe, but it’s still quite heavy for her little hands.
Annie doesn’t particularly like kids. Historia’s orphanage proved it. She has little to no patience and not nearly enough space in her heart to stretch around the thought of someone depending on her, and not feeling trapped enough to love it back.
Her boyfriend looks at her with big, open eyes and a radiant smile as he tells little Ymir about boats that can fly and boats that can sink to the bottom of the ocean without ever being lost. The kid wants to make him a flower crown instead. She’s positively not interested in what he’s trying to convey. So, he lets her rake her little hands in his hair, and she just isn’t sure if she can be this patient with anyone. Ever.
Historia follows her gaze, which softens at the edge, making her eyes crinkle.
Her Queen is beautiful, with her newfound smile since her daughter came into her life. One Ymir for another. Annie wonders if her husband knows she named their child after her lost love. She wonders if he’d even believe her.
Historia doesn’t let her eyes linger on Armin being manhandled by her little girl. Instead, she turns towards Pieck.
Pieck's eyes well up as she forces herself to tear her gaze away from the spectacle. It feels too domestic. Too raw. Like something she could never taste. Jean’s hand is on hers. Their relationship is still delicate. There’s hardly anything they can relate to or bond over.
Historia is no different.
The Queen is as welcoming as Pieck grew distant in her mourning.
She’s still as sharp but bone-deep exhausted when staring at the empty bottles of wine she steals from the Queen’s kitchen. Sometimes, she smiles, but it’s a rare sight nowadays. Annie misses her bite, her cleverness, her amused mind, and her loyal playfulness, but she’s alive, so she might at least mourn that part of her that died with Porco. At least her friend is alive.
Historia places a slice of pie in front of Pieck, whose gaze snaps from the tree up the hill to her plate, ceramic and rosy, the syrupy fruits shining in the afternoon sun.
“Pieck, how have you been?” Her Queen asks, handing her a spoon.
Annie looks at her own terribly empty plate, then eyes the pie sitting innocently between the two women. Damn it all to hell, she wants another slice.
Historia laughs as she dives into the apple pie for the third time, delighted that her friend still has such a sweet tooth after all this time. It’s good to know some things never change.
Pieck grows shy, retrieving her hand from Jean’s to lace her fingers in her lap. A small grin forms on her delicate features as she takes a timid bite. Her gaze flicks to Annie, who shovels the buttery crust into her mouth. She feels a little lighter.
“I’m okay,” she admits at last. Pieck might have lost her bite, but she's still a good liar. “Thank you for asking, your Majesty.”
Historia sighs softly, waving off the title with a flick of her fingers. “None of that today,” she says. “Call me Historia, please.”
Pieck hesitates before nodding. Historia leans in a little, the weight of her curiosity visible in the furrow of her brow.
“I have to ask,” she begins cautiously. “I never left the island, and I could never get a straight answer from Reiner or Annie. They’re terrible at describing Marley.” She shoots Annie a pointed glare, but it’s nagging rather than angry. “What was it like? Before the war?”
Pieck smiles, a secret little thing, as Annie dives for a cream-filled pastry. She readjusts her skirts, politely looking away.
Ymir uses Reiner as a horse in the distance, trying to convince Armin to ride on his back as well, now rocking a crown of daisies. The sight makes her heart ache. She doesn’t know why. It's either that or listening to the painful conversation ahead, so she chooses the thing she knows most. The rotted roots of Marley.
Pieck speaks, and Annie is back on the continent.
“Well, I used to live in Liberio. The sky was always gray, and there wasn’t much we could see beyond the walls of the internment zone. Everything was imported. We were prohibited from cultivating our own fruit or vegetables. The earth had been drenched in acid to ensure it."
She hesitates and thinks that maybe she should describe the paved streets and the constant smell of petrol in the air instead. Maybe that's less bumming. Or she could mention the greyish tree trunks and their rabid, yellowish leaves. She should stop speaking altogether, really.
But Historia’s eyes are wide with questions, so she obliges.
“My dad contracted an advanced form of tuberculosis. By becoming a warrior, an Eldian's immediate family gains access to facilities otherwise inaccessible. I joined the open training session and met Annie and the others on my first day there.”
A quiet, shy smile draws itself on her lips.
“We had snacks after the training sessions. The first time I tried peaches, they came all the way from an annexed province near the Orient. They were half rotten and overripe, but we managed to find one that was mostly in good shape. Porco stole his father’s knife, he said it was for a grand occasion so we could use it, and he—”
She cuts herself off, looking away to the vast extent of the lush island, as if punishing herself for pronouncing his name so sweetly, so innocently, as if he were still here.
“Porco?” Historia’s voice is careful, her words slow. She turns to Annie for confirmation. “He’s the one who…”
“Yes,” Annie cuts in, almost a warning. “He inherited Ymir’s titan.”
Pieck straightens, a traitor about to be nailed to a pillory.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
Historia only stares at her.
“Tell me more about him.” The request comes softly, almost too softly, but there’s a thread of insistence beneath it.
“Are you sure?”
She nods, so she sets her spoon aside, and she tells her. She reclines on her hand, and Annie lies back on the soft blanket as Pieck opens the windows of her heart. They creak, rusty.
Tells her how they met, on a stupid rainy day in Liberio during open sessions. He was there with Marcel and stayed beside him when he slipped in a puddle and bruised his knees. She didn’t stop to look at him. The exercises were hard enough when she wasn’t.
The first time she talked to him, it was because she beat him in a race.
She stuck her tongue out at him. He was watching her, with his dusted pink cheeks and disheveled hair, affronted. He just asked for her name, and she was proud enough to give it to him.
Then they got selected. A little group of six children eyeing each other to gauge the level of exigency demanded of them. Their little hazardous group of warriors was formed, and the dynamics quickly coalesced.
She often trailed behind Zeke. He was the oldest and smartest. He understood her better than the others. They talked about battle strategies they overheard from the brass as they passed through never-ending corridors, and she already thought of herself manning the battlefield like a dollhouse. Zeke played along with her.
Porco was often flustered when it came to her. He fought with everyone about everything except Annie because he was a little scared of her. Pieck nudges her leg playfully. Annie pitches in, agreeing, waving her fork in the air as her eyes remain set on her plate.
"She called it self-preservation and ignored him."
"Yes, well," she grumbles, but doesn't finish her sentence. What's left of Porco belongs to Pieck. She'll disclose what she wants and bed the rest later. Annie knows most of the details of that wretched story, up until she left.
They sometimes lay on the grass together, all splayed like a big star looking up at the cloudy sky before rain fell in cords. Porco lay to her left, and her fingers brushed his. She tried not to blush. She didn’t have time for boys anyway.
She was twelve when she inherited the Cart. It was a day of celebration, but Porco stayed behind. She sat silently beside him on the rough concrete stairs of Liberio’s town hall as the district applauded them like heroes. He had been crying. She could see it. As quick as light, she kissed his cheek before pulling away. She told him that they’d stay together despite the titan thing. She was meant to remain on the continent, too. Nothing would change.
Nothing would change. For Porco, that was the issue.
They grew up together. Just the three of them. Zeke grew distant. He was an adult now. He didn’t want to fool around with teenagers.
They grew to like each other. It was slow and clumsy, and she stole his first kiss at fourteen, much like she had that night on the town hall’s steps. Maybe one day, they could get married there. Her dad walking her down the aisle, the smell of flowers and incense in the air, the love of her life awaiting her at the altar. She entertained the idea for a while until she was sure she would die before she could do any of this.
They slept together for the first time at fifteen, Porco unsure of what he was doing and wary of why he was doing it. He would grow to love her later. He would grow to let himself love her later. For now, her hands were in his hair, and it was a little embarrassing how tightly she pulled at his roots. He winced, understanding that she wanted him closer, but unsure of what he could do to be closer to her at that point. He would learn. Eventually.
Her hair grew longer, and he grew stronger. The hot-headed brat didn’t mellow, except when it came to her. Pieck turned nineteen, and they eloped on a hill away from Liberio, from the city center, and spent the night counting stars and moles and freckles as they drank wine and ate sweets. Pieck was forever his favorite. They danced under the moon, the world turning oneiric, and for a moment, she forgot she'd die soon.
They ate in silence in meeting rooms, fucked in silence in the trenches, his fingers buried deep inside her as she clenched around him before she had to return to her titan form. She spent weeks trapped in her cocoon, and the few hours she wasn’t, Porco made sure she couldn’t walk either. She giggled in the arch of his throat, drunk with desire. He kissed her forehead, and for a moment, he forgot she'd die soon.
She slowly dusts the shelves of her memory, uncovering glass beads and golden brooches, carefully tucked away in silk dresses. She shows Historia shell necklaces, pearls of rain from countries that rain never reaches, seeds from the oldest oak in Marley, and her mother's hairpins. The vellichor of the books of her life. Pieck offers what she has to give to the queen on an open palm. She doesn’t know if it’s very lovable or even acceptable, but it’s all she has.
Historia curtly curls her fingers against hers, smiling. Annie is scared to see her reach beneath her ribs to pull out what remains of her heart.
“He sounds a lot like my Ymir, your Porco. A real hot-head.”
Pieck looks away, at the invisible pearls in her palm, timid. “Yeah, he was.”
“Did you love her?” Historia murmurs, tracing her love line with the tip of a finger, her nail dipping into the crease of her skin. Pieck doesn’t look up at her Queen. “This Ymir of yours?”
That’s a question no one ever asked Historia, but it’s a question she has had the answer to all her life.
“More than anything.” She smiles, and the hurt might have been softened by the years that have passed, but the unfairness of it all wasn’t, and curiosity still gets the best of her. It often does. It’s always better to know the blade before it pierces you. “Were you there when she…”
She blinks once, slowly, weighing her words, gathering the syllables. Historia craves the pieces of the puzzle she misses, looking for them inside Pieck’s chest. The least she can do is give them to her. They both lost someone to the curse that dreadful day.
“I was there for Porco’s installment as an honorary Marleyan, yes.”
I was there for her execution. I saw everything, floats unspoken between them. No use apologizing now, the Jaw was the death of both of them. The Queen of Paradis lost her lover like the warrior in Marley. Both to the same monster.
Historia chews on the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit she’s trying to get rid of. Her daughter is starting to pick it up, and she does not want her to. She needs to set an example, but so many little things are stripped from her so often that she starts to wonder where the Queen ends and where the Mother begins. She wonders where Christa went.
Finally, she decides to be brave, because she can’t afford to pass up on the urge to know. Or at least, the urge to ask.
“Did he inherit some memories from her?”
Pieck’s fingers tremble slightly as she sets the spoon down. “He mentioned you,” she says softly, trying to keep her grief from inspissating, from turning heavy and viscous inside her as it had before. The syrup of the pie is still heavy on her tongue. “The Jaw was a stubborn entity of its own, and it took some time for him to understand the extent of the ramifications of its power and conscience.”
The truth is, he tried to reach Marcel. Desperately. Spent nights searching the depths of his memory for snippets of explanation for a life that wasn’t his, but found Ymir instead.
Marcel, much like any other older brother, would forever be hidden from him.
He felt more than he saw Ymir. He felt the hate, the self-loathing, the reassurance of an imposed path. He felt the wandering, decades of hibernating in a body that wasn't hers on a land that wasn’t hers. He felt her awakening, discovered the Paths through her. He felt her love.
“He… mentioned her a couple times,” she starts, but cuts herself off soon enough. What is she supposed to say? What can be said when her memories were stolen by someone else, and then swallowed and digested by her because she loved all of him? What is left of Ymir, if not an empty shell explored by the hands of someone else? She is not allowed to know all this. It feels wrong. Stolen from someone else’s breath. From a stranger’s throat.
Historia is relentless, pushes past her reserve. She’s the Queen. She has a right to her subjects' minds, to those who were stolen from her bed.
“He didn’t talk much, but he did mention that he felt relief. The relief of meeting you,” she breathes, looking at Historia in the eye. “He told me that all the hurt she felt came to an end, came to an understanding, when she met you.”
Ymir’s destiny, as cruel as unfair, led her to Historia, seventy years away from the day she was born. Spending them roaming around as a titan to pass the time until her birth was a nightmare, but she got to experience one rebirth, when she was given her name, one resurrection when the Paths called her name, and one liberation, when she chose to give up on this gift. This gift allowed her to meet Historia. To be reborn. To live again. She didn’t regret anything. The unluckiest girl in the world turned out to be the luckiest.
Pieck says so, translating the language of a girl through the vocabulary of a man in the prism of their relationship. All redolent of the fake goddess who loved the worst girl alive.
“Did you love him? Like I loved Ymir?”
The question lingers in the air. Pieck freezes, her breath hitching as if its weight presses down on her chest. She can’t… She wouldn’t… Aporia coils in her belly, cutting edges flaring under her ribs.
“Porco was…” She trails off, the words faltering as her throat tightens. Her lips tremble, and when she looks up, there’s a glint of tears in her dark eyes. Then a broken sob escapes from her lips, and she finds herself smiling at the recollection. “God, he was the biggest asshole one could meet,” she chuckles.
She forces herself to laugh, forcing the air into her lungs so she doesn’t drown.
“He didn’t make it easy,” she continues, a faint, broken smile ghosting her lips. “He was stubborn. Impulsive. Even stupid sometimes. We got caught once, together, and he took all the blame.” Her voice cracks, and she has to look away, swallowing the ache threatening to spill over. He was beaten black and blue that day, but he didn’t let anyone touch her. The brass was content with his punishment. “But he was good. Better than he ever gave himself credit for.”
“Sounds like my Ymir as well.” Historia smiles, genuine despite the hurt visible in her welling eyes. Pieck doesn’t know what to say, whether to flee or remain. She wants to do both. She’s familiar with her body being touched, but her soul, only one person could reach.
Historia must see the indecision on her face, because she shuffles closer, wrapping a small arm around her neck, and pulling her closer. Gentle fingers cup the back of her head as she presses her body against Pieck’s solid form, practically melting against her. She gasps, but quickly wraps her arms around the Queen of the most powerful nation in the world, because their lovers shared a body.
So she laughs. At the absurdity of it all.
It takes everyone aback except Historia, who laughs with her. Full-hearted, bright, breathless laughs that ring high in the sky, loud enough for Ymir to turn to her mother.
From the corner of her eye, Annie sees the little girl bodily push Armin away to run towards them.
Historia leans forward slightly, her own eyes shimmering with unshed tears, her hand resting lightly on Pieck’s arm, when the toddler tumbles into them both, knocking the wind out of them. Pieck is crying now, hot tears soaking her face, but all she can see are the little arms of Historia's baby wrapping around them both, nuzzling into the crook of their necks.
Her chin knocks on the full head of hair, and she can’t help but be a little stunned, a little timid, all of a sudden. She isn’t supposed to be here, with that small child on her, in the arms of the Queen of the nation she came to destroy.
“Thank you, Pieck. For loving her through him,” she murmurs into her hair.
The barn is quiet. It's always quiet this time of year. Spring is just around the corner, and so are the kids, with another year of being loved only by their caregivers. The year is 859, and Gabi and Falco rush down the docks to jump into the solid arms of Reiner. Well, Gabi does. Falco holds out his hand and bows in front of Pieck, who graciously accompanies her former comrade.
The girls hold each other for a long time, murmuring sweet nothings into each other's hair.
Gabi says she missed them, but Pieck thinks that she is mostly curious about how the island is shaping in a world that was on the brink of extinction. She is seeking more stability, or possibly the feeling of a caged bird ready to spread its wings for the first time. So, naturally, like the big sister she is, Pieck welcomes her in.
That is, in Annie's opinion, her first mistake. Because Gabi is a very special kid. She's a violent kid. Despite everything, she is still violent. She harbors an animosity at the core of her being that makes her dangerous.
It makes her dangerous because it makes her look like Eren.
She can see it in the way Mikasa distances herself from her when she hangs around the orphanage and helps out. She can see it in the way Connie avoids eye contact, even after all these years. Nobody is ever truly forgiven. Even Annie isn't. That's fine, it's not like she forgave herself either.
So she lets the kid roam the orphanage and tends to whatever duty they shove in her direction. She doesn’t complain. She’s grown a lot since the last time she saw her. Well, good. At least she won’t be a burden, Annie decides.
Pieck is halfway through shoveling hay when she hears a piercing cry that has no business being heard in these times of peace. When she rushes inside the barn, there's crimson on the floor and crimson on Gabi, on her hands, and splashed across her cheek.
The kids she was tasked with looking after are crying. And in the middle of them all, lies a dead possum with its skull bashed on the ground, blood slowly, slowly seeping into the fresh hay.
Pieck pushes past the kids and blocks the view as much as she can. These children don’t know the sight of blood beyond skinned knees and lost milk teeth. They can’t read it. Pieck hopes they will never be able to.
“What have you done?”
Perhaps she could have warned her not to do these things, to maybe call for a responsible adult when pest arose (even though she is nearing eighteen, and at her age, Pieck was already set on being a killer). Gabi just looks at the dead possum at her feet, that poor thing, and looks at the weeping children.
Pieck snatches the crimson-tainted brick from Gabi's hands and throws it to the other side of the barn. She grabs a handful of her hair and tugs harshly, harsher than she'd like to be, but that's not her main quality, gentleness. Gabi just shoves her away.
Good for her, it's good that she still has claws.
“It was just a stupid possum, I don't understand why they're crying,” she hisses, teeth bared like she is addressing an enemy.
Then she turns, speaking to the three little boys who follow her around, and the two older girls who tried to braid her hair the week before. She pushes one's shoulder. “Why are you crying? I had to do it!”
Children grow so fast in times of war that they forget what it means to cry about the death of an innocent. Pieck is forced to remind herself that the little girl she saw grow up wasn’t taught much, despite survival at all costs. It shows when blood is back on the floor.
“Gabi, please… Just, stop.” Pieck sighs, turning away, the heels of her hands tucked on the backs of the youngest boys. “Let’s go, love, it’s time for supper.”
In the barn opening, Annie stands, arms crossed and watching the scene.
She snorts, and it doesn’t amuse Pieck one bit, but her bite is directed at the teen. “You haven’t changed at all, you little brat.”
“Annie,” Pieck warns, leading the children away. They are probably going to have nightmares. She already doesn’t sleep enough, and little hands knocking on her door don’t help.
Annie materializing in the doorway is the least ideal scenario, because it pokes at the fire in Gabi's heart even more. “Why are they crying so much? It’s just a stupid animal. Is that how you raise them? Is that what people on Paradis have become?”
“They’re just kids, Gabi,” Pieck snaps back, feeling a familiar pressure building in her chest. She’s too tired for this.
At that, the girl frowns and steps into the puddle, voluntarily splashing the blood onto the overalls of the youngest girl. Ymir.
Oh, Historia is not going to like that at all.
“That’s enough!” Pieck roars, moving like light, towering over the teenager.
Annie tenses, squints as she observes the display of dominance. In Marley, Pieck was the matriarch, the oldest girl, the wisest. In many ways, she still is. Now, her authority is being defied by the girl she trained to be like her. How ironic.
A little boy with black hair tugs on her overalls anxiously with his little hand. Annie recognizes the fear in his eyes. It’s either she deals with them, or she deals with a dead possum and a ravaged teen. She’ll take the animal and the dead possum.
So Annie steps forward and shadows Pieck, close enough for her to feel her presence, the grounding energy of a friend, or something close to it. The last standing girls of Marley.
She doesn’t touch her. Up close, she smells of smoke. Cigars that uptight men smoke in the uptight bars of Mitras.
“Take the kids. I’ll deal with that.”
Pieck’s bottom lip trembles when she finally retreats, silent fury in her eyes. Not at Gabi, at herself. She knows that look too well, the tension in her round cheeks, the press of her artery against her throat, making the skin there pulse.
She doesn’t look at her as she gathers little hands in her palm and leads all hiccuping children away.
The second she disappears outside, Gabi explodes.
“She’s changed so much! She would’ve congratulated me for eliminating vermin before it caused a ruckus!”
Annie doesn’t pay her any mind, just pushes the bloody brick aside with her foot, trying not to detail the brain underneath too much. It’s very, very crushed. She must’ve hit it repeatedly. Pieces of sharp, thin bones pierce the globs of brain tissue and blood. One of the eyeballs looks at her from the carcass directly. Annie pops it with her shoe.
She turns to Gabi, more tired than pissed at her behavior.
“Go to the well and grab two buckets of water,” she instructs, and the teen’s mouth falls open, arms thrown in the air, affronted. “You’ll rinse that out. Then you’ll take that pitchfork and leave the carcass in the woods nearby. Clean it afterward, we need it for the hay.”
She doesn’t say anything, just grits her teeth, unfamiliar with Annie’s energy.
She’s her elder, so she owes her respect, ultimately. Even if the military ranks don’t stand, the Female Titan died somewhere in this woman. She doesn’t have a thread of affection tying her to respect, but she can recognize that the wielder of the Female deserves it, as acerbic as she might be.
“And Gabi,” Annie hums without turning to her, wiping her shoe against the rough floor. “Don’t talk back to Pieck.”
She storms off, and Annie lets out the breath she's been holding. She’s about to turn on her heel, already thinking about the glass of wine she’ll nurse tonight, when a little girl slips between her legs and plants two little hands into the bloody puddle.
Annie freezes. Where did she come from? She glances back, but the barn is empty. Only a fat goat looks up at her, chewing slowly on dried hay.
“Kid,” Annie tries to reprimand, but it comes out more like a hiss.
Pieck must have taken her to clean up with the others when she got splashed, but apparently, curiosity killed the cat. Annie ponders leaving her here for a brief moment. The kid looks weird enough as it is, with her fluffy golden hair and big, terrifying blue eyes, but her dress is starting to seep with crimson and mud. That’s gross. Annie takes another deep breath and stands still above the child.
Pieck is going to be furious if she doesn’t do something.
“Leave it,” she growls, but the tone doesn’t seem to affect Ymir like she would’ve liked to.
She cranes her neck to her, still on her hands and knees. She flexes her fingers in the puddle.
“It’s dead,” she says, matter-of-factly. The syllables are detached from one another. She’s tasting them on her tongue.
“Very dead,” Annie acquiesces, a little uneasy with the blood seeping under the girl’s bitten fingernails. “So leave it.”
She straightens up, seemingly undeterred by the blood covering her. Whoever is on bath duty tonight will have a good time with that one. They have their oddballs around here, eating dirt and chewing on flowers, but unfazed by blood is a new one to Annie.
“Is it hurt?” she asks then, solemn.
“No, it’s dead.” She repeats, determined to leave it at that. “It doesn’t feel pain anymore.”
Ymir squints, seemingly testing the words against her logic. She wipes the back of her hand on her cheek, smearing it further into her porcelain skin. It’s grotesque, and Annie just thinks about shoving her away by force, grabbing her by the collar of her shirt, and pulling her outside like a misbehaved pet.
It would fit the picture. The kid looks feral.
“How do you know?”
Annie clicks her tongue. She turns on her heel, hoping the little girl will get the message.
Ymir is unaccustomed to or unaware of her intimidating presence.
Scary lady Annie, they call her around here.
It makes Armin sad, but she’s a little proud of the title. That means they don’t bother her often. She refers to them all as animals. It makes some kids laugh as she turns them away when they attempt to show her their wiggling milk teeth. They think she’s joking. With time, they learned to go to the other adults if they wanted to play.
“Enough questions. Let’s head back.”
“Miss Leonhart told me you got into trouble again.”
Falco narrowly misses a slap on the back of his head. Gabi shovels another mouthful of mashed potatoes into her mouth, looking away.
“Shut up,” she mumbles.
Falco smiles, tenderly cupping her hand in his underneath the table.
“You’re an idiot, you know that?”