her fingers grip around the paper foldings of the box , incessant on trying to rip it off again . a nervous tick . a need for perfection , stuffed into the crevices of her mind saying this is already enough . when had she last really known what it was , that historia might like ? the years have passed with nothing but empty guesses , observations / and she feels foolish for even keeping this much of an effort . threads of their past weave in her like stitches . a form fills , there / too . disconnected , too sour a copper taste on the tip of her tongue . it may be attachment . a bond too strong to ever let go . ymir would rather say it tastes of hope . it doesn't matter . piqued by her own wasted time , she sets the box down , finally , with a sigh — brows twitching into a deeper frown . she'll leave it here to be found without a note . if she's lucky , it'll pass as vague enough a gift to be from anyone - a thanks unneeded and words kept about as fruitful as the space they'd left each other in . sometimes ends just aren't quite as sudden or sure as you'd like them to be .
HISU DAY 2K22 - @resurrged
DEEP LINES AND VIOLET BRUISES STAIN UNDER EYES, offering an air of permanent exhaustion to the queens already wan visage. She scowls at her reflection as she catches sight of it in one of the many mirrors that dotted the corridors. Four years had worn her thin; stretching her so taught she might just vanish all together. It’s a ghost that meets blue eyes, Krista long defeated and something that only resembled Historia remaining, whoever she had been in the first place. She never really knew... After hours of pomp and circumstance, she was free to slip from the crowded hall, across the castle and into the blessed silence of her office. Rarely does her crown feel heavier than these scant moments of quietude. When she is forced to acknowledge her reality whether she wishes to or not. In front of them she can place the mask on her face as easily as the diadem in her hands. In the silence she cannot hide from herself. The queen places it wearily atop her desk, collapsing in the armchair with a sigh that ruffles flaxen hair. She much preferred when her birthday was a tragic event to be forgotten over the appalling displays of decadence that was forced upon her now. The false simpering smile more sickening than the despair that weathered the face of Alma Lenz.
Historia nearly misses the tiny package that sits just next to her abandoned crown. Nondescript and plainly wrapped, it was out of place amongst the frilly nicknacks that adorned it. She turns it over, shaking it a little as if expecting it to offer a clue as to what was inside. There was no note attached and few were allowed even near this space in present circumstance. Had she not practically sprinted from her party, there might have been guards. stoically awaiting her return. Curious in spite of herself, Historia nimbly unwraps the box and peers within. On a tiny mound of cloth sits a charm: A pewter dandelion, small enough to fit in the center of her palm with a small hole to slip a cord through. The tips of slender fingers trace over the dips and divots that accented the metal piece. It takes her a moment to recognize the shard of ICE that lodges in her heart upon seeing it. A delayed reaction that hurts all the more when realization settles as lightly as a brick to her sternum. It could have come from anyone, she knew. A small trinket from a servant or guard who could give her little else. But only one knew her favorite flower.
She remembers a balmy summers day when their squad was given permission to play down by the lake. Ymir and Historia had opted to lounge in the shade of an old oak tree while the others goofed off on the shore. Her companion had watched dispassionately as Reiner hoisted Connie up into the air and tossed him like a javelin into the water, yowling like a cat as the others cheered him on. Historia had been far too enraptured by the little pile of dandelions in her lap to pay them any mind, small fingers meticulously weaving green stems together. She vaguely calls Ymir asking her why she was looking at those stupid weeds like such a sap. They were such an irritant, they never went away no matter how many times you tried to get rid of them, an eternal problem that popped up everywhere... ‘That’s why I like them.’ Historia had replied as she daintily placed the golden crown atop Ymir’s head before she could protest ‘They grow anywhere. Even the cracks in the cobblestones in Trost... I don’t know, it just makes me happy to think about. You always have flowers on hand when you need them.’ She was likely too young to notice the innate symbolism there, the dots never connecting that she was the weed. The resilient little plant wanted by few and needed by none... Maybe Ymir had picked up on it, for she had gone quiet after and didn’t crush her crown in an unforgiving fist as she might have otherwise, her silence contemplative.
Bitter tears sting her eyes now as Historia closes her fist ‘round the little charm, feeling the edges pressing harshly into soft skin [ skin losing callous and grit from farm and war ] It hurts that she still remembers this insignificant detail that others would have long since cast aside. A dog-eared page in a book shelved and forgotten. They had drifted so far it ought to be inconsequential now, like ships in the night that had, in fact, seen each other but were simply unable to stop the flowing tides that carried them far away. It was frightening just how easy it had happened. The visits between them grew shorter and shorter, as did conversations. It felt awkward now, terribly so. When had that happened? Why? The passing years had dug a trench between them before either could hop to the other side. Not that circumstance would have allowed it, she now knows. Historia was keenly aware of how she had been sequestered away from the others, her new keepers no doubt fearing outside influences from the headstrong 104th. From Ymir, the ultimate outsider. Their promise on the mountain all those years ago felt foolish now, the vows of children. Their lives had never been their own. Their paths were always to diverge no matter how they wished otherwise. But why hadn’t she fought? Why hadn’t she tried? [ Why didn’t you? ]
Ymir had always looked at her as though there was something on the tip of her tongue she kept biting back. So hard, Historia oft imagined crimson trickling from between her lips and down her chin. Something so terribly unlike herself she felt as though she looked at a stranger. The queen settles forward in her chair, resting her head atop her arms, glaring at her closed fist as those tears trail down the apples of her cheeks. Why bother remembering if it was all for naught? She hadn’t even left a note, hadn’t signed her name nor indicated the gift was even for her birthday. Historia ought to free grateful Ymir had remembered, but all she feels is the sharp jagged tugs of ‘what if’s’ and ‘could have been’s’. Krista would have been overjoyed. Krista would have slipped past her guards and found her friend in whatever room they shelved her in and cling to her for dear life in thanks. But Historia has only raw nerves and empty spaces where all the things she longed for were scooped out again and again.
Still... Not once does the charm leave her hand.
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