Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Part 1: The world in her hands 

(Present day)

Mikasa’s entire life was spent preparing for the role. And that burden eventually caught up with her. 

The first memory was of her mother’s faded whisper. She spoke of the legacy, of the power, and of the sacrifice. Back then, she couldn't understand, but those words hung over her life like a festering curse. Every day, the role called her name like a divine torment. Finally, after years of dreading the inevitable, the throne caught up to her. 

The Grand Hall was draped in Ackerman tapestries, indigo to a fault. Darkness dwelled in the corners where candlelight refused to touch. It stank of moss, deeply entrenched on the stone walls. The music, a sparse flute, echoed through the halls. They called upon the Winter Goddess to witness another succession. Over the years, Mikasa often thought of the Goddess as an entity sick of their sermons. The Ackerman legacy yielded nothing worthwhile, and over the years, power slipped from their grasp. 

Mikasa would take the empty throne. There was no grand power attached to its ownership.  

The War Councillors stared at her with deep contempt. She couldn't blame them, after all, her mother somehow outwitted their predictable schemes. Her uncle, Levi Ackerman, was the man they pledged their allegiance to. But as with everything, their plans couldn't thwart the ties of blood. Uncle had, as per his sister's request, left for an indefinite trade voyage. There was no further opposition, as only the daughter remained. 

Mikasa always considered her uncle to be the better ruler. He was older, had lived enough to witness the world, and had successfully commanded the army. However, it was her mother’s wish for her to take the throne. And she honoured that wish, even at the expense of her sanity. She never thought about desiring her burden, or about getting rid of it. 

She was meant to become the Queen. It was the simple finality of her life. 

The War Council, in a definitive act of defiance, refused to bow. They stood still, like corpses mounted on a pillar, plotting their next deception. There were twenty of them, each representing the people of their clans. However, that representation was merely a way of leveraging the people’s voice. Before she entered the Grand Halls, she’d heard chants and jeers of her people, calling for another head to be crowned. They didn’t want her. No one did, except her mother. That was all that mattered to her. 

She sighed, resigning herself to the lethargy that settled permanently in her bones. The world could damn her, wrap her up in malice, and then burn her with hatred. It simply didn't matter if she fulfilled her mother’s wish. 

“Won’t you face the ground?” she asked, gaze flickering onto the defiant War Councillors. 

They just didn’t like her, and never tried to hide that fact. Maybe the hope for a male successor made them bitter, or maybe it was her mother’s silent wit that festered their hatred. Whatever it was, that hatred was all she’d known and learned to manoeuvre around. It was easy to threaten, Goddess her witness, she was half a second away from unsheathing her sword. But violence wasn't her mother’s preferred card, and she never wanted to disappoint her mother. She was too sickly and thin; such a travesty would only worsen her state. 

“You are bound to the same rituals,” she tried, levelling her voice, “I recall a queen who beheaded those who wouldn’t submit.” It was an empty threat. Unlike the previous queens, who had unchecked power in their hands, she had very little to work with. They made the law above the role of being the queen, and ensured their lives were safe. Many of her ancestors were bloodthirsty, not the path she wanted to walk upon. 

“Little girl, your mother is waiting,” Councillor Gross said, unbothered, as her words left no impact. He had recently taken up his father's spot, ensuring his legacy wasn't in vain. Those bleak eyes held no purpose beyond the innate dissatisfaction. 

“These little interventions won’t change the outcome,” she chimed, waving around the scantily lit hall. The shades of red on the councillor's face were quite satisfactory. 

The councillors formed a circle around the throne, ensuring their defiant faces witnessed the succession. Their robes trailed along the floor, the fabric sweeping up dust like forgotten relics. They’d never submit to her control; a permanent thorn stood in her way. Just like her mother, she’d dance around their treachery. To remain unfazed and emotionless was the only weapon left in her arsenal. They had deemed her sword redundant and pocketed the army meant to protect them. 

She despised the war councillors. It was never hatred born from the shredded legacy, but from the cruelty bestowed upon her mother. Her mother, Asami Ackerman, had been forced to take the throne before her time. The war councillors won over the poor child and exploited her naive trust. She had no one in her corner, left to rule while the world conspired against her. Laws were passed that restricted the queen’s authority, and their wealth was tied directly to Shiganshina’s safety. They embedded themselves into the land, securing their survival. 

All the previous queens, since the inception of Shiganshina, had a delicate balance with their war councillors. Some persecuted them, and some instead chose to harbour their ambitions. However, with Asami, they brutally used her, and by the time she realised their intentions, it was already too late. They had effectively seized power and could wield it freely during the war. Their loyalty was merely a disguise. It was the throne they desired, and the Queen became their ultimate hindrance. 

From a young age, Mikasa helplessly watched on as they destroyed her mother, hollowing her out until she became a shadow. She remembered her mother’s bright smile and sense of duty, but over the years, the ruin left her scarred and desolate. 

“Mikasa, my dear,” Queen Asami’s voice crushed the vitriol in her veins. “Let us start.” 

The queen stood firm before the throne, as the councillors circled her and offered up prayers. They spoke of the legacy, of the Ignar who brought them together, and of the goddess who kept them safe every winter. Generally, the ritual involved the councillors kneeling before the crown, but their stance was concrete. There was an impending celebration, but for now, only darkness witnessed her ascension. Mikasa didn't mind, as there was comfort in its silent folds. 

Mikasa parted through the ill-wishing crowd and stood before her mother. Her mother’s face was etched with permanent lines, and her faded hair lost its lustre. Draped in an indigo gown, she carried an air of weariness. The silk covered much of her body, hiding the scars Mikasa was all too familiar with. The smile was meticulous. It spoke of a victory against fate itself; of pride that swelled unconditionally. There was love, tangible and pulsating. It was the only thing that kept her mother going.

“Goddess be my witness,” her mother’s voice echoed through the captivated hall. “My daughter, my everything. The Queen of Shiganshina.” She lifted the crown from her head.

Mikasa got on her knees, unable to face her mother. Her hands continued to tremble as she hid them in the long sleeves of her gown. The white dress was uncomfortably stuck to her skin, making her sweat profusely. The need to escape came and went, propelling her to act, but her fate was sealed. She didn't want this. She wanted this, didn't she? All her life led up to this moment, and it felt so fucking devastating. It was utterly impossible to understand. Emotions swelled through her body, and left her questionably hollow. It was too late. 

With heavy finality, the crown was solemnly placed on her head. 

Her nails dug into her palms, nearly splitting her calloused skin. It was a habit she once reprimanded in a certain boy. 

All these years later, memories of him rushed back like a flood. 

Why was she thinking about him? It was a lifetime ago, the boy from the winter town. Back when she learned happiness never lasted. 

(Flashback - 11 years ago)

Happiness was a commodity she hadn’t learned to appreciate. 

Mikasa always looked forward to winter. It offered her a rare chance to play, far from the oppressive duties that usually consumed her days. She was going to be the queen, and that meant playing games couldn't take up her precious time. Yet, her mother was never the type to intervene; she'd let her have her way despite everything. 

She gathered her marbles, wore common folk attire, and quietly exited the queen's abode. She dodged her nanny, ensuring no one knew of her intentions. Sneaking around and fiddling between empty spaces had become her hobby. She would meet her friends, and they'd spend most of the evening along the frozen riverbank. 

“Your Highness, wait up!” Armin called out, running up to her and holding a heavy book in his arms. 

“We're outside,” she frowned back at him, but couldn't stop her smile from erupting. 

Since Mikasa was the heir, most of her childhood was spent in Shiganshina, ruled by her family. Her mother would take them to the outskirts of the city during winter, hoping to spend a peaceful time with her family. But the real reason Mikasa looked forward to the visit was because of her friends. 

She practically grew up with Armin; his father was the Queen's advisor. The Arlerts had to keep their son away from the city, because he fell sick too often. Then there was the boy named Eren, whose father was a well-renowned doctor, and during one of her secret explorations, they became friends. So, each year they'd meet in winter, blissfully unaware of anything else that existed. Mikasa felt like a child during those visits. After all, she was only thirteen.  

“Have you brought the goods, Armin?” Mikasa slowed down, letting him catch up. He kept panting badly. Their cheeks were stained red because of the icy wind snapping at their faces. 

Catching his breath, Armin waved the heavy book around. “Ye–yes, Your Highness.” 

“Call me by my name,” Mikasa narrowed her eyes at him. 

“Sorry, yes, Mikasa…”

They were standing in the middle of the town, busier than usual due to the Winter Festival taking place that very day. People walked past them, completely unaware of Mikasa’s status. Soon, a boy covered in bruises came running up to them, panting excitedly and filled with vibrance. 

“Hey! You got the goods?” he shouted, nearly bumping into Armin. 

“Are you two blind?” Armin sighed, waving the book between them. 

Mikasa noticed Eren’s bruised knuckles. He was likely having a brawl with the other street kids, and it didn't seem to have ended in his favour. She plucked a leaf from his hair as he was too preoccupied to notice it. He grabbed the book and started flipping through it. 

“I already warned you, it doesn't have much information about the flying machine,” Armin revealed with a twinge of disappointment in his voice. 

Armin’s father had once served as an envoy in distant lands, often returning with books on a variety of subjects. The latest book mentioned a flying machine, and its ability to kiss the skies above. Armin had secretly taken that book, and ever since, they had been captivated by it. 

“I think we can try building it again,” Eren muses, lost in thought. He had insisted upon recreating the vague machine. It involved gathering many broken logs and ropes. But, of course, they were unsuccessful, and Armin nearly broke his arm. 

Armin flipped through the book and pointed at a clean drawing. “It's metal, it's impossible to build it without that.” 

Both boys turned their heads up to look at Mikasa; their eyes filled with silent expectation. It took her a moment to realise the purpose behind their stares. She glared at them in annoyance but was unable to crush their hopeful faces. “Fine, we can go see the welder who works at my mother's place. I don't know if he has spare iron.” 

“Great, come on then,” Eren grinned mischievously.

Placing his arms around his friends, Eren forced them to walk towards the clearing. He had a way of determining their course of action, and his raw enthusiasm was contagious. Mikasa never had the heart to turn him down. She had too often indulged in his games at the expense of being scolded later on. Her identity was kept hidden, but the boys knew the truth and liked the perks that came with it. 

Just like that, most of the day was spent tricking the welder into providing them with iron rods, plenty of ropes, and a single hammer. Eren had the brilliant idea of leaving it in the sun, making sure the metal was soft enough to be moulded. Soon enough, they just gave up and began tying everything in place. Then Armin's bedsheet was tied to the iron contraption, and Eren was supposed to jump from the branch of a tall tree. With a big, determined grin on his face, he leapt in the air, but their contraption took no flight; it only broke upon impact and noisily scattered across the yard. Before Eren could hit the ground right along with it, Mikasa caught him in her arms. 

“I think we're just not meant to fly,” she sighed, surveying their mess. Her mother wasn't going to be pleased. They had ruined the garden and duped her favourite welder. 

Eren bristled in her arms. “I'm not letting them win.” Without another word, she dropped him in a pile of leaves. He had an obvious gripe with the kids in town. They'd laugh at him every time he talked about touching the sky. After five attempts and three injuries, they were back to square one. Maybe the kids in town were right about them. 

“Next time we're using your father's workshop,” Mikasa declared, brushing the dust and torn-up leaves off her clothes. 

Eren pouted on the ground; his cheeks burning in disappointment. “He's still not talking to me.” 

“Perhaps you should've reconsidered breaking his table,” Mikasa suggested.

“And his very precious medical kit,” Armin chimed in, still engrossed with his sketches. Several pages were spread out on the grass; they contained incomplete sketches of the machine. Armin was convinced his design wasn't the issue, but the material at hand. 

“You guys chose to go along with it, and yet I'm the only culprit,” Eren grumbled, standing up and wincing slightly. 

Mikasa pointed at his hands. “Red-handed, literally and figuratively.” They were scraped worse than before, skin bruised with relentless breakage, and the cold kept them rattled. Mikasa engulfed his hands, feeling the cold bite her skin. She tried warming them up by putting them in her overgrown coat. She still couldn't comprehend why Eren always refused to wear mittens. 

“It's harder to build the flying iron with them on,” he mumbled as if he’d read her mind; his gaze was fully focused on their joint hands. 

“If you get frostbite, it'll be near impossible to build anything to begin with,” Armin called, scraping his drawing together to forge a coherent structure. 

Mikasa handled the labour of propelling the iron together, Armin designed the contraption, and Eren— well, he spent most of his time dreaming the machine into existence. She couldn't blame him. Living on the outskirts had him feeling like a stuffed bird kept in a cage of normalcy. He truly wanted to fly away with his group of misfits. He got bored too often, and nothing held his interest for long. 

She noticed the flush on his face intensify. Perhaps the cold’s placing its mark on him? she thought.   Eren had been scolded enough times for the lack of warm clothes. At one point, Mikasa had wrapped him up in extra wool, but by day's end, he'd shred it all off. It was as if nothing was allowed to threaten his relationship with an unsullied winter. She wanted to see him in the summer's warm hue. 

“Your Highness, how many times must I catch you?” Came a shrilling voice, as the nanny came running, occupying most of the horizon. She was a short woman but possessed a voice capable of rivalling trumpets. 

The children quickly eyed each other and, with practised ease, Armin gathered up his sketches, Mikasa dove for the precious blue book, and Eren gathered up the blanket. “Don't you dare run away from me!” the nanny warned, picking up her long skirt, as she began sprinting. Isabella was in her mother's army, and then her arm was cut clean off during a rebellion raid. She was relocated back to the castle, and guarding the heir became her sole duty. 

“Sorry, Isabella!” Mikasa shouted, tucking the book safely underneath her arm. 

Everything else could be arranged again, but that book was their unifying treasure. Eren grabbed her hand, interlocked their fingers, and began running. They skidded past the narrow hillside. The red-bricked mansion became a distant visage. 

There weren't many places worthy of a child's curiosity. They had, over the years, discovered invaluable spots; the little cave past the western pastures, or the uprooted ancient husks along the river. Still, all those sports were buried under snow each winter. She had often politely asked for an extended stay from time to time, but it fell on deaf ears. Her mother spoke of duties and responsibilities, but back then, she was still too young to comprehend. Sometimes, in distant whispers, she heard about a war on the horizon. It was such a strange term, holding no weight on a naive child’s tongue. Those ashes burning afar didn’t exist in her little world, where she learned her duty every season and met Eren in the winter. That was the only life she’d know, left blissfully unaware. 

The last remaining days of their visit were spent as usual. Winter Festival was upon them, statues of wood were erected around, carved in the Winter Goddess's image. Under the full moon, they'd call upon the Goddess's blessings: a slumbering blizzard and a bountiful harvest. They'd wear cloaks of red and indigo, for the blood and bruises the Goddess had suffered protecting them. She had slain the Beast of Winter, and eternal gratitude was bestowed upon the land. 

The preparations were in full swing; lanterns were left afloat in a canopy of colours, and the chimes hung around like stars plucked from the sky. People hurried across the cobblestone streets, bringing along the booze and the broth with them. The parade would pass at midnight. 

Unlike the festivity-ridden adults, the children were going through a territorial dispute. Mikasa, Eren and Armin ended up in the town square after another escape. They were panting, as the cold wind nipped their skin. They were avoiding these alleyways, since the other children of the town played. Eren had a disharmonious relationship with the baker’s son. According to the murmurs, Eren had been at the boy’s throat since birth. 

With impeccable timing, the fair-haired boy showed up, filled with smugness and rightful annoyance. There were a limited number of locations in the little town, which meant the children had to bargain for their time. But too often, Eren would just muddle into everyone's affairs and then get bored. 

“Look who decided to show up,” Jean taunted, stepping in front of their pathway. He gave Eren a nasty glare, who, in return, stuck out his tongue. “How dare you break our agreement?” He spat out, eying Armin, who froze in his spot, ensuring Mikasa stood in front of him. 

Then he turned to Mikasa and bowed a little. “My Lady, it’s good to see you again.” It was a strange thing to say after seeing her just yesterday. Her practised smile filled her face; those teachings became an instinct. 

Eren punched Jean— to no one's surprise— they dissolved into a tussle of bites and punches.

While they were rolling on the ground, the other two of his friends came running. Jean's side had a bald kid named Connie, and another kind one called Marco. They were deeply unconcerned about the antics Jean and Eren got up to. Most of the time, their arguments were treated as background noise, while the other children mingled like family. 

“We agreed the library belongs to us during the weekdays,” Jean shouted, trying to throw another punch at Eren, but exhaustion left it ineffective. Their clothes were dirty, and a pair of bruised eyes and lips was all too common. They had gotten dressed for the festival, but the dispute over books caused another stir. 

“We need it for our research,” Armin chimed in, still nervously hidden behind Mikasa. 

“A deal is a deal,” Connie sang, barely interested in the fight at hand. “Wrap it up before the feast, though.” He was idly picking the threads of his indigo cape. 

“This isn't very productive,” Marco agreed, empathising with Armin. He looked at him desperately, hoping someone would step in and wrap it up before the festival's commencement. 

Usually, the job was left to Mikasa. But today she wanted to see them resolve the conflict themselves. She tapped her shoe, noticing how both boys who swore violence, quietly looked at her. Even they wanted her to disrupt the conflict. 

“What they’re doing, it's an ego thing, isn't it?”Armin whispered, tugging on Mikasa’s arm. They'd gotten excellent at spotting the boys’ volatility around each other. 

She had spent seven winters with them. At first, it was just Armin, and then the addition of Eren changed the very perspective of enjoyment. He brought life into every little thing, and with him came his rivalry with Jean, who, in turn, brought two of his friends. They were the town's children, filled with curious eyes and strange tales, and robust egos. It resulted in feuds that lasted several winters, and the management of conflict was left on her shoulders. For some inexplicable reason, her words always halted the rivals. 

She sighed. Some things were bound to happen. “I'll count to three, either move apart or I'll start throwing my weight around.” She announced coolly, stepping closer to the mess at hand. She didn't even start the count; both boys fell apart, panting heavily as they glared at each other. She was inclined towards physical prowess, but knew they simply needed an excuse to stop. Yielding without her intervention meant admitting defeat, and she knew they'd rather eat dirt. “Now listen to Armin,” she added, shoving him forward. 

“I believe we can come to a mutual understanding, for the specified hours we take of yours, we'll compensate by giving up equal time,” Armin cleared his throat, finding the resolve to continue. “I have considered every measurable aspect—” 

“I agree,” Marco declared, picking up Connie's hand. “He does, too. Now, can we go?” Midnight was upon them as the melodious singing filled the air around them. 

Jean wanted to object, but Mikasa shot him a look. “Anything for you, my lady,” he muttered before letting out a short yelp as Eren pulled a few of his hair strands. 

They were tussling on the ground, and a little flicker could commence round two. Mikasa grabbed a fistful of Eren’s shirt and yanked him to his feet, turning to grasp Armin’s spare shoulder, and just like that, they were dragged away. Much to the dismay of the two rivals, enthusiastic waves were shared by the rest.  

Mikasa often wondered if the instant subjugation was due to her status or some other emotion she couldn't identify. She always understood people's intentions more easily than their emotions. Neither Eren nor Jean treated her differently after the resourceful Armin let it slip that she was royalty. They likely didn't believe it for the longest time, until one particular adventure revealed her access to the red-bricked mansion. It was the queen's childhood home, and the sheer awe on their faces was fascinating.

Being the heir to the throne was the only identity assigned to her, but to precious few, she was just Mikasa. After a few evenings of awkward formality, the truth stopped mattering to her friends. The nanny had them swear a promise, and just like that, she became the group's secret. The dangers of her careless actions never manifested, for those around her always kept a keen and watchful eye on her. 

“You should see the festival during spring,” Eren grumbled, displeased with the crowd. “It’s larger than this and has flowers everywhere.” 

“I’ll come then,” Mikasa spoke wistfully. 

They had climbed onto the wooden roof, hoping to witness the parade before it reached its finality. Dancers wearing antlers and bells doused in indigo made their way across, soft flutes filled the premises, and ancient hymns were chanted. They were words sung to children, and like a second nature, they’d spill out. Her mother spoke about the importance of remembrance and thanking the Goddess in her mother tongue.

Mikasa was humming along as warm fingers clasped her hand. It was another one of Eren’s antics she chalked up to habit; this time, he even warmed up prior. Armin sat beside them, holding the bedsheet over his shivering body. The wind blew back their hair, piercing their exposed skin. At some point, Eren bundled her up in a red scarf. It smelled of dried blood and grass blades; a peculiar scent she could recognise anywhere. The scarf was his mother’s knitted perfection, but wear and tear had stretched it in places. 

The first snow fell on her tongue. It always tasted like nothing, as the sky began shedding its frozen tears. She pressed the scarf closer to her skin, hoping to entice a flicker of warmth. Nothing could ruin the moment, watching the dancer, representing the Goddess, thread through the parade. Hidden behind a wooden mask, her body moved fluidly with the tunes. Bells embedded in black hair swirled around as the dancer’s indigo cloak captured the moonlight.

It was her mother, at her freest— a nameless goddess— who enraptured the world. Mikasa knew the secret, splitting her face in a vibrant smile. She wanted the moment to last forever. 

It was a dreadful plight as fate became a cruel hindrance.

She never came back again.

Chapter Text

(Flashback - 10 years ago)

She stopped eating. 

It was little at first, skipping some meals, giving her nanny a hard time. Then it became a full-time protest, where her mother had to drag her through a simple bite. 

They wouldn't go back to Winter Town this year. It was an abrupt decision, capable of shaking her world apart in a matter of seconds. There would be no negotiations. Absolute finality. 

There wouldn't be any Eren this winter. No playing with the other children, and certainly no possibility of normalcy. A queen, without any time to be Mikasa. She hated everything about it. 

They told her the reasons. Her father was mostly quiet; his eyes were lost, incapable of processing anything. Mother was frantic, giving her flimsy reasons. She hadn't seen her parents like this before. 

“Mikasa, my love, you mustn't be too upset about it,” her mother said, feeling like a distant voice. 

They were situated in her room. It was a bleak refuge, filled with nothing that showed her presence. It was meticulously conjured to represent the queen, who felt cold within these desolate walls. Who was she? It was something that plagued her mind. Even the girl who felt like her in the winter town came to an end. 

“It's dangerous to leave these walls,” her father offered, but her mother’s face gave away the lie. 

“Armin will be here,” Mother tried, patting Mikasa's bed hair down. “There's also little Sasha.” Her nanny's daughter, who had just learned how to walk, started following Mikasa around. Sometimes she felt like a mama duck guiding her little duckling along. To have a child pester her all day saved her from the boredom, but it still wasn't like spending time in the Winter Town.

Her parents struggle to understand her deliberation. She was an easy child to raise, followed their instructions, and delightfully took up her destiny. She just wanted to make her parents proud. That was until they took away the one thing that kept her sane. 

“Why is it dangerous?” she asked, observing the way her parents' faces twisted up. 

“There is a war…” 

Mikasa’s father held up his hand, ensuring her mother didn't reveal anything.

“It's just a little thing, my dear,” he offered gently, forcing a painful smile on his face. Her father didn't like telling her anything. 

“She is going to the queen one day,” her mother pressed, restraining everything else. 

“You want to tell a fourteen-year-old about the war?” her father whispered. 

“There is no point in hiding—” 

“We won't fail her like your mother failed you,” her father injected. All the colours drained from her mother's face. 

She placed a hand on her stomach. “I won't.” Those sorrowful eyes fell on Mikasa, who never understood the intensity behind them.

None of her father's wishes came to fruition. The very next day, her mother picked her up, whispered words of appraisal in her ears, and took her away. Her mother stormed through the pathway and barged into the hallway. The war councillors were in the middle of a discussion, and her mother's presence silenced their voices. She had seen the look on their faces, always the same hatred, that seeped through their eyes. 

“Why do you bring this child here?” The bald councillors stood up. 

“She'll be your queen soon,” Asami declared. That caused an enormous ruckus in the room.

“That's not what we decided,” another councillor chipped in.

Asami had a different seat drawn up specifically for her daughter. She was at the table, forced to withstand every glare and scowl directed at her. 

“I declared her my successor since her birth,” Asami reinforced, ensuring her eyes met every councillor's face.

Mikasa couldn't breathe. She hated being there, forced to see the faces of her mother's ill-wishers.

Her mother placed a maternal hand on the swelling within her belly. “She is my successor.” She held up her free hand, silencing any further protest. “Even if there's a son, it won't matter.” Her mother's bleak eyes found her face. “I have chosen her.” 

“You dare defile the Ackerman name with a—” the councillor, who resembled the coldest winter, spoke with poison in his voice, “a bastard.” 

Her mother inhaled sharply. “My patience will only go so far.” 

“Your Highness,” the youngest councillor pragmatically cleared his throat. “An unwanted child shouldn't be placed in the line of succession. Maybe we should wait for the one on the way. Also, Prince Levi is your direct brother, and is healthy enough to—” 

“War Councillors cannot determine the line of succession. You may advise me, but the choice is mine and I've made it,” her mother spoke with finality.

Mikasa sat still, like a doll propped up for the entire world to rip apart. Her life was decided before her inception, and something as feeble as choices didn't exist for her. She stared at her hands, and bite marks were still edged into her pale skin. 

She was an unwanted child. 

A child only her mother could love.

They talk, words belittling and venomous, going over her head. They kept mentioning a war, rebellion breaking out in Trost, and the way many towns were burning. She held her breath, incapable of processing anything. She just wanted to go back. In the safe walls of her room, where she could hide away from the world's cruelty.

She missed the Winter Town and certainly missed the boy who filled each memory. Tears threatened to cloud her vision, but her training came like an instinct. 

No pain, no fear, and certainly no tears. A queen never showed any weakness.

“The Capital has written to us for reinforcement.”

“Rebels are forcing the Royal Guards back…”

“He demands we contribute. There will be consequences…”

Incongruent noises merged into a chaos she didn't want to decipher. Her mother's voice got drowned out, made to withstand every opinion inflicted upon her. It was strange. The queen wasn't allowed to speak. 

Powerless.

Was this her destiny? She looked at the ruthless faces, refusing to show any ounce of mercy. She hated them. Over the years, they had taken pieces of her mother and left her completely vacant. 

She often asked her mother why the war councillors were so determined to break her apart. Her patient smile would decline, and then she'd painstakingly explain. They wanted the throne, a birthright not for their taking. 

Why couldn't you stop them? This question in particular made her mother numb. I was naive once and allowed it to happen. Then she'd pat her daughter's head, ensuring words were engraved in her heart. My pride. My joy, I won't fail you. They won't have you, like they had me. The weight of the declaration didn't manifest in Mikasa then; the girl was far too small to appreciate the conviction in her mother’s voice. 

“The Emperor will be coming here.” The revelation eroded every noise from the room. She noticed her mother's shaking hands being hidden underneath the table. 

The monster every ruler had to submit to.

Mikasa knew nothing about him, except the way his mere mention drained her mother's life. 

“The war must be getting bad.”

“My queen, we should prepare a feast.”

Her mother wasn't listening anymore. Those cold hands remained concealed by the table. After an uncomfortable silence, she finally found herself and plastered a painful smile on her face. 

Mikasa had a revelation: this was the life she had chosen with delight. It condemned her to the sorrows and the helplessness.

(Present day)

The shipment was nearly a month late again. Queen Mikasa continued surveying the dock, familiarising herself with the dire situation at hand. Winter was nearly upon them, and it left the waters unusable, and the barren soil would yield no harvest. They had barely stored enough survival food. It was meticulously wicked. 

“What do you suppose he wants now?” Mikasa’s lips formed a thin line. It was an empty question, as Armin stood beside her and solemnly stared at the heaps of spoiled meat and vegetables. 

The bleak atmosphere of the dock left a terrible aftertaste. She visited all fourteen ships, reconciled with their storage, and assigned appropriate dates. The Capital had deliberately derailed their voyage just long enough to spoil twenty per cent of the trade. 

“We tried leaving, but er, the military held us. We tried asking, but er, only got smacked,” the Captain of the Blue Armour dejectedly reported. He held up hands covered in faded vertical lashes, while his face showed signs of an uneven tan. And a crooked and broken nose made his voice nasally and comical at times. He was dressed in a vibrant red coat over the usual indigo. The peacock-feathered hat sat atop his head with pride. Mikasa had known this man since her youth; her mother called him Trader Eagle, for his eyes never left a profit in sight. He'd gotten grey over the years, but his ships still turned the highest profit in the land. Mikasa had thoroughly memorised their sources of revenue and the people who led its charge. 

The journey by their fastest sea route normally took two weeks, but the delay in departure made the entire ordeal last a month.

“Please have anyone injured treated immediately,” Mikasa ordered, and one of her attendants scrambled to execute it. The Captain gave a short bow and headed back to his exhausted crew. This was the third shipment tampered with; the pattern was like a bad omen. 

Grey clouds hung in the sky, awfully dense over the city. It had only been a year since Mikasa became the queen, and the foreboding signs of disaster reared their ugly head.

She missed the simplicity of being a military commander, where the uncertainty had a calculated response. But now everything felt like a game of vicious emotions, where lives hung upon the whims of the cruel. How could she understand the Emperor?   A man with a rotten core, as darkness made him whole. A bundle of spit mixed with insanity. There was never real tact behind his actions or benefit beyond personal gratification. She hated him with every fibre of her being. 

Mikasa and Armin continued walking around the dock, meeting every captain and their crew. It wasn't until her body started itching with apprehension that she stopped taking personal testimony. She'd heard enough to know the Emperor was strategically cutting off their food supply just enough to send a message; just enough to avoid immediate retaliation.  Shiganshina was rich in minerals and coal, but the land couldn't support a bountiful harvest. The prolonged winters usually made it worse. They were entirely dependent on their trade with the Capital to sustain Shinganshina's main city. Any attempt to expand their trade with other regions was suspiciously disrupted.

This was how the Emperor kept Shinganshina's Queen in line. It was either complying with his folly or having their people starve during blizzards. Once again, he was pulling the strings of power like a ruthless puppet master. 

“I want to fucking kill him,” Mikasa admitted, leaning against the mast. She gazed at the ocean's gleaming beauty from a distance, as soft waves curled along the shoreline. It smelled like rotten eggs mixed in with the rich scent of the wilderness. 

“I understand the feeling, Your Highness,” Armin nodded, hugging the extensive reports held between his arms. “It seems like the Emperor wants us to play his games. And, I fear his intentions will be direct soon enough.” His gaze never left the ocean as the wind carried his blonde hair along his shoulders.

She was twenty-four now, but over the years, Mikasa started looking older as the weight upon her shoulders grew. Armin kept his hair parted from between, full cheeks, and deep-blue eyes that could rival the ocean's depths. She often found herself lost in the world of his curiosity and whimsy. But the dreaded atmosphere also coloured him in grey. Mikasa sighed, loud enough to feel the weariness etch on her bones. 

Her mother had ruled long enough to give her a decent childhood, even when her father's untimely death wrecked them both. She sent her to the military long enough to consume her youth and to learn the Commander's oath. 

She had done everything, but even then, Mikasa never felt comfortable holding the role of being a queen. Many wanted her uncle Levi to take up the throne, but her mother never listened. Mikasa was made queen, and the responsibility was soul-crushing. Still, being her mother's daughter, giving up wasn't a choice.

“Armin, have them reduce the mining in Southern caves, make sure it looks natural enough to cost them money,” she rubbed her tired eyes. 

“We aren't starting trade wars, right?” Armin asked, uneasily writing down her declaration.

They certainly couldn't afford a war over something as essential as food, but they could bleed The Capital's profits. They needed minerals for external trade, and no other region could provide them. The outright refusal wasn't applicable, but natural disasters wouldn't justify retaliation. She wasn't going to let The Emperor have his way. She'd seen how that vile bastard controlled her father and, eventually, he succumbed to his death. She wasn’t going to be another unfortunate Ackerman. 

“I trust you'll make the trade delay look believable.” She sharply patted his shoulder, “I'll be heading off; the farmers await my presence.” She left several of her attendants in Armin's command. The indigo of their official garments contrasted with the musty dock. The Ackerman crest was pinned over their hearts.

There was far too much scheduled for a single day. There were the farmers with their plight about the soil, and then the market sellers, who cried about the lack of tomatoes. Then the old women of the pastureland garden, who never possessed enough seeds. They kept mewling about the farmer cheating them, taking away their rightful subsidiary. Followed by the hunters who wanted guards appointed along the cliff, far too many chickens plummeted to their deaths. There were enough sightings of wolves to instigate a call for fences along the western horizon. She had many buildings to inspect and timely letters to dispatch.

The main city of Shiganshina wasn't a sprawling mess, but a carefully coordinated cluster of clanlands, and the furthest, most isolated were on the outskirts. She yielded partial control of that land to her uncle, as far too much time was spent travelling between the places. 

The day was coming to an end, but her duties never ceased. She ended up in the revenue building, between the cobblestone walls, where the city records were kept. Armin suspected that many documents that reached the castle were either forged or painted a different picture. It hadn't been long since she got the throne, and from the looks of it, the Councillor's infestation was too deeply rooted. 

The wax had pooled over the ledger's corner. Mikasa sat hunched at the heavy wooden table, hands cradling her forehead, as she read through every document. They were slightly altered from the ones presented to her. Just as she had dreaded, many of the shipments were unofficially financed by the War Councillors. Grain, steel, and Shinganshan's precious gems, lined up neatly with the six influential Councillors. These deals were conducted when her mother fell ill, and in those shadows, they prospered. 

She closed the ledger with a loud thud. 

The headache threatened to worsen. The War Councillors had woven themselves into the very fabric of Shiganshina. Shipments had had their blessing, and taxes were organised based on their margins. Her attempts at meddling in their affairs had been entirely futile. The people merely supported their respective Councillor, and left her feeling like a powerless puppet. She probed, demanded and threatened, all tooth and nail, just to have the slightest order processed. Their influence never stopped; even those loyal to her readily handed her forged documents. 

She dragged a hand through her hair. All her efforts never showed the fruit of her labour. Once again, she got the taste of her mother’s plight, akin to self-inflicted poison. 

The room smelled of melted wax and rotten paper. Outside, the sun had long since left and darkness made its way inside. She hadn't eaten; she hadn't slept. It wasn't just exhaustion anymore; it was the absolute hopelessness that crept through her body, slowly chipping at her resolve. 

She couldn't give up. Not yet, at least. The fear of not being good enough consumed her thoroughly. She wasn't going to squander her mother's legacy, even if it killed her. 

Something, when exhaustion took away her ability to be the Queen, she'd think of the little town on the outskirts, and of a face that became foggy with time.

She hadn't known happiness since then.

***

Shinganshina's main city was known as Ignar, after the first Ackerman who decided to connect the twenty sprawling clans. It had been a task worthy of his entire life, as he united the people under one banner. Then, the remaining four clans became the outskirts, harbouring the first line of military defence.

Before the rebellion in Paradis, these towns were known for their religious pilgrimages and the Winter Festival. The Helo town—where she had spent every winter until her thirteenth birthday—was no longer the same. The festivities had faded, leaving behind vast stretches of land now occupied by the military. Much of the weaponry was forged there, turning the little town into a functional furnace of ore and iron. Mikasa remembered her mother's silence when the military council suggested revamping her hometown. But those were the choices she couldn’t deny, and her dissatisfaction never superseded necessity. 

Even the red-bricked house became a dull mirage of rusted iron and chipped walls. It became her uncle's residence, but he still kept Asami's room the same. When she collapsed a year back, slowly withering under the role bestowed on her shoulders, she moved away from the city and returned to the only place where she'd known peace. Mikasa became the queen, and visits to her mother became infrequent.

At times, Mikasa felt her heart swell with reverence for her mother, and at other times, the malice of having to withstand the same burden coursed through her veins. 

Mikasa never wanted to be the queen, but from her conception, she was marked, and her entire life revolved around fulfilling that role. There wasn't any room for personal grievances when thousands of lives relied on her choices. And, that very thing has consumed her mother, who served for ten years, and the aftermath was a frail body, permanent exhaustion and another rebellion on the horizon. Her life's work was undone in mere moments. She didn't have the heart to talk about it, as their conversations remained tactically superficial. Nearly thirteen years later, she came back to the town. And, nothing of it resembled her hazy memories. 

The floral-furnished room looked odd in the redesigned mansion. She smelled ashes mixed with her mother's lavender scent. The winds of surfacing rebellion had reached every ear, and preparations came like the impending winter. The rebels didn't target regions autonomously ruled, but an abundance of skirmishes took place on land directly under the Emperor. They hated that man, and silently, Mikasa found herself rooting for them. 

The War Council wanted resources that she had held off on. They called her to the outskirts to survey their situation, but it only strengthened her beliefs: far too much ration was kept hidden away for emergency purposes. They'd pick her decisions apart, but it allowed her to see her mother again. They consumed their lavender tea, pretending as if the world knew nothing but peace. Mikasa didn't want to burden her mother. And she was sure her mother didn't want to question her decisions. 

“Levi says you haven't been eating much,” Asami said, carefully slicing a piece of cake.

She divided the creation into four equal bits, giving her daughter more of it. The cherry on top felt like a luxury, as she knew their shipment had rotted the worst. Consumption had become such an arduous task when she knew how little the poorest tasted. Not that her mother fared any better; she was all skin and bones, with bald patches breaking through her black hair. The dress she wore felt like a garment reserved for the dead. The pale white barely touched her lithe body. Life had completely given up on her. But, despite everything, a vibrant smile was reserved for her daughter. 

“Nonsense, he likes to pry into my matters,” Mikasa scoffed, stuffing the cherry into her mouth. Her bedridden mother didn't need to worry about her eating habits. The sickly sweetness exploded in her mouth. 

“He bothers because he cares,” Asami gently scolded, rubbing her thumb on Mikasa's hand; her battle-scarred skin sharply contrasted with her mother's smoothness. 

“He should show it by taking my side on council-related matters,” Mikasa sighed, even though she'd come to terms with it. Her uncle only did what was good for his soldiers, as their lives were his responsibility. She couldn't blame him, but it stung knowing her family never had her back. They wanted her to rule, but ensured she didn't forget her place. 

A small voice in her mind always chanted how she wasn't made for the position, but they wanted her because she'd be easy to manipulate. She lacked the experience, after all. 

“The War Council has its particular taste,” Asami admitted, smiling sadly. 

“Well,” Mikasa adjusted her posture, “I'm getting sick of it all.” Once again, they ended up talking about policies. It was as if nothing else mattered in their lives. “Actually, Mother, what do you think about—” she tried manifesting a different conversation. “I got several letters of courtship, maybe you want to see them?” 

Asami waved her off. “That dull matter, I'd rather you leave it to Little Armin.” 

“He wasn't pleased with any of them,” Mikasa revealed, without mentioning all the letters she used as kindling to warm her chambers. If love wasn’t meant to provide utility, then it wasn’t worth her time. 

“Can't say I disagree,” Asami took another elongated sip, “I can't think of anyone better than the little blonde boy.” Listening to her mother talk as if they hadn’t aged over the decade was humorous. Then again, in her mother’s mind, she was still the starry-eyed little girl who wanted to see the Winter Festival. 

“Mother, I rely on him far too much to ruin it over impractical courtship,” Mikasa shrugged. The idea itself was absurd, knowing how profoundly emotions cloud judgment. She couldn't taint her advisor or their longstanding friendship. 

The directness of it all made her mother laugh. “Don't bed the ones you work with, I suppose.” She shook her head, “But, I noticed how my dear little daughter didn't object to the boy in question.” 

Mikasa didn't comment on it; they’d crossed that bridge too often. “How are the gardens? Have you grown more of those flowers?” Her haphazard attempts at deflection caused her mother to chuckle.

Queen Mother Asami glanced outside the window, feeling the light breeze cool her face. The outside contained her mother’s garden; an abundance of bellflowers, gliding along the hillside breeze. Mikasa had plucked enough to formulate a display and placed them on the windowsill. Her former nanny, Isabella, watered the garden, as her mother was mostly bedridden. The last battle took too many pieces of her; it withered her lungs and left her with a deathly cough. It was a miracle her mother held out as long as she did. 

Isabella brought them another serving of tea on a tray, scorching hot enough to burn tongues. The years had been kinder to her nanny. Even her roots had gotten grey, and very little remained of her lush brunette hair. She still wore her indigo attire, emblazoned with the Ackerman crest. It was paired with an arm-length glove covering her battle scars and a floating sleeve over her missing arm.

She tenderly placed her hand on Mikasa’s shoulder and gave her a radiant smile. “You don’t even inform me before appearing.” 

“I’m just mysterious like that,” Mikasa retorted, leaning into her ex-nanny’s touch. 

“And, my daughter?” Isabella’s eyes shone with anticipation. 

“She’s rather busy with the bonfire preparation, but you’ll see her face,” Mikasa said, pouring more tea.

The taste possessed in Isabella’s hand was impossible to replicate. She had longed for the comforting aroma. She heard Isabella curse under her breath, but the thought of reunion kept her smiling. 

Trust was a commodity she’d learned to leverage. People could be bought, and understanding what incentivised them became a necessity. She trusted Armin, surely. But knew he’d lost his family and lacked any footing without Ackerman's backing. She trusted her ex-nanny with her mother and knew she couldn’t find a better opportunity with a single functional arm. She trusted Sasha, her Handmaiden, but knew her mother was firmly in Ackerman's grasp. Something as fleeting as trust was backed by years of necessary accumulation. She trusted her uncle, but knew he benefited more by playing in the shadows than by putting a target on his head. She kept them around because her presence was simply beneficial. If only something like trust could come naturally. She was her mother’s daughter, seeing the cruelty before anything warm. 

“Your mother gets an astonishing amount of letters,” Isabella said, placing the tray on the spacious bed. “After you leave them unanswered, they’re rerouted to your mother with pleas of marriage.” She took the spot next to the bed, folded her arms behind her back, and straightened up. The training of being a soldier was still ingrained in her body. “Her replies tend to destroy their confidence.” 

“Oh dear, don’t expose me like that,” Asami suppressed her giggle, not even denying the accusations. 

“Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying them. But let me know if something suitable comes up, and we’d gain from that reunion,” Mikasa reminded, leaning back in her chair.

Marriage was another tool she was holding onto. Yet, her words only sullied her mother’s face. That was to be expected; she married her husband on the fringes of unstable passion and somehow made a good choice. Knowing her people came first, Mikasa had given up on such self-serving notions.

“You raised her too well,” Isabella quietly noted, noticing how harshly Asami held Mikasa’s hand. 

“Don’t blame yourself,” Mikasa reassured her mother, tracing the scar underneath her right eye, “My choices aren’t your burden.” She had chosen the path to walk on, even if it made her feet bleed. Still, her treacherous heart desired the happiness she'd once known in her childhood. Despite her façade made of stone, there was despair for something she never fully had.  

"Asking a mother not to worry about her child is like asking the sun not to rise," Asami shook her head, looking distantly outside the window. Mikasa's throat was clogged with cumbersome emotions.

This was another reason her visits declined over the years; the guilt her mother felt only worsened, and she hated being the cause of it.

Chapter Text

There wasn't a night when sleep came naturally. It especially worsened after the rotten nourishment reached their shores. It had been a month since then, and she still dreaded the consequences. 

They prescribed medication to calm her mind and to dispel the nightmares, but remembering to take them became a different hassle. Instead, she opted to sip on booze, hoping sleep wouldn't be such a treacherous mistress. But she couldn't entirely blame her mind, since her body rarely found itself on a comfortable bed. She’d spent more nights in her study than in her bedroom; her body was stiff from sitting upright, and her shoulders chronically ached even in the daylight.

There was just too much work, and something as fleeting as sleep felt like a waste. If it weren't for the eventual collapse of her body, she'd have given up on the concept itself. Once again, she found herself slouched on the desk, black ink staining her cheek, as a cluster of papers encased her. But, even in her state of utter exhaustion, she couldn't forgo the persistent nightmare. 

Every nightmare simply recreated the incident. The blood dripping over her face, life drained from his eyes, as the weight of the dead kept her grounded. Sometimes she couldn't determine where the nightmare began, and the reality of the event ended. Just like that, the palpation of her heart thundered, and a scream died in her throat, sending every nerve jolting awake. She jerked backwards, toppling over her chair, and plummeted onto the floor. The carpet softened her descent, but the back of her head throbbed. 

A wince ripped through her as she desperately clutched the pain. It took her moments to distinguish between a dream and reality. Finally, as sleep left her, a flood of humiliation uncurled in the pit of her stomach. This became frequent enough that Sasha placed the thickest carpet around her study. It was a few more fruitless minutes before she gathered her wrecked body, forced it together, and gained some semblance of posture. Everything ached, especially her poor eyes, which had read hundreds of books on territorial laws. It was so bad that she still saw letters smudged into her vision. Slowly, like a whitened leaf, she creaked and groaned, straightened the chair and dragged herself along. Her head was swirling around in bits of pain and splashes of annoyance. She clutched her head between her arms, forcing it to stop spinning. 

She was going to be fine; it wasn't a choice, but a requirement. She'd done this song and dance far too many times. All her pain subsided when the necessity to be functional was called. “Fucking, hell,” her voice was hoarse, noticing just how parched her throat became. 

The sun was pouring into the room, burning into her back. She moved the chair further back, scurrying away from the light. “Armin, are you there?” She cursed again, rubbing the ink off her haggard face. It was a mess of red lines, black spots, and thin drool. The nightmares were persistent, but at least they were timely. 

Her breakfast—well, if you could call that— would've been brought by now. She waited, impatiently stabbing her pen idly into the book's leather binding. Everything was a mess; she needed to calm her body down. With an insistent need to fiddle with something, she plucked the flowers from the pot and started twisting their stems around. With deep breaths— as her father once taught— she focused on the task at hand and ignored her pulsating heartbeat.

The sudden opening of the door shook her upright, and the scent of pomegranate and lavender tea permeated the stuffy air of her room. Sandals clicked against the tiles until they softened over the carpet. It was Sasha carrying her breakfast. She was dressed in plain cotton attire with a long brown skirt, her hair a bird’s nest, as mud stains coloured it brown. As expected, her handmaid hadn’t been sleeping much and, to no one's surprise, was out hunting. 

Today was going to be a terrible day. Even her study was in chaos beyond recognition. Piles of books and sheets were sorted haphazardly, circles formed of the once independent towns, and their plight. Beyond the flood of ink and paper were her meagre belongings scattered around; the lengthy coat she’d thrown off, half-eaten pastries, and the extensive rows of her mother’s plants. She needed a change of clothes; her satin tunic had soaked up too much sweat and dust. Sasha was kind enough to open the windows, letting the rot out of the room. The sunlight pouring inside only splintered her gaze. Everything was a mess; the world and her pitiful life. 

“Can you get this off my face?” She asked, anxiously awaiting the worst. Armin showed up every morning like an unprecedented ritual. The only three times he fell late were moments of doom oncoming. 

Sasha quietly nodded, dabbed a cotton cloth into the water and scrubbed the spot. Mikasa noticed the ripped skin around Sasha’s fingers— she'd been practising her archery. That only meant a situation would require it soon. Mikasa had retreated to the study for nearly a week, sorting through all the legal proceedings enacted over the decade. She was lost in history, hoping Armin was capable of managing state affairs in her absence. 

It had been nearly a month since the last spoiled shipment. And, word around Paradis filled with the whispers of war on the horizon. 

She needed to understand legal proceedings before the worst came. While holding the title of Queen granted her autonomy, her powers were still restricted depending on the situation. If she knew all the legal precedents, then she'd have a variety of cases to make against the War Council. It was a brilliant plan, until the actual paperwork flooded her study, and her straining eyes screamed for mercy. Still, she wouldn't falter, and she wouldn't trust any information not inspected by her gaze. The War Council had taken advantage of her mother's trusting nature; she wouldn't allow history to repeat itself. 

“I peeled them this morning, my lady,” Sasha pointed at the breakfast, unable to stop herself from taking a few. “They taste rather nice,” she chewed slowly, analysing the abrupt taste imposed on her tongue. 

Mikasa had long since lost her appetite. It was hard to consume when so much filled her mind. But, to appease her handmaiden, she started eating and poured hot water into her shrivelled stomach. Each taste only brought a staunch numbness, as she forced more of the fruit down. 

It was a longstanding tradition to feed the new queen before delivering terrible news. Her loss of appetite was usually the worst offence. 

“Aww, ya’ ruined more of your mother's babies.” Sasha picked up the flower crown and placed it on Mikasa’s head. It smelled divine, despite the spoiled petals all over. Her mother kept sending bellflowers, insisting on securing every spot. But, unlike the open fields of Helo Town, the palace only killed them. Like most things, life wasn't meant to bloom within these granite walls. 

“It was one of those mornings,” Mikasa muttered, absently tilting the flower crown in the correct direction. 

Sasha nodded, fully understanding, as she’d seen Mikasa at her lowest. “Told ya’ those pastries were bad for your health. Stop stuffing your face like that,” she said, pointing at the crumbs dispersed on the floor. Then she grabbed Mikasa’s arm, studying its thinness. “Would it kill ya’ to eat some meat?”

Mikasa reclaimed her arm, “Like you'd leave some for me.” She'd lost most of her precious muscle, as being queen didn't involve any physical labour. It only called for the draining of her soul, senses and mind. 

Sasha scrunched up her nose, pulling out steamed pork from her sleeves. She stuffed it into Mikasa’s protesting mouth. It felt like a sin dining away on meat when a quarter of her subjects couldn't ever taste it. On occasions, there would be bear meat in festivals, but beyond that, something as rare as pork was a devious luxury. 

Sasha had stolen it from the War Councillors, and that fact only made her chew it. “They'll have you beheaded.”

“As if you'll allow that,” Sasha snorted, carefully twirling Mikasa’s hair with the flower crown. They could mess with Mikasa, but never with her kin. It was a silent agreement that kept every relationship amicable. 

“Your Highness?” Armin announced anxiously as he popped his head into the room. 

In an instant, every little joy was sucked out as she saw his face. He could almost rival her unravelling, with eye bags and mismatched clothes. He nervously walked closer, carrying a rolled-up declaration. The seal of Feather— The Emperor's mark— only managed to spike her anxiety. Every part of her body knew and accepted it, and yet something as erosive as hope still held out. “There will be a royal wedding soon. You were invited, but I already know your answer,” Armin began, fiddling with his thumb as she couldn’t meet her gaze. The entirety of Mikasa’s stomach dropped. 

He unfolded the declaration and spread it across the table. “There was a new law enacted, and now a wedding will transpire within The Capital.” Mikasa felt nauseous, as life drained away from Armin’s face, and Sasha physically retched away. The Emperor had a sickly obsession with heirs and brides. 

“They captured more of the Southern tribe, took their land, and now he’ll marry the chief’s daughter,” Armin rubbed his brows, exhaustion seeping through everything.

Mikasa didn’t notice how hard her fist slammed onto the desk. “It’s Ymir, isn’t it?” 

Armin nodded, his nerves hanging by a thread. “He has finally taken her, and under the new legislation, they will be married. They’re calling it an ‘Act of Devotion’: where, by law, a ruler can wed any of their choosing,” he forced the next words out, “without explicit agreement.” 

“That fucking—” Sasha’s voice trembled. “That fucking monster.” 

“Yes, he made a law just to marry that poor girl. And now, rebels are rising once again, as this event has become another tipping point. It will be a bloodbath soon, the ruler of Trost is supporting them,” Armin inhaled sharply, “But, of course, the Emperor was leading towards this outcome, and now you have your answer.”

This time, Mikasa slapped her vibrating forehead as cold beads of sweat fell. “He was preparing, that fucking bastard.” All this for a repulsive desire to marry that poor woman. The Emperor’s actions instigated rebellion too many times, but he always came out victorious. The last rebellion had taken her father and left her mother to pick up the broken pieces. Now, history was repeating itself, and she was the new sacrificial lamb. 

“As we suspected, the food supply tampering was just a threat. If we don’t comply, as in siding with him again, he’ll just starve us this winter. He knows how utterly helpless we become and has taken full advantage of it,” Armin rambled on, curdling Mikasa’s blood. 

“The War Council will have Levi aid him and send away our soldiers,” Sasha continued, seemingly looking like a ghost. She’d only heard stories of war from her mother, and having it on the horizon drained her spirit. There would be deaths and consequences, to such an astonishing degree. 

Mikasa had only been queen for a year, and every little event conspired to break apart her fragile rule. It looked like the Emperor wanted to take advantage of her recent appointment. As he had nearly ten years ago when her mother was the queen, and her father was called to the capital. In his absence, the War Council tore into Queen Asami, ripping away her flesh until only the beating heart remained. They chewed on her bones, spitting out a hollowed carcass. Now they wanted Mikasa’s ample body to feast upon, and everything was set in motion, hurdling towards it. 

“I want us to support the rebellion,” Mikasa sighed loudly, leaning back into her chair. The flower crown was crooked to the side. It was this sort of wishful thinking that kept her awake at night, thoughts of having unchallenged power without consequences. 

“The War Council will have you dethroned,” Sasha reminded, settling on the desk. They had laws created for such sentiments alone. 

“Let's say, you overrule them and have your way; the chances of the rebellion succeeding are nonexistent. The Capital holds much of the waterways around this country, and their weaponry is foreign,” Armin said, lips forming a thin line, “And let's say, they’re still able to hold out— that's all the Emperor does, holding out until his opponents can’t. That’s how he always wins, and through strategic threats,” Armin waved his arm around. 

“The other reason he wins is because we, the rulers of these regions, always side with him,” Mikasa argued, matching Armin’s gaze. “Trost won’t be supporting him, and if he loses us too—”

“You’ll let your people die?” Sasha interjects. “You’ll have to choose between letting our people die for a greater purpose. Will you make that sacrifice? Will you kill the War Council? As they'd rather die than let the people starve this winter.” There was no accusation in her tone; she merely stated the consequences. Mikasa was at a loss for words. 

“But, this doesn’t solve anything. The Emperor will simply keep threatening us into submission, like mindless puppets,” Armin grumbled, visibly agitated. “I hate this as much as you, and yet any alternative is far more dangerous.” 

Mikasa quietly considered. She couldn’t put her people on the line, nor could she dismantle the relationship with The Emperor. Everything functioned with harrowing efficiency, each reason meticulously anchoring the other. But, she’d be damned if her uncle was made another sacrifice, and the safety of her people was compromised. While the War Council's ultimate agenda was self-preservation of their region, they tended to be short-sighted. If it weren't for her mother's quick thinking and merging of the roles of Queen and Commander, they would've lost the lands of Shiganshina to the Emperor. That had always been his plan, for the region was another jewel he couldn’t fully possess. He was a monster who possessed an appetite in need of constant nourishment. 

Armin was logical, but he never considered an option that would’ve endangered Mikasa. She understood his sentiment and would only return the favour. But, beyond being the queen, her life wasn’t worth more. Sacrifice was etched into the role's history. Her mother sacrificed, and she would as well. 

“Read me his words, don’t interpret,” she commanded, raising her voice enough to ensure adherence. The dread on Armin’s face wasn’t helpful; even Sasha was holding her breath. 

His fingers traced over the black ink. “ To fight with the Rebels, we shall have Shiganshina’s support. Shiganshina’s soldiers will guard The Capital, while the Royal Army will decimate the abominations.” The declaration didn’t specify who’d be leading the army. It was a little error on the emperor's part, as precedent of it being the commander was set. Mikasa once held the position of Commander, the duties of which were like her second skin. They would expect her uncle, but instead, the queen would venture, and there were no grounds to stop it. 

“I’ll take the willing soldiers and head to The Capital,” she proclaimed, feeling wheels turning ahead. 

“Mikasa, you will not!” Armin slammed his hands on the desk, a terrified sort of rage coloured his expression. “I won’t let you do this!” his voice lost all control, shattered into pieces, as he pleaded. 

“My role is absolute, but this woman,” she jabbed a thumb at her chest. “Is utterly replaceable. There were queens before me, and there will be queens after me. They already have a successor in case of my death. So, tell me again, explain to me—”

“Stop it!” Sasha cried, frowning at her with disbelief. “I hate it when you talk about yourself this way.” It was as if the little girl begged her older sibling to comply. It had only been four months since Sasha’s eighteenth birthday, and here she was seeing the first signs of war. Mikasa kept having to remind herself to be gentle around the poor girl. 

“Put away your emotions, Armin,” Mikasa whispered, feeling her throat clog up. The ferocity of his ocean-blue eyes bore into her soul. “They can’t kill the queen. I have leverage. But my uncle will be as good as dead. Then, they’ll come for us when we’re weakened. They’ll demand till we can't give any more. But if I go, then uncle would be left to defend our region, and if I do die—”

“We’re not discussing this further,” Armin muttered, pulling the rolled-up sheets from Mikasa’s grasp. “Don’t throw your life away like this.”

“But, what worth does my life have if I can’t save my people?” she yelled in frustration, raking her hands through her short hair. To seal the deal, she quietly added. “You know what they did to my father.” 

There was a festering silence. Emotions boiled, and blood like molten iron surged through her veins. Armin refused to yield, as he folded his arms and held her gaze. Sasha mimicked the stance, glaring at her. They continued until the birds stopped chirping, and the sounds of bells could be heard. But the demand could only last so long. Armin was logical to a fault, even though he knew Mikasa’s plan was their safest alternative. The only reason he objected was because of his fondness. He even started thinking of ways to refine it— the pain crisscrossed over his face, making her feel guilty. She hated putting him in these situations. 

“I’m sorry,” she mouthed, noticing the slow break in his expression. His lips wobbled as tears were held back. 

“I’ll accept on one condition,” his voice was lithe, unable to look at her now. “I’ll go with you.” 

She was jolted upright, words battling to object. “You will do no su—”

“Don’t even try,” Armin sighed, irreparably exhausted, as he collapsed against the desk. They’d done this far too many times, and each time she’d come out feeling worse. “You know me well enough to know I’d never let you go off alone.”

It was one thing to gamble with her own life, but putting Armin in danger was an entirely different matter; a truth she hated vehemently. Like clockwork, Sasha insisted on going too. 

It would be a gruelling task to convince the war council and face her uncle. And yet her resilience outbid their objections, and 130 willing soldiers heard her call. The remaining army would fortify Shiganshina and withstand the winter, while the queen would remain in the capital, ensuring their ties to the emperor and whatever else came their way. Her advisor and handmaiden disobeyed her orders, tagging along, until her protests turned into reluctant acceptance.

The guilt of it all reaped her unfortunate soul. Within a month, they departed, as the rebellion around Paradis sprouted like flowers on spring’s eve. She prayed they’d finally conquer the monster, even if she couldn’t. 

The guilt was terrible. She refused to let her uncle go to war, and that dangled many lives in her palm.

Chapter Text

They promised a quick battle; they promised her return in a few months. But those months turned into a year, and then time just kept adding to it. Before she knew it, she had spent three years away from her home.

Those long years were spent losing her soldiers, as the war only knew how to consume. She’d seen enough death to be permanently altered. Blood soaked everything, as the corpse kept piling up. Those long years broke her apart a million times, but she couldn't stop. She'd wish to end her life on multiple accounts, but the burden she'd leave behind kept her sanity. She was the queen; she wasn't allowed to forfeit her life. She'd carry the pain, for it was her choice that took their lives. Each face haunted her sleep, as she'd forgotten what peace felt like. A waking nightmare became her life, as war raged on, and it pulled her along. Choices had consequences, and the taste of it left her thoroughly crippled.

She was holding onto a dying soldier's hand, watching him lose the light. “Tell my wife—” words died, as the gaze became hollow.

He'd died from a slashed stomach, and the blood continued to spill. His name was Alison, and he'd served under her father. He came with the queen, for his duty to the crown was all-encompassing. Now, another man died under her wrecked command. She couldn't stop the tears from spilling, knowing how utterly useless she had become. These soldiers relied on her for sustainability, but only their deaths came under her watchful command. The war council kept calling her incompetent; the truth tore her soul apart. If her uncle had come, then perhaps these lives wouldn't have been lost. She wanted to scream, but people needed her to be a pillar of strength.

“May the Goddess of Winter carry you, Alison,” she whispered, forcing herself to act like a queen.

The soldiers had formed a circle around them as the battle raged on. Arrows were flying, and the scent of rotten flesh clung to their skins. They were exhausted and beaten until only the vague sense of duty carried them forward. She wanted to give up, as the reason for all the hassle stopped mattering. For three years, they guarded the Capital against the Rebels who came in waves. They kept losing their people, and today was the worst; she'd held thirty of them, as the numbers continued to dwindle.

She had refused to call in reinforcements, resulting in her mistake of assuming the Emperor would send his soldiers. He had abandoned them to guard, while he continued to wage war against the pockets of rebellion around Paradis. He had called them the enemy, but she saw them as people who needed her mercy. They fought for a better world, and she stood between their goals. She had them slaughtered, and it sickened her to the core. 

How was she any different from the Emperor? She fought against goodness in hopes of self-preservation. But even that became a false tragedy. She kept losing her people as they followed her commands to an untimely death. She was an incompetent monster who only made choices in vain. A queen who got her subjects killed was nothing but a stain on the role's legacy. She gripped Allison's blood-soaked hand and asked for forgiveness. She was a murderer who should've done better. For each life lost was another corpse piled underneath her feet, and she'd touch the sky soon enough. 

Armin softly touched her shoulder, breathing loudly. He was in a worse state, and he smelled like smoke and dried blood. “I don't think we'll survive this,” he murmured in her ear, as the screams got louder. It would take a month for reinforcement to arrive, but there wasn't a way for the remaining fifty to survive that long. 

“Then we'll die with honour,” she stated, the stains of blood still etched onto her palm.

They couldn't retreat even if she'd spared them, as there was no place to hide. The Capital sat in a valley; they were exposed and surrounded from every direction. Perhaps their deaths were written, as the Emperor likely punished her for defiance. If only she'd just listened and sent her uncle, maybe then they'd all be alive. A choice could never be reversed, and she'd walk down the path, even if it bore holes in her body. 

Armin’s ocean-blue eyes found her face. He'd follow any path she took, and the guilt of it could kill her thoroughly. She had damned them all, and it quietly shattered her apart. “My queen, I'll still look for an alternative,” he offered, knowing how irreparably painful such a choice would've been.

If she asked them to give up their lives, then they would in a heartbeat. But it wasn't a choice she could freely live with. The soldiers around her started chanting, unrecognisable in their haggard states, as flesh and blood coated over their broken armour. They chanted the tune of the Winter Goddess; words from the battle she'd won against the eternal blizzard. Just like the divine, they'd follow her and face any threat. Such a sentiment made her ill, as the need to save them prospered. She had to save them. 

Mikasa grabbed her blade and charged ahead. It wasn't until exhaustion started crippling her arms did she nearly fell over. So many became victims of her blade; nothing distinguished them from the ones who followed her with blind devotion. She selfishly wished for a blade to cut her down, for the burden of the dead, coiled around her throat and suffocated her fully. It wasn't until the triumphs blared and the war drumbeat filled the horizon that they stopped fighting. The Emperor's army came and clipped away the remaining rebels. 

Mikasa collapsed on her knees. It was finally over. The fucking monster came out victorious once again. 

She wanted to go back home.

***

She bit her tongue until the taste of blood sullied her mouth.

Armin described the details of the Emperor's massacre and their role in aiding his cause. 

The Emperor projected himself as their saviour and claimed his victory. Over the three years of war, he lost 4,000 men, enlisting the youth and dragging them to their deaths. The Royal Guards used them as fodder, curtailing rebellion until rivers ran red. Paradis continued to suffer, but none dared to oppose the Emperor. Still, knowing how little Shiganshina was affected, relieved her. 

Then came the guilt of losing her soldiers. She was the queen who not only let the monster rule but also aided his plans. The sickness that festered inside, of malice and guilt, kept hollowing her out from the inside. 

The region of Trost had sided with the rebellion. It resulted in a forty-day siege and loss of autonomy.

With Paradis divided into five regions—Shiganshina, Trost, Stohess, Karanese, and Maria—the Reiss family's influence was once confined to Maria alone. Soon, they expanded and waged a decade-long war. The outcome was the subjugation of all regions under a single Emperor. They would remain autonomous in ruling, but the Emperor’s influence kept growing. Fritz, in particular, was a monster dressed in gold. He captured the lands of the nomads and forced other regions into his wars. Now, he had gained control of Trost, and he had attempted to take over Shiganshina. 

The monster was satiated for now, and Shiganshina survived another war. But, how long would their fragile dance last? She was consumed with regret, but knowing her choice saved her uncle was the only solace. The Emperor punished her and left them stranded, then came back like their saviour, when he needed the final victory. Their self-preservative act had an expiry, and the lack of foresight would spell their doom. But, for now, she felt like the weight of the world, coupled with exhaustion, was ready to cripple her. She couldn’t break down, not yet. There was far too much still left, and the army needed its commander. 

She had the remaining soldiers treated, and their tents were turned into medical triages. The entire day was spent collecting the dead and saving the remaining. She went through each soldier and insisted that they get treatment regardless of their afflictions. Armin had them clothed in their signature symbols, as the Emperor would’ve demanded blood.

As part of their agreement, the hillside on the Western Front was given to Shiganshina's Queen. It was a small patch of land where their dead would be buried. She held back the rage of knowing her people would be buried in a foreign land. They deserved better, and she couldn’t provide it. The next two days were preparations for the funeral, while the Emperor called for celebrations. All the rulers were invited to his grand festival. She hated every part of it but felt so utterly helpless. 

“My lady, we should start now if you wish to leave tomorrow,” Petra said, clutching onto Mikasa’s arm. 

She was busy talking with a wounded soldier. He was part of the rebellion, and he spoke of Shiganshina as his place of birth. He told her how sweet grapes tasted, and he wanted to go back home. She reassured him but knew how quickly life could be depleted. He was gravely wounded with a ruptured lung. He would die on the makeshift bed, in a foreign land, under the medic's watchful gaze. She still felt Alison’s blood on her hands, and it extended to every soldier who followed her command. Glancing around the tent, she found more beds filled with blood-soaked bodies.

This tent contained those who weren't expected to survive. She spent her days talking with the still-lucid ones. They had wishes and wants, and she’d try and grant them, even if it was ultimately futile. The stench of death and dried blood clung to her body, and half her face was still caked in open wounds. She didn’t bother changing her attire or attempting to rest, as the aftermath of the war was equally brutal. Her people needed her, and that was the fuel that kept her going. 

“Right, I'll be there,” she said, giving Petra a reassuring smile. The poor woman looked like she’d aged a century. Her brown hair had thinned out, and the bandage over her left eye was still soaked in blood. She was a petite woman who was entrusted with the left wing of Shiganshina’s army. Just like Mikasa, she had barely slept and continued to make preparations. After the funeral, they would leave this cursed land. Mikasa didn’t have the might to hold out any longer. 

The funeral procession was miserable. The dead were tied in white cloth and carried on the living's shoulders. She marched ahead, with a sword covered in indistinguishable blood and flesh. They moved up the hill, where the ground was dug and names were carved into stone. She walked near the edge, thrust her sword into the ground, and knelt. It was hard to keep her composure, but they needed her to be strong.

The dead were buried while the living chanted the Winter Goddess’s song. It was a soft lullaby meant to carry their dead to eternal sunshine and bountiful happiness. She quietly watched as their dead were buried and soil was tossed over them. Her eyes pricked as breathing became unbearably hard. 

“How many?” she whispered, refusing to look away from the consequences of her actions. 

“We came with 130, and now—” Sasha unfolded the haphazardly written notes. “We lost forty soldiers, and if coupled with those who died previously…” Tears streamed down her face. Many lost in the war were people she’d grown up with and learned to hunt with. “Only thirty of us are left, and ten are barely surviving.”

Just like Sasha, Mikasa had grown up with them and studied under them when her father commanded the army. She knew most of them by name, or by their families. Each death was like a friend departed, and her decisions became all the worse. She lost those 100 soldiers. She failed those 100 soldiers. 

“Can we leave tonight?” She turned to Armin, who was equally distraught. 

“Unlikely, we don’t have enough supplies and many need medical attention,” he solemnly shook his head. 

She had never felt so utterly homesick. “I want to fucking leave this cursed city.” Her companions nodded in unison.  

***

The preparations to depart proved to be hellish. They needed to disguise twenty men of the rebellion whom they had saved from the battlefield. The Emperor wanted the Rebels to be hanged. He had brought with him sixty captured men of the rebellion and intended to hang them during the grand celebration. Mikasa still couldn’t eat or sleep, as the three-year-long torment kept gnawing at her sanity. She forced herself to remain efficient instead of simply breaking down and losing her delicate composure. They needed her to be strong for just a little longer. 

At night, on their fourth day of aftermath, all the remaining soldiers gathered in the commander's tent. She wanted to discuss their next step.

The army was divided into ten wings, each led by its commanding officer. But, with how few were left, such ranks were quietly discarded. They were all still exhausted, badly beaten, with faces full of utter horror. None were left without permanent scars etched onto their bodies. Her arms and legs were covered in cuts inflicted by blades. She kept Armin away from the actual battle; even then, his nose was broken during an altercation. Sasha had lost half her thumb and nearly died from a poisoned arrow. They were all battered from war, and their sacrifices amounted to nothing. 

Lanterns were lit inside the tent as she sat between her wounded soldiers. Her mother always emphasised listening to her people. They were the ones wounded and needed her support. 

“I wish to leave as soon as possible,” she began, staring at them. 

“Little lady, I don’t believe we have the strength for such a long journey,” Oluo said in his usual booming voice. She had known him since her childhood, as her father ensured she met every soldier. He was the leader of their front wing and suffered the most losses. He lost both his sons. She had held his shoulder while he cried over their graves. 

“We still haven't secured our reward for the war,” Petra reminded, adjusting the bandage over her eye. The war council would have her head if she came back empty-handed. 

“We’re working on that, but those bastards are being difficult,” Erd exclaimed, waving his hand as if he’d forgotten about the loss of his limb. 

“Make us fight their fucking war, and can’t even keep their agreements,” Sasha didn’t hide her frustrations. Most of the soldiers muttered in agreement. 

She turned to Armin, who was staring at a list of papers. They contained the names of all the rebels caught and sentenced to death. The expression on his face was unreadable. They continued discussing the matter, coming to the conclusion that every soldier wanted rest and their reward. Still, Armin didn’t voice anything and was utterly engrossed in his thoughts. She found it strange but didn’t make much of it. 

“Those, err—” Petra nudged suspiciously, a sign they made up to refer to the rebellion’s men. “We need more garments before crossing the borders.” 

“Right, I have heard it all,” Mikasa sighed, leaning back, as her body ached viciously. She rejected most of the medical attention and had wrapped her wounds haphazardly. Every stung, and the stench of rot felt like a second skin. “Sasha, take note of all the requirements for departure, then work with Erd to get them.” Both of them nodded with a slight bow. Then her attention was focused on Oluo, who looked like death itself. “You’re relieved of your duties, let Gunther handle the err—” she nudged, hoping the sign was correct. “Petra, those deals—”

“I am working on it, don’t worry,” Petra patted Mikasa’s shoulder. “Try getting some rest.” 

“Not yet,” Mikasa shrugged, feeling her eyes sting in exhaustion. “Anything else?” She gazed around, hoping something would come up and keep her busy. She was terrified of the monsters her sleep brought with it. She glanced back at Armin. “Well, do you have any input on the matter?” 

Gunther had to shake Armin out of his thoughts. “Right, yes,” he cleared his throat and scrambled to collect the fallen sheets. “Your Highness, the celebration will be in two days.” Armin inhaled sharply. “I want you to attend it.” 

Mikasa jolted upright. “I will do no such thing.” The Emperor wanted to celebrate when the blood of thousands was shed. The other soldiers grumbled their objection to Armin's ludicrous suggestion. 

Armin’s lips formed a thin line. “I understand the reservation, but trust me, you don’t want to miss it.” 

“And, why is that?” Her brows furrowed. “I will kill the fucking monster if I’m subjected to his presence.” 

“Mikasa, trust me.” That was all Armin said. 

The dread of his words left her momentarily immobilised. She couldn’t refuse him. He looked like a lost child, with ruined innocence in his eyes. He looked like this back then, when they were happy, in that little Winter Town. Her thoughts trailed onto the green-eyed boy, whose face was long forgotten, but his name was ever present. 

How could she forget? She failed him. It was another guilt on her ledger of sin. 

***

The grand celebration was on the fifth day. Sasha had made her seek medical attention and even helped her bathe away the severe pain. But it did little; her mind was still haunted by the horror they had endured together. At Armin’s insistence, they agreed to attend the celebration. The Emperor, jubilant from the victory, wanted to host his fellow benefactors. Even the promised rewards were delivered, and their share for departure was quietly gathered. 

Mikasa briskly walked down the hallways, inciting glances along the way. They were in the pristine palace as she proceeded further with her remaining soldiers. They wore normal clothes, and some even had jewels embedded in their hair. She refused the decorations and wore her war-torn and bloodied coat with the Ackerman’s symbol. She would attend the celebration, but her grief wouldn’t be silenced. 

The luxuries of the palace made her sick. The excess of it all was revolting when the region of Maria was inherently rich. They didn’t need the extra food, jewels, buildings with abundant decorations, or farmlands used for rituals, or anything really. But even then, the infestation of greed grew inside the Emperor. Onlookers saw Mikasa and her soldiers as invaders, as they didn’t belong inside these walls. It was too clean and beautiful, while they were broken and draped in simplicity. She didn't care. If Armin wanted her to attend, then she’d do it.

The question of why kept eroding her patience. He refused to explain, and a part of her knew it had something to do with the captured rebels. But what caught Armin’s attention? She desperately wanted to know. Then there was the unfiltered rage coursing through her body. She never wanted to kill anyone this vigorously. The Emperor had forced them into this situation, and it resulted in her losing people. 

“Don’t murder him,” Sasha whispered, trying to match Mikasa’s furious walk. She grabbed Mikasa’s arm and made her stop to breathe. 

“We don’t have the numbers to survive any assault on the Emperor,” Petra chimed in, gazing at Armin with annoyance. No one wanted to come here, and they couldn’t stop blaming Armin and his persistence. The worst part was that he refused to explain. 

“Armin, this should be worth it,” Mikasa grumbled, pulling her arm away from Sasha. The Royal Guards would be situated around the Emperor, and she wouldn’t do anything as suicidal as attacking him. But the desire to wrangle his neck and watch his life bleed out was too tempting. Her land and her family had suffered under this monster’s shadow for far too long.

She wanted to end it. 

“I wouldn’t have brought you otherwise,” he reminded, as apprehension filled his face. 

“Maybe inform me,” she retorted, hating the lack of knowledge. 

Armin sighed, closing the distance between them. He was shorter than she, such that he stood on his toes to speak in her ear. “I’m sorry for blindsiding you, but believe me, it’s for your good.” His breath tickled her ears, and he smelled like the earth. “You’re barely holding up, and that knowledge will only unravel you. That’s why I refuse to tell,” he continued, making her dread the impending doom. No one knew her like Armin, and for the most part, she trusted his judgement. “You function better in situations of high stress, and that's where you’ll be placed.” 

“You better tell us too,” Sasha remarked, frowning at Armin, who held his arms up in surrender. 

“It’s not like I told her,” Armin revealed, as the look of concern found her face. “I have a plan in mind, don’t worry.” He tried to sedate everyone's nerves. 

The beating of her heart sounded in her ears. Not knowing was unravelling her just as much as knowing would’ve.. She inhaled sharply and attempted to restrain herself. A queen couldn’t flounder under pressure, and she was on the verge of breaking apart. The last thing she needed was a revelation worthy of destroying her composure. She had to preserve, she had to be strong. 

They walked into the ballroom, as their entrance silenced the festivities. The room was filled with unimaginable delights and opulence.

The Emperor was seated in the highest position, along with the Crown Princess and three infants. Around him, in different pockets, were the rulers of other regions. She scanned through the crowd dressed in glamorous dresses; there were the Royal Guards and the Emperor’s rich beneficiaries. It felt as if they had interrupted an intimate party.

In the middle were sixty masked people, bloodied and beaten, who were kept tied up. There was a guillotine set up in the centre, as they intended to feast along the beheadings. She wanted to scream, as rage thoroughly consumed her. The barbaric tendencies of the monster only got worse with time. She had been to the capital before, and even back then, the Emperor made a grotesque visage of his violence. She remembered the scent of fresh blood as the heads of his enemies decorated the palace. She blinked the image away. Rage still coiled around her neck as it wanted her to act. Coming here was a mistake.

A single man was unmasked, and the guard punched him in the gut. His long hair kept most of his face hidden, as he spat at the guard’s feet. He must’ve been the Rebels' leader awaiting his extra punishment. He was broad, taking up space, as another guard tried to subdue his resistance. There was something oddly familiar about him, especially in the way he hunched over and spat out blood. He looked like— No. Her heart was beating fast.

She blinked; lack of sleep was playing tricks on her mind. It couldn't be him. No. No. No. Every noise was blurred out, as an incoherent whistle filled her ears. Her eyes were averted to the ground, dread consumed her body, and her hands began to shake. It couldn't be him. Her insides continued their relentless screech. 

Her chest had tightened, impossible as invisible hands began choking her. In vivid strikes of red, everything came back to her. The boy she had once known, and whose father she had failed. Her vision blurred, and her heart beat filled every space. She remembered the cheering crowd as she helplessly wailed, unable to prevent anyone's demise. Many lives were lost because she was fucking powerless. She forced herself to look at him. At her ultimate sin. 

It couldn't be him. She stumbled back, fingers dug into her forehead, as Armin tried to hold her collapsing body. No. No. No. It was all wrong. All fucking wrong. She had hoped for peace in his life and for bountiful happiness. He wasn't meant to be here, but— Maybe she was wrong? Her mind had a way of playing ruthless tricks. She desperately hoped for it. 

Then those green eyes found her face. 

It was him, wholly alive and a bloody mess. 

All those times, she wanted to see his face again, but now?   It became a twisted joke. Fate had a way of tormenting her and was disgustingly precise in its choices. She hated the delight blossoming in her chest, so utterly selfish, after seeing him again. It was short-lived, as the reality came back, and her composure came undone. 

Fear gripped her heart. He was part of the rebellion, captured, and was meant to die today. Just like his father. The nausea got worse with every second. 

She once wished upon the Goddess to see him again. Finally, after many years, it was granted.

She saw Eren Yeager again. 

Chapter Text

Her mother always insisted on the virtue of patience. To have a face that didn't reveal anything; to not give their enemies the satisfaction of eliciting emotions. 

Unlike her mother, who didn't even openly shed tears for her deceased husband, Mikasa struggled to suppress parts of herself. She wasn't rational when people close to her were threatened.

Like instinct, she went for the sword hanging around her waist. But they had left their weapons before entering the palace, and the absence of her weapon made her feel utterly exposed and brimming with frustration. She cursed under her breath as the rage gave way to desperation. 

A single thought entered her mind: she had to save him. Then the guilty consciousness sprang up, drowning her in self-loathing. She wouldn't fail him like she had failed his father all those years ago. The whirlwind of emotions briefly left her paralysed, unable to take her eyes off him. 

“Mikasa, you're showing colours,” Armin whispered next to her ear, and she felt his reassuring hand on her shoulder. It was enough to ground her again. She tried her hardest to dispel any semblance of emotions. She couldn't let anyone know how this man threatened her sanity. It would expose an exploitable weakness, and the Emperor would've been delighted to utilise it. 

The kind of willpower needed to function didn't come easily. It took everything installed in her training to continue walking as if the very axis of her world hadn't shifted.

Armin and Sasha accompanied her to the seats set up on the Emperor's pavilion, heads turned, and silent greetings were administered, but she couldn't focus on anything. She desperately wanted to look at him again, as if to ensure he wasn't an illusion of her scattered mind. He looked breathtakingly real. 

The years had carved out a sharp face, with a defined jawline and a body moulded from hardships. He was all edges and rigid bones now, unlike the soft and bright boy she once knew. It had been so long, those memories felt like a sweet dream. Her heart ached, noticing the open wounds covering his face, the bloodied clothes, and the bandaged eye. Armin had to hold her back when another guard punched him. She almost growled, knowing she'd slaughter them if a sword were provided to her. Armin kept her from spiralling into a murderous rampage.  

Armin was a masterful architect who played with her sentiments. He kept the information away because she'd have done anything to rescue him. He ensured her sword was kept away when she finally learned of him. And, everything culminated in creating a situation where she'd be forced to observe. 

He was familiar with her and used it to manipulate her thoroughly. She didn't like the way he created the circumstances; the guilt of which was visible on his face. He kept muttering his apology, even if he'd do it again if given the opportunity. Yet, she couldn't blame him, as this man was someone she knew and wanted to save. 

How long had it been since she last saw him? She vaguely remembered the winter festival and the blissful ignorance. She was barely thirteen and didn't know any better as war broke out. She never went back, as even Armin was permanently brought to the city. 

She was sixteen when she returned to that cursed town, and the unfortunate incident happened. She couldn't prevent Grisha’s hanging, and the guilt ate her alive. She wished him well, hoping he would live a fulfilling life, perhaps get married, have children, and stay in eternal happiness. But that was merely a fantasy. He followed his father’s footsteps, and it felt like a natural course of action. 

Once again, she faced another hanging that demanded her intervention. She wouldn't let it happen; she'd do anything to save him, even if it killed her, as the guilt would otherwise. 

“What are we going to do?” She whispered, keeping close to Armin. He must’ve already decided on their plan. “You're my advisor, fucking advise me.” 

“We have two options,” Armin muttered, his voice strained to keep his emotions from spilling over. “Either we take the Emperor to court and challenge the hanging, or negotiate a deal. But, it'll take over a year, and that monster won't sit idly by.” Armin swallowed; his gaze refused to leave him. “Or, you invoke the Act of Devotion and wed him.” 

Mikasa jolted upright, unable to comprehend the suggestion. “The utter nonsense you are—” 

“I know it sounds ridiculous,” Armin sheepishly held up his hands. “But, that Act gives you the right to marry anyone, including a man soon-to-beheaded, as the role of being your husband will supersede the role of being a rebel. And, those associated with him will be brought under your rule.” 

He didn’t voice the part about how it’ll follow in The Emperor’s footsteps. He left a precedent when he married Ymir and took over her tribe’s land. It was an exploitable loophole that allowed rulers to acquire more land and people if they wished. The very suggestion made her gravely sick. 

The headache splintered her thoughts, as exhaustion demanded attention. She couldn’t falter; far too much depended on her to remain steady. She had lives to save and people to bring back home. Yet, the hypocrisy of it all wasn’t lost on her. She actively participated with the Emperor, who slaughtered the rebels in thousands, and her sword cut them down too. But, here she was, hoping to save them as if their blood wasn’t on her hands; as if she wasn’t standing atop a mountain of their corpses.

Sometimes, when she saw her reflection, an unrecognisable face stared back. She knew her choices began the descent into monstrosity. 

“You want me to act like that bastard?” Mikasa hissed, struggling to keep her composure. They needed to save him, but repeating the Emperor’s tactics didn't make her any better. She'd never forcefully take away anyone's freedom. And she knew he wouldn't forgive her if she did. 

“I commend your upright morals, but we're at a disadvantage here. Either you wed him or take this to court,” Armin exclaimed with visible urgency, “I spent countless hours trying to come up with a solution with the least amount of violence. And, well, this is my best bet. Or, do you wish to wage war and undo the whole purpose of coming here?” 

He was starting to panic, and she was consumed by restlessness. They wanted to save the boy they once knew, and the situation at hand made it too difficult. She'd opted for bloodshed, but her people would pay for it. She could be reckless with her life, but didn't want the consequences of playing with anyone else's. 

Worse of all, Armin was absolutely right. By marrying him, they would destabilise Shiganshina and make it personal. Mikasa would be fully responsible for her actions, and the Emperor’s wrath would be hers to withstand. She could save sixty lives if things went smoothly. She could save him. But was it worth the entanglement? He would be treated as an object merely subjected to her will. And yet, the need to save his life overruled her conflict. 

“Never do this to me again,” Mikasa warned, feeling Armin tense up next to her. She was thoroughly irritated at the situation at hand, and being forced into it rattled her nerves. She was sick and tired of this cursed land. She just wanted to go back home. 

“I'm sorry,” Armin's voice broke. 

Being the queen left no room for breaking apart. She had to be strong. 

Sasha was starting to stare at them. She was barely a toddler and knew nothing about their adventures. For the most part, Mikasa had kept her identity hidden, and only her friends knew about it. She blinked, scanning the other rebels as forgotten names came back. If he were here, then what became of the rest?

She had hoped Jean, Marco and Connie would only meet happiness. The other alternative was that they ended up just like him. Out of the sixty captured rebels, only twenty were presented for hanging. She assumed they were the high-ranking ones, and he was their leader. They hadn't unmasked the rest, and no recognition was possible. 

“This feels very precise,” she admitted, scanning the crowd around them. After the initial shock of seeing him settled, the gnawing questions presented themselves. What if someone knew she'd save him? Out of the people who knew of their bond, only he presented himself, and he wasn't the exploitative kind. But did she even know this man? The boy of her dreams turned into an unrecognisable stranger. 

“I had that feeling too,” Armin agreed, frantically gazing at the Emperor. He must've suspected him, but there wasn't anything to gain here. “Regardless, would you still save them even if it was manipulation?” he asked firmly while touching her shoulder. 

“Yes,” she said in a heartbeat, and their doubts were shoved aside for later. 

“I want to ask about all this,” Sasha pointed between them, as they visibly moved away. “But I'm guessing it's all beyond my clearance.” 

“You'll know sooner than later,” Mikasa added, feeling Armin’s wide-eyed gaze fixated on her. 

“We're all dying to know,” she leaned closer, whispering in Mikasa’s ear. “Petra suspects that Armin just wanted to have a dance with you.” Mikasa wanted to laugh at the absurd difference between reality and the reasons they came up with. If only these were the situations she had to deal with and live a whimsical life. Instead, she needed to withstand the burden of life that rested on her shoulders. 

“I wouldn't drag anyone here if that were the case,” Armin looked practically offended, realising how their whispers might've looked. “Something like a dance can be done back at home.” 

“Does that mean you'll take my lady's hand in a dance at home?” Sasha quipped, blissfully oblivious to the turmoil. 

“I have no qualms with dances,” Armin's brows furrowed, “but that is besides the—” 

“Asami's child, you're lively as ever,” The Emperor's sharp voice bellowed through the room, and it jolted her upright. A silence fell, and stares turned towards them. Armin was rigid, and Sasha practically hid behind her. The Emperor finally took notice of her, and it was unnerving. She had met the man twice and never wished to see him again. 

With every ounce of practice distilled in her and with a meticulously mesmerised expression, she turned to the monster and bowed. “Your Excellency, it's through your efforts alone.” She wanted to throw up. 

Mother strictly emphasised flattery and compliance, as any indication of defiance would be like a death sentence. The Emperor expected nothing of her and only saw her as the helpless girl entrusted with duties; keeping up that image was in her favour. She had to look incompetent and inexperienced, for the punishment of quietly outsmarting him made her lose 100 soldiers. 

“You're turning into a fine woman just like your mother,” he spoke softly, letting the words linger until her stomach churned. The way he looked at her, studying each part of her body, left her thoroughly disgusted. She nearly gave him the satisfaction of flinching away. The patience needed to withstand it was fragile, and she was on the verge of simply choosing violence. 

“You're too kind, Your Excellency,” she mused, as it took everything in her to remain composed. 

She was raised to challenge such a lecherous gaze until they’d bleed and profusely apologise. She rose from the bottom and enforced respect amongst her soldiers. She rarely had to use her title to demand reverence, and there was pride in her accomplishments. In a matter of seconds, the monster stripped away everything and saw her as nothing more than a— she bit her tongue, hoping to suppress the rage. She had to keep control, as he wanted her to react. 

The Emperor was seated under the feathery banner of Reiss. Over the years, his blonde hair streaked with grey, and his skin withered. Still, those eyes painted in the colour of the sky were sharply vigilant. He wore a simple white gown that hid most of his unshapely body, and a crown of golden bellflowers rested on his head. He didn't abandon the attire of his ancestors, as they came from a family of preachers who took control of the land through religion.

Next to him sat the Crown Princess, Historia Reiss, who stared off into the distance. She was a petite woman, a replica of her father's features, wrapped up in a dazzling white gown. She was rarely seen outside the Palace, and she had no social standing. The Emperor tried for a son, and until one was born, she was given the title of Crown Princess. That son never manifested, and she continued to retain that powerless poison. 

There was no sign of Ymir, and it broke Mikasa’s heart. She wanted to know how that poor woman was doing. When she was fourteen, her father took them to Ymir's tribe, and she fondly recalled meeting her. To see such a sweet girl end up with this monster mortified her to the core. 

The monster took another wife, squashed another rebellion, and came out victorious. There wasn't anything they could do. 

Around the Emperor sat the other rulers of Paradis. He kept the ruler of Shiganshina on the very end, giving Mikasa enough privacy to clench her fists and grit her teeth. 

On the opposite end was Pieck Finger, the ruler of Trost, unbothered by the happenings, as she slept through it. Trost had lost its autonomy and came under the Emperor's direct rule, but none of it reflected on the queen's face. She was a woman from a mysterious family and came with strange tales of succession. She couldn't walk; she had been wheelchair-bound from birth. And so her advisor, a tall blonde man with glasses, had been tasked with pushing her chair to wherever she should command him to go. 

The ruler of Stohess was an aged king who sat closest to the Emperor. He kept his sight away from them, hoping to draw no attention. When it came to neutrality, none could match his commitment. His daughter, Annie Leonhart, was the next in line to inherit his title. Still, he never brought her when the Emperor was around. 

No one in the room would aid them if Mikasa decided to slay the monster. Her remaining soldiers were partially wounded and still mentally drained. Still, she asked them to hide blades in their clothes. The Royal Guards were the biggest issue as they remained armed and threatening. Why was she even considering a solo assault? It would ruin the entire purpose of coming here and withstanding three years of torture. Shiganshina was safe, her family was safe— no, she wouldn't move like her father. 

Mikasa was going to save Eren and the sixty others. For too long, they remained passive, watching the world be stained scarlet, as self-preservation overruled everything. She wouldn't fail him like she had failed his father. 

“Well, I suppose that's all,” The Emperor humphed unamused. “So be it, feast until you burst, and then we'll have our entertainment.” His eyes glistened with anticipation as he gestured at the guillotine, and Mikasa’s blood ran cold. 

She had to make a move. Armin was staring at her with profound distress, and she felt every nerve come undone. She looked at him again, long hair hiding most of his face, but the way he tilted his head to the side was too familiar. Eren’s wrists were bleeding where the ropes cut into them, and his clothes were covered in dried blood and dirt. She would make her mother proud. 

The stage was set for her performance. Her soldiers tragically moved around the Royal Guards. Even in the worst-case scenarios, they'd have her back. She could do it, as the role of being the queen demanded too much. She stepped onto the pavilion, coming into the Emperor’s proximity as he curiously watched on. She was going to take advantage of his elevated mood and subdued senses. She kneeled before him as the room went eerily quiet.

She hated prostrating herself like this, but some things couldn’t be helped. Her soldiers hated seeing her this way, too. She hoped the outcome would justify this humiliation. 

“I have a request, Your Excellency,” she tried to sound as meek as possible. 

The Emperor raised his eyebrow, “Certainly, it isn't every day Asami’s child makes a request. What is it, my child?” 

She wanted to smack the satisfaction off his face. “Your previous remark made me realise,” she inhaled, embracing herself. “I am at the age my mother was when she married. And, I believe I should as well.” She was glad her back was turned to everyone's faces. It was the kind of shock that would've vocally startled them. But, with the Emperor's presence, only silence prevailed. 

“Who do you have in mind?” The Emperor rested his head on his palms, observing her thoroughly. 

She swallowed, kept her voice levelled as she stood up and took a stance. “Under the Act of Devotion, I wish to wed the rebellion’s leader.” Loud gasps encapsulated the crowd. She hoped Gunther wouldn't faint from the shock, and that Armin would keep Sasha in control. She turned around, avoided the gaze, and pointed directly at him. She hated having this much unfiltered attention focused on her, but being queen ensured she’d be exposed to it.

It took everything within her to retain her composure, and the mask remained firmly in place. She had to act like a woman plagued with love at first sight. She still needed a reasonable excuse; otherwise, the Emperor would've suspected her motives.

“I learned from your actions,” she continued, forcing reverence into her words. “The way you took the empress and installed order on her land. I want to be an inspiration like you,” her throat arched, as her face threatened to split and reveal the truth. 

If everything failed, flattery would move past his defences. Her mother often spoke of the Emperor being susceptible to beauty. If he thought she looked like her mother— the implication made her skin crawl— she could use it to her advantage. 

“I wish to wed this man and then teach him the ways of our people. I wish to take him, as it's certainly my time to produce an heir.” She forced words out until her sanity started sobbing. 

The Emperor stared at her, expressionless and unmoving. He must've been considering her actions, and the line of thought needed to be stopped. She softened her body and mimicked the mannerisms of a woman in distress. “Please don't blame my people. It's just that my poor heart saw this man, and I need to have him. I'm sure no one understands the affairs of the heart better than you.” 

The Emperor stroked his chin contemplatively, as the glint returned to his eyes. “You came here to fight, while your uncle stayed back in Shiganshina. And, I am to believe such a child would fall for this abomination.” 

Even the crown princess was staring at her with renewed interest. She didn’t want to imagine the expressions on her soldiers’ faces. Petra, no doubt, would've wanted to slap her; she was against the idea of using marriage as a tool.

Now, the usefulness of that card ended, and she likely spawned chaos. It was one thing taking him home, and it was another facing the consequences at home. The war council would enjoy dissecting her choices and would craft stories around them. And yet, her pride and reputation didn't matter; she needed to save him. Once he was safely under her command, she'd deal with the fallout. 

Mikasa was beginning to sweat in trepidation. Despite the practicality and her mother's teaching, lying never came naturally to her. She had a terrible tendency to speak her mind without a filter. “Three years of war made me utterly lonely, and I realised it wasn't for me. Thus, I must settle down now,” she blurted out, praying her haphazard reasoning would strike a chord with him. “Who better than with a man I can reform and bring under your command? I will do my part diligently to bring him to order.” 

“You'll have him, and his sixty followers,” The Emperor added, much to her horror. She desperately wanted Armin to step in and continue the conversation. Lying and manipulating the truth was far more his forte than hers. She was barely running on fumes and borrowed luck. “And, you'll certainly ruin my entertainment.” The anger wasn't hidden, as he wanted to taste more of her apprehension. 

“They hold no power, and your army remains supreme. We wouldn't dare challenge its might,” she emulated being frightened, and the sight of it pleased the Emperor. “As for your entertainment, Your Highness, I should be it.” She was playing with fire, and he'd happily burn her alive. 

The recklessness of her declaration caught his attention, and with growing fascination, he sat up straight, and the expression on his face genuinely concerned her. He was a man with depraved tendencies, and she didn't want to be on the receiving end of it. Still, there were far too many people around for him to act so dishonourably, and she prayed on the soundness of her logic. 

If push came to shove, she'd kill him, and that was the worst scenario possible. She had to remain calm. She had to act like a queen. But what kind of queen sacrificed her pride and blemished her reputation? Every day, she failed the role she was born to play. It didn't matter when countless lives could've been saved. It didn't matter if his life could've been saved. 

“The more you speak, the more I hear Asami speak through you,” the Emperor mused, lost in his thoughts before he focused on her again. “He managed to kill ten of my men before being captured. Twice escaped and left two more murdered. Do you believe you can handle him?” The Emperor asked, eagerly awaiting her response. There was far too much commotion around the room, but she had entirely zoomed out. 

“Yes,” she answered with far too much conviction. 

Even if he was a stranger and likely hated her for not preventing his father's death, she knew he'd never harm her. The Emperor pointed at him and beckoned her to demonstrate it. Familiar voices asked her to stop, and even Armin chipped in with warnings. But none registered, as she slowly walked towards him. The guard handed her a blade and stepped backwards, and she heard Olou shout her name with distress. But nothing could stop the commanded actions. She swiftly slashed the ropes that bound him. Several people stepped backwards, and the Royal Guards steadied their weapons. 

She kneeled in front of him, unable to breathe. He looked like a beautiful mess painted with blood and bruises. Everything about him left her in awe, as spells of nostalgia consumed her thoroughly. The stench of death was etched onto him as she tried to reconcile with the idea of him. He was utterly real, in front of her, breathing and filled with unbridled rage. The green of his eyes was marred by a decade of pain and misfortune. He stared at her, unblinking and expressionless. The fluttering of her heart and the ringing in her ear drowned out everything. For an inexplicable amount of time, it was just them, suspended in nothingness. She almost forgot the purpose of her inflatable acting. The force needed to tear away her gaze for him was dreadfully wrecking. She screamed at herself to continue, as it wasn't over. 

She placed the blade next to him, and another round of gasps followed. He didn't even acknowledge it as he just stared at her face, too many emotions crossed over it, and she felt utterly exhausted. She just needed it to end. She just wanted to go home. With the last remains of her willpower, she looked at the Emperor with evoked shyness and placed a finger under his chin. “As you can see, he's rather passive now thanks to Your Excellency's intervention.” 

“I suppose,” The Emperor nodded, “I shall sanction this marriage.” 

It was done. 

She married him.

***

Artwork from @roheseverena

Chapter Text

A month back. 

***

There was nothing he hated more than royalty. Those sick bastard stayed comfortably hidden in their castles, while the poor fought their battles and gave up their lives. The Emperor was nothing but a monster disguised as a human. He killed without morals, took whatever he pleased, and nothing stood in his way. They had been trying to bring forth change, but that persistent bastard always overpowered them. The older ones often spoke of the Reiss families as harbingers of the Sun Goddess’s wrath. She had blessed them with eternal prosperity, and over the years, they continued their plight. 

It had been three years since their rebellion began. It was the second one he’d seen in his lifetime, and it was bloodier than before. He’d lost his father and friend to the cause, and countless others who gave up their lives for change. There was a time when he was passionately driven, but slowly, with each death and futile attempt, he started losing hope. The Emperor always remained supreme, and they would lose their people.

He’d buried enough to lie awake at night, chanting their names, as he’d avenge them. But they were faced with another failure, as his comrades kept dying, and nothing was achieved. They were driven out of every captured land, and the Royal Guards surrounded Trost’s outskirts. Even with the support of Trost, they had fallen short, and all hope was lost. He was left with only unadulterated anger and a vicious desire to set things right. He’d lost Marco, whom he had promised a better tomorrow, but ultimately they achieved nothing. Grisha was a visionary who led the rebellion until his final breath and his son couldn’t even dent the Emperor’s army. 

They had taken shelter in an empty house, as it became their makeshift weapon storage. Many wounded were treated, as the rest gathered around the leader, hoping to keep up their attack. But, at this point, many had simply lost hope and abandoned. There were barely eighty of them left, as the idea of resistance started feeling like communal suicide. Nothing but the stench of death and dried blood surrounded them. 

Jean tied a bandage over Eren’s left eye. “You’ll be useless without the other one,” he muttered, after rinsing them with fresh water. In one of their skirmishes, soil was thrown at his face, and it briefly left him incapacitated. The dimly lit room made the task difficult, as Jean struggled to straighten the bandages.

“What even is the point?” Connie sighed, leaning over the table. He’d given up and only kept thinking about his poor mother. “We’ll be dead by tomorrow.” 

“None of that,” Jean scolded him, but even he had given up hope. They had accepted death long ago, but actually facing it was another kind of ordeal. 

“Fuck,” Eren slammed both his hands on the table. The sound boomed through the room, but it barely affected his companions. They were too used to his sudden outbursts. “It can’t end like this.” He searched their faces for an answer, but none had it. Jean stared off into the distance, and Connie was perpetually on the verge of tears. 

The room soon emptied as other comrades wandered out. Eren felt restless, unable to accept defeat, as his body wanted to act. Surely, there was something they could’ve done? They merely sat there awaiting their eventual deaths. If he were half as skilled as his father, he’d have known how to inspire, but unlike him, nothing but rage provided purpose. 

“If we could go home now, I’d apologise to my mother for screaming at her,” Jean blankly spoke to no one in particular. “She prepared food for me, and I was such an idiot.” He had settled down next to Eren and took another sip from their wine bottle. He had brought those for celebration but ended up consuming them as his final respite. 

“I’d tell my family not to buy me new clothes,” Connie sobbed, touching the deteriorating fabric. His family prepared clothes for their eventual victory, but only became a wishful fantasy. “They had better things to buy.” He came from a house filled with siblings and hand-me-downs, which made owning anything new a remarkable achievement. It was wasted on him. 

Eren felt hot rage boil in his veins. “Marco didn’t die for us to give up,” he barked, feeling his eyes sting.

The pain of having lost his friend continued to haunt his soul. Jean placed his hands over his ears, visibly distraught by the memories. He wanted to scream, but the hollowness of his body betrayed him. He’d seen so much death and destruction that it chipped away at his sanity. Only the rawness of his anger kept him going. “Even if they take away everything, we can’t give up.” He was on his feet and winced when pressure was applied to his wound. He would rally the others even if they had accepted the end. Connie couldn’t even face him, and Jean just wanted the ground to swallow him whole. After all, Marco had died trying to save them, and the guilt of it consumed them thoroughly. 

“That’s the kind of dedication we need,” a voice emerged from the darkness. Connie fell off the chair, and Jean gasped out loud. “How much are you willing to gamble? Would you put your life in fate's hands?” The voice asked, as they assembled on their feet and placed fists on their hearts. Their leader was back. 

Erwin Smith was a mysterious man. No one knew where he came from or how his mind functioned. He started as a comrade under Grisha, slowly rose through the ranks and claimed the position of leader after his death. But only a handful of their people knew of his existence and his name. Over the three years, his planning gave them impossible victories with incredible loss of life. He gambled away everything, even parts of his body if it aided in their goals. The last few months, he kept disappearing, and many of his commands were relayed through Jean; many mistook him for the leader. The last four months were dreadful, as Erwin went missing and they started struggling. Connie had assumed him dead, as they tried surviving without his suicidal tactics. 

“Where the fuck were you?” Eren shouted, unmoved by the sudden appearance. Erwin emerged from the shadows, half his face hidden under a cloak, as the lanterns lit up his pale blue eyes. It was a pointless question, this man hardly ever explained his intentions. 

“I ask you again, will you gamble away everything for a chance of victory?” He asked, determination engulfing his face. Eren felt the frustration wrap around his body, as he desired to scream at this man. Still, they couldn't move forward unless they played his games. 

“Anything,” all of them agreed, and the answer made that man smile. He shoved everything off the table and laid out a map. It had several areas showing their movement, much of which were limited to Trost, but Eren noticed dots displayed in Shiganshina. 

“Shiganshina has such potential, but they never want to move unless forced,” Erwin pointed at the area, encircling where the ruler lived. As always, they remained neutral and continued to protect their borders. But, strangely enough, the Queen of Shiganshina was stationed in the Capital, and her ruthless Uncle commanded their army back home. The Queen of Shiganshina— he refused to think about her. 

“I’ve been moving our comrades into their region,” he revealed, startling them. “As ordinary folks, and they'll blend in enough. Most of them, including you three, do come from there." He traced his finger over to the Capital. “The Queen was personally involved with identification and migration; without her presence, the appointed officials have been slacking. It proved to be an easy task.” 

“How did you go past the Royal guards?” Connie asked, struggling to understand. It made sense, knowing how their numbers kept depleting. They just assumed people abandoned their posts, but another plot was unfolding. It infuriated Eren to be kept in the dark as his comrades kept dying. 

“It was rather troublesome,” Erwin admitted, for a split second, exhaustion was evident on his face. He moved his cloak aside and revealed the loss of an entire arm. None of them could question further. 

“I’ve moved a decent amount of our comrades there,” he continued, losing any touch of emotion.

“The last pockets of our resistance are here and in the Capital, and both are in dire need of a miracle.” 

“We can’t move to the Capital, the Queen’s soldiers haven’t been replaced,” Jean reasoned. All of them had decided to see her only as the Queen. 

“We would force our way there, but who's to say the Commander wouldn’t intervene?” Connie countered, knowing how sentimental the Ackerman family was. The word was that she refused to call more soldiers, and the Emperor completely abandoned them. Over the three years, she had lost her army, and they could’ve advanced there. But, knowing her Uncle was on the horizon kept them in Trost. Unlike her, he wasn’t as merciful or understanding. 

“She is the key,” Erwin declared with a hint of madness in his eyes. Eren was suddenly scared for her, and those emotions confused him. He looked around and noticed that Connie and Jean were equally unsettled. She was another reason they stayed in Trost. “You have a history with her,” Erwin stared at him. He wasn't asking; rather, he stated the truth. They had decided to keep her a secret, but this madman had somehow discovered it. Eren returned the stare, unflinchingly. 

“What the fuck are you planning?” He asked, filled with unease. A part of him already knew where this conversation was heading. 

“I want to use you as a decoy,” Erwin revealed, unable to contain the thrill. “We’ll surrender, save as many as possible, and then rely on her to save you.” 

Before he could shout at the absurdness, Jean and Connie equally protested. “He isn’t dying because of your shitty schemes,” Jean growled, stepping between them. 

“How the fuck will you control that?” Connie exclaimed, filled with frustration. It was one thing to exploit her kindness, and it was another to put Eren in danger. After losing Marco, they ruthlessly looked out for one another. Eren was too lost in his thoughts to speak. 

The Queen of Shiganshina, Mikasa Ackerman.

The Mikasa he used to know. Their childhood was like a sweet dream, and for the most part, he doubted she ever existed. But then he saw her again, standing on the stage as his father was hanged. He wanted to hate her and continued to hate her until it became meaningless. She became a distant thought he never wanted to unravel. There were far too many emotions just accompanying her name. 

“I’m far more expendable than he is,” Jean argued, “She knew me as well, and I would also fall under her mercy.” 

“No, I’ll do it,” Connie pushed Jean aside. “We used to bake together.”

More than hatred, he simply felt betrayed by her actions. He used to think she was different and was better than her father. Time went on, and she walked down a path he refused to accept. There was far too much pain and distance staining pleasant memories of her. He had hoped desperately, knowing she was kind and would save his father. But then they both watched him die, and he couldn’t stand the sight of her. More time passed, his rage gave way to understanding, knowing she lacked any power back then.

Still, he refused to find her again, as just the thought of her often unravelled him thoroughly. If someone were to exploit her position, then he’d withstand the consequences. He could’ve hated her or looked at her with longing; regardless of the vicious emotions she brought out, no one but him needed to feel them. 

“I’ll do it,” he said, silencing the room with his declaration, and Erwin was pleased. 

“Marvellous,” Erwin patted Eren on his shoulders. “Now here's the plan, we’ll give up our positions and be taken as prisoners. And, if everything goes as planned, the Queen will be in the Capital and will intervene. She’ll opt to take it to court.”

“All this relies on her feeling sentimental for him,” Jean sighed, clearly bothered by the impossible chances. Eren didn’t know her at anyone. But, even then, he knew she’d always save him. 

“She needs to know I’m there, and then she’ll save me,” He said with the kind of confidence that even startled him. 

“How can you be so sure? We were kids back then, and she isn’t the same,” Connie challenged. It was the frightening truth as she turned out like her father; self-preservative to a fault. They chose to let the land of Paradis burn as long as they remained safe. She openly sided with the Emperor and fought for him. Many of his comrades were slaughtered by her soldiers. She was another ruler whom he'd hate. 

Eren shrugged; there wasn’t any explanation but the feeling in his gut. “It’s a gamble.” The word lit up Erwin’s face. 

“Jean, once we’re in the Capital, ensure her Advisor knows of our presence,” Erwin continued, enraptured by the smooth flow of the plan. Jean simply nodded, their thoughts now focused on Armin Arlert; another ghost of their pasts. “Make sure Eren is presented as the leader.” Jean had family living in the Capital who were close to the place, he could deliver the necessary information, and prepare for the future. 

“If we’re successful, then the next stage can commence,” Erwin rolled up the map and pulled the cloak over his face. “We’ll be moved to Shiganshina for protection, and then we’ll start phase 2 with our planted comrades.” 

“If we aren’t, then you’ll have us beheaded,” Eren added, hoping the madmen didn’t make light of their situation. He was like an addict who played with insane chances, and the loss of life came every single time. 

“Yes, if we die, then it’ll be on my shoulders,” he admitted, faltering for a second. 

“Can you truly stand atop this many corpses?’ Jean asked, still hesitant. 

Erwin couldn’t answer.

Chapter Text

The excessive amount of stares drove her insane. Everywhere she went, her soldiers stared at her, Sasha stared at her, the rebels stared at her, and the constant whispering followed her around. 

Her performance in the ballroom left everyone dazzled with conflicting emotions. Her soldiers were furious with the way she placed herself in danger and blamed Armin for it. The people of the Royal Court started speculative rumours about her past with the rebellion’s leader. By the time they departed, a whole story was curated in the name of dramatic love. At some point in the story, she was declared pregnant with the villain's child. The stories would reach Shiganshina before her arrival, and the War Council would be out for blood. The thought of returning home had become dreadful. But, at the very least, none except Armin were aware of her true intentions. Was she even aware of it herself? She just wanted to save a childhood friend and his people, as she desperately tried to pay for her previous idleness. 

The journey back home was uneventful. She chose to ride the horse despite the nasty wounds on her thigh and back. They left her uncomfortable, but others needed the carriages more than her. They came with loot, trade agreements, and sixty more people. She stayed ahead of the group, unable to withstand the constant stares. She had to beg Sasha to stop asking her if she was pregnant. Her people wanted to know the reason behind her actions, and the simple explanation provided didn't satiate them.

The fact that she, someone known for considering every single option, acted recklessly and almost got on the Emperor's bad side for this man, plagued every curious mind. Even though she couldn't believe she'd done that, a performance which would've made her mother proud. Somehow managed to keep peace and got the people she wanted; it felt too perfect, and it unnerved her wholeheartedly. The Emperor likely had a plan, and they needed to be ahead of it. Thinking about the eyes on her just made her further uncomfortable. Getting used to the watchful eyes was the toughest part of being the Queen. She wanted to collapse when all attention was focused on her. 

“Slow down,” Armin brought his horse next to her. “Running away isn't going to make it easier.”

She had Armin handle anyone who wanted to know more. Officially, he told them about her wanting to save sixty lives and put on a show to please the Emperor. In the Royal Court, he talked about how she wanted to convert this rebellious man into the Emperor's subordinate. He prepared reasons to skirt around the whole truth. No one needed to know about their childhood connection; it would only complicate things and remove the superficial nature of her interventions. If it were personal, then the Emperor's attention would be on her again. She couldn't stand him; there was nothing but disgust.

They were in the pastureland of Stohess. The grass was green, clouds blocked the sun, and the breeze kept them cool. It smelled like the birth of spring, as all the goodness of nature came forward. She could spot acres of flowers sprouting in the wilderness. Her mother loved coming here until moving around became difficult. She often talked about falling in love with her husband here. Between the flowers and the persistent sun, she found a man worth her time. Mikasa doubted their story was this simple, but hadn't the heart to uncover their tragedy. Her parents were loving and devoted; that was all she needed to know. 

“Armin, I'm just utterly tired,” she admitted in a small voice. He looked at her with genuine pity. 

“Just a little bit more and you'll be home,” he reassured, “I'll mislead the date of our arrival and handle the rest.” It wasn't fair on him either; he had been equally broken down and suffered through the worst. 

She nodded, thanking the Goddess for granting her a soul who understood her so thoroughly. She gave him a weak smile as the pain in her back got worse. Still, the way he had manipulated everything, she left the burden of defusing the aftermath on him as an appropriate punishment. 

They slowed down, allowing the others to catch up. She had almost taped Sasha’s mouth when she went on about how Mikasa cheated on her Advisor. It was starting to get irritating, but she preferred that over the silence. The torturous three years waited to unravel her, and the little control only continued to deteriorate. It was easier for her soldiers to focus on petty matters like her dramatic marriage than to confront the horrors of war. Most of them couldn't sleep at night, and the pain of loss only got worse with time. They had been through too much bloodshed. It wasn't like Mikasa fared any better, but for her people, she needed to remain strong. She once stood before the Emperor, with no tears in her eyes, even after her father had died. 

Being the Queen didn't allow her to spiral; far too many depended on her strength. 

Just a little more and she'd be home. 

The rebels rode between her soldiers. It was mainly for protection; they were in the wilderness where bandits often resided. Then there was the uneasy feeling of things playing out too smoothly. Either the world conspired to make them meet, or mortals' folly was at play. She learned long ago there were no coincidences, and everything came with a price. She turned to the side and noticed several rebels riding next to him. She looked away, refusing to observe further. There were far too many emotions, and she lacked the fortitude to go through them. 

“I counted them,” Armin rode close to her, needing to whisper on this particular topic. “Jean and Connie are there.” She felt a pang of sadness in knowing how most of them went down the same path. Either Marco made it out alive, or he died on the path. Just the thought of it made her feel utterly hollow. “I thought about what you said,” Armin looked in the rebel's direction, “He doesn't quite feel like their leader.” Both of them subconsciously refused to say his name. His name felt like a bad omen, and they couldn't incur the retribution of speaking it. 

“Have you spoken with him?” Mikasa quietly asked, despite the triggering nature of the question. She wanted to know but dreaded all possible answers. There was no possible way he'd react calmly. The boy she knew was like a ball of sunshine and sparks. He'd go off on anything and anyone. How much did he change over the years? She couldn't bury the curiosity. 

“I tried but couldn't,” Armin revealed, unable to look at her. Even her diligent Advisor couldn't go near him. They were too unnerved and filled with undisputed guilt. 

She redirected the conversation.“If that's the truth, then it simply means they're playing a game too,” Mikasa sighed softly, her head starting to ache. Another game, another plot against the Queen. She was getting sick of constantly needing to predict her enemies. Yet the role of being the Queen required her to partake in it as well, even if it wasn’t her forte. She wasn't like her mother, who'd play anyone like a flute until her kindness got in the way. “Who the fuck isn't plotting something?” 

Armin shrugged, “Probably Sasha." He pointed at the girl dozing off on her horse. 

“She wants the pie I got from the Capital,” Mikasa grumbled. 

“Why not just give it?” Armin frowned, grown tired of their antics. 

“She needs to learn a lesson,” Mikasa folded her arms, taking a stance. She needed an easy conversation to keep her mind off things. 

***

The bells rang with their arrival. Each town they passed showered them with flowers and then with despair. 

They carried nothing but news of the dead and bountiful confusion over the sixty strangers. Families encircled them, hoping to find a loved one, but only vacant stares followed. There was little happiness when only devastation was brought home. Armin had mainly taken charge of the situation, as she went to the castle like a coward. She had to face everything but needed a few moments alone. She was past her breaking point. 

In the safety of her study, she cried her heart out when no one could see her combust. She had killed and gotten them killed, blood was still fresh on her hands, and every part of her ached. She desperately wanted to repent, but those choices couldn't have been undone. She couldn't stand the weight of the dead on her shoulders and began to shake with every cry of forgiveness. She had failed them; she had failed her people. Her father would've looked at her with utter disappointment. In all his battles, he'd never lost as much as she had in a single war. She made a choice, and it left them dead. Her face felt raw from the constant stream of tears. She leaned over the desk, hoping to ground herself, but ended up on the floor. She tried to hold herself in place, but those sobs only got worse. The title of Queen wasn't meant for her, as every single doubt came back to haunt her.

If only she had listened to the War Council and allowed Uncle to— no, it was futile to consider scenarios when the time had already passed. 

She had decided to outsmart the Emperor and stop history from repeating itself. But ended up in the version where she caused countless deaths for a greater purpose. How was she any different from the monster who took land and people? She played for the greater good and ended up in scenarios that felt like a victory. But it was utterly devastating knowing the lives lost to achieve it. She wiped away her tears harshly, trying to sustain a little bit of control. She shivered again, feeling the cold winds of Shiganshina. It was home, and its comforting nature surrounded her. She missed it dearly and knew a selfish part of her would put her home above everything. 

At some point, she ended up in the garden. It was on the opposite side of the castle, an open space filled with her mother's favourite flowers, and a single ancient tree loomed over everything. A single grave was situated between the tree's enormous roots— her father's grave. His body was buried in the Capital, as his death happened in a foreign land, and yet, her mother wanted the grave here. Mikasa often found herself in the garden when too many thoughts filled her head. Now she craved the garden for its soothing nature.

Crying her eyes out and fully breaking apart made her feel seemingly lighter. Maybe a little more capable of handling the aftermath of her actions. There was so much to do, but she chose a few more moments of peace. The stench of death was permanently etched on her body, and her hands were painted red with blood. The world could have her again, chew her up and spit her out, but she'd pick up the pieces and become whole again. 

That was the real Ackerman curse. No matter what happened, they'd collect themselves and continue living. 

“I knew I'd find you here,” a voice called, and she held back tears upon realisation. It was her mother, and just the sight of her broke her apart again. At some point, she had dreaded seeing her mother, something about being a failure and needing to explain herself. But the sight of her made Mikasa feel like a little girl who needed her mother's comfort. She got up and practically ran towards her. 

Her mother was being pushed up the pathway by Isabella. She almost lunged at the poor woman and straddled her enough to lean into a warm embrace. More tears fell, but the comfort kept her from breaking down. She missed the scent of bellflowers and lavender tea, and the sound of a soft inhale when her mother felt satisfied. They remained like that until Isabella wanted to contribute to the embrace. In all her relief, she effortlessly picked her mother from the wheelchair and carried her to the grave. There were a lot of protests, but the giggles of approval followed. 

“I'm glad to have my daughter back,” Asami said, threading her fingers through Mikasa’s hair. She was lying on her mother's lap, as Isabella quietly fiddled with the flowers. She had taught Mikasa the method of making a flower crown, but once she lost her arm, it stopped being her forte. Sometimes she made one to cheer poor Isabella up. The smiles Isabella and her mother shared often made her wonder if there was more to their relationship. Isabella had preceded her father and grown up with her mother. They talked a lot, but never about themselves. She never had the heart to uncover such personal secrets.

“I missed everything,” Mikasa muttered, “I'm sorry for not being able to stop Sasha. It must've been hard for you.” She looked at Isabella, who only waved her off. Her ex-nanny grew up in wars and knew the cost they claimed. She started to doze off until the top of her head was smacked. 

“You came back after three years and didn't even come to me?” Asami fumed, throwing another smack for good measure. 

“She had me running all the way here for you,” Isabella chimed in, trying to mask her concern. They had started noticing all the new wounds marked on her body, and parts of her right earlobe were missing. The worst of her damage was hidden under her clothes, thankfully. Mikasa mumbled an apology. She couldn't even present an excuse beyond needing to be alone.

They talked about incoherently blissful things. She barely participated in the conversation, but it helped in keeping the silence at bay. Her mother got a new helper, a tiny woman with two children. But, apparently, she had an affair with the gardener, and her poor mother had to cope with her divorce. Then Isabella went on about the Fio Town's councillor, who married the daughter of a rich merchant, and their wedding was the previous spring's highlight. The sun had gone down completely, and their conversations only blossomed.

At some point, her mother and Isabella started debating about the importance of the Winter Goddess. Her mother loved her, and some of her fondest memories were related to the Goddess. Mikasa wondered if Isabella knew about her mother's tradition of dressing up as the Goddess and dancing during the Winter festival. She wanted to think about the last time, but it was inexplicably linked with him. And, she didn't want to think about him. 

“I've been meaning to ask about the little stunt you pulled,” Isabella began, and Mikasa audibly groaned. They had kept the topic away for her sake, but their patience was limited. She sat up against the tree and plucked leaves out of her hair. 

“Armin must've briefed everyone,” Mikasa yawned, hoping to end it here. 

“He presented you like a saint who wanted to save lives,” Isabella said, glancing at Asami, “She met with your consort.” The word almost choked her. 

She was trying her hardest to block out every aspect of the act she created, especially the fact that she forcefully married him, and he officially held the title of being her husband. It was the combination of mortification and guilt that made her feel sick. Even if there was a game at play, she'd stolen his right to choose and forced him into this marriage. It was for the sake of saving him, but that didn't prevent adverse emotions from flourishing. To make matters worse, she spent three years actively killing his people and sided with the Emperor. Surely, he must've hated the very sight of her. Not like she could blame him, she'd only added to his misery. 

She couldn't stop his father from being hanged— forget hatred, he likely wanted her dead. 

“Meeting with him is rather an exaggeration. I just saw from afar,” Asami corrected, still lost in thoughts as she tapped on her chin. Mikasa hoped her mother wouldn't recognise him; he'd changed too much. 

“I did want to save lives,” Mikasa emphasised, feeling like an absolute hypocrite. The first time she heard of the beheading, she just wanted to go home until Armin insisted and threw her into that situation. 

“All lives or a single life?” Isabella asked quietly. She was very familiar with how her family operated, and all things considered, she was still her father's daughter. 

“I'd like to think it's all lives,” Mikasa said, almost wistfully.

She wanted to be kind like her mother, but the situation around her made it devastatingly difficult. It didn't matter which parent she emulated; both of them placed their family first and foremost. People they cared for mattered more in the grand scheme of things. This was the adopted mindset she wanted to unlearn. Everything and everyone mattered, not just her biases. 

“I've seen him before,” her mother said, and Mikasa’s blood ran cold. Obviously, the former Queen, known for her impeccable memory, would recognise him. “Those eyes, the ones you longed to see every winter. It's him, that boy from my hometown.” Just like that, her little secret was aired like public laundry. Isabella sat up straight as both women stared at her, demanding answers she didn't want to give. 

“You're right, My Lady. Those eyes are hard to forget,” Isabella exclaimed. “I ran after them far too many times.” 

“It shouldn't matter who he is,” Mikasa simply said. 

“You saved the boy from your childhood while acting like an aloof royal who wanted to fix a random enemy. I'm rather proud of you, my child,” Asami fondly smiled, pinching Mikasa’s cheek. “Still, you’ll face heavy repercussions for this act.” 

“Didn't have much choice. It was either forcing the law or taking it to court.” Mikasa shrugged.

She didn't want to defend the decision but felt misunderstood without the context. She was thrown into the circumstances without any kind of plan and had to act accordingly. Armin only gave her two alternatives, and both were capable of ruining them. Once she saw the bloodlust in the Emperor’s eyes, her mouth moved on its own, and she started acting. Evoking the law was the quickest solution, and she just wanted him under their protection. They could kill a treacherous rebel, but not the Queen's husband. The word still sent shivers down her spine. 

“Did you even want to marry him?” Isabella asked, but the question felt utterly inconsequential. She hadn't even asked herself that. What she wanted or didn't, stopped mattering long ago. 

“I had to save him,” she said with a little glint of hope. “Don't tell this to Sasha, she's been giving me a hard time.” 

“You're like her older sibling, obviously she's worried about you and your reckless actions,” Isabella scolded, “I don't like seeing you use yourself like this.” 

“What of it? Marriage was a tool to achieve this peaceful escape,” Mikasa countered, not understanding the hassle accompanying the act. 

She didn't think much about the act itself, but forcing it on him bothered her the most. Yet those around her didn't like it for entirely different reasons. They had romanticised aspects of her life, hoping she'd follow the path of love. They were merely well-meaning, despite knowing the reality of her role. If not for him, she'd have used marriage for another necessary cause. She wasn't meant to be loved or desired; a simple fact being the Queen propagated. 

‘It’s a devastating option because they’ll hate you,” Asami continued, staring off into the distance. “You jeopardised the safety of Shiganshina and acted independently. They’ll hate you.” The silent rage in her voice wasn’t lost. 

Mikasa was going to avoid the War Council, the rebels, and him— that was her brilliant solution. If they couldn’t get hold of her, then her sanity would stay intact. 

“When I married your father, they were the most unkind,” Asami drily laughed, “Called me a traitor, and all sorts of fancies. And, now my daughter has done the same.” She turned to Mikasa, and a sorrowful smile filled her face. “They say mothers and daughters are destined to walk down the same path. It’s as if the Goddess herself guides them.” 

Mikasa looked at her mother’s aged face. There were lines and scars, beautifully intricate, as years' worth of life was depicted through them. Her hair had gone grey, as she kept it tied in a bun. She used to see her mother as the pillar of strength but now knew the struggle of maintaining that image. Her face faced everything and kept her safe, but time took away her vigour and youth. She was a broken visage, always forced to piece herself together. There was exhaustion behind her smile and pain hidden in the pools of her obsidian eyes.

She hated them for ruining her mother and herself for being unable to stop it. The last time she saw her mother, she didn’t look this ill. But, for her daughter's sake, she had it all hidden underneath vibrant smiles and pretty expressions. 

She didn’t want to end up like her, but with time, her naivety gave way to understanding; she realised how the cruel would inexplicably shape them. Her mother was a victim, and she was always on the verge of becoming one. 

Chapter Text

Everything was stale as deaths were engraved on her people’s hearts. The mourning would last a week as families of the deceased collected their belongings. At night, the sounds of woe echoed through the city as candles were lit for the departed. The War Council openly reprimanded the Queen for her recklessness and promised better control. They repeatedly sent harsh letters to the castle, hoping to trigger a response. 

The Queen was deliberately avoiding them for her sanity. The War Council needed to get hold of her, and Uncle was tasked with bringing her to them. But, she’d skillfully eluded every messenger and accidentally burned their letters. She focused her diminished strength on seeking forgiveness from the deceased’s family. Over the next three days, she went to their homes with the deceased soldier's seal and endured their reactions. They were merely a party of two, the Queen and Advisor, who allowed the families to process as needed. Most were sullen with tearful eyes, some sought to blame her, and the rest made peace with it. The trip to each house only increased the weight on her soul. Their pain was mercilessly crisscrossed on her body, and it slowly eroded her fortitude. It had ruined her sleep and given her endless nightmares. 

Every painful memory fought to brutalise her mind. Certain loud sounds would trigger flashes back to the war, helplessness, and dread. She’d be back on the battlefield, hands covered in blood, as people around her died. In the Capital's field of dust and vibrant sun, unable to move, as only the palpation of her heart sounded. Armin would shake her out of it. Then she'd slip back into the guilt-ridden past, ready to tear her apart. 

The clouds were weeping for their sins. They walked upon the earth with endless chants, hoping to incite violence. The Emperor demanded the blood of the Rebels of Shiganshina, or else he threatened to invade the wounded nation. Albert's blank face continued to haunt her indefinitely. She looked upon her father with reverence, but in that moment, she saw a feeble man complicit in the violence. They were drenched from the rain, as people of Halo town looked at them; save us, they chanted. 

The Town only bore moments of happiness. Until War broke out and her family was forced to act. Her father commanded the army, away from the region, while her mother kept peace at home. They had woven through countless attempts of misgivings and attacks until the Emperor began his siege and blamed Shiganshina for the rebellion. He demanded the rebellion’s head. Asami refused to give up her people, as she went against the War Council; hypocrites who claimed to be the champions of people's voice. They'd sacrifice civilians for the greater good. Unbeknownst to anyone, Albert came back to Shiganshina and uprooted the rebels. He captured them, unable to live with that choice. It was destined to be his ultimate undoing. 

She came back to the town after nearly three years, and it was painful knowing the place was forever tarnished. All the joy was replaced with treacherous woe. She was part of the army, training under their relentless code, as she witnessed her father's excruciatingly slow descent. Those vibrant eyes were replaced with death. He'd simply stare off into nothingness, as the world slowly gnawed at his sensibilities. She watched in horror, unable to act, as a week-long raid persecuted her people. She tried protesting, but only a slap made contact with her face. It reminded her of the powerless and the desolate. She wrote to her mother, knowing she had the power to intervene. But those letters were intercepted. They left her to watch, knowing she was just a helpless little girl. 

The Emperor demanded blood, and they'd quench his thirst. 

The War Council and the Commander collectively decided to overrule the Queen and made strides without her approval. They made a mockery of her authority, all in the name of sovereignty. They stripped the rebels of their birthright to Shiganshina, under the guise of jeopardising the region. They fanned the flames of sabotage as the town chanted for their deaths. They didn't want an invasion, as the Emperor's directive was clear. 

Mikasa watched the men being prepared for the hanging, and the crowd gathered around them. Her father tried his hardest to hide the anguish on his face, but she saw right through it. The way his hands shook as he pulled the cloak around himself. She desperately tried to reason with him, but he'd gone too far away. They started unveiling the rebels, and her blood ran cold. She'd seen the doctor before, now haggard and bloody. He had fierce eyes, looking at them with utmost defiance. It was Mr Grisha, the man who used to slip her candy and teach her about the nerves in the human body. His soft smile, watching his son cause havoc across the town. And, the rare time he'd scold them for messing with his medical kit. That man was going to lose his life. There were twenty more she recognised, various people from her blissful memories. 

Her desperate shouts were drowned out by the maddened crowd. She pulled on her father's clothes, hoping to jolt some sense back into him. But he simply watched the deaths unfold, encapsulated by the cheers of the crowd. They had justified the deaths, and none wanted the brutality to cease. It was horrifying seeing the people lose themselves. They started hanging them, and she screamed till her throat ached, but it was ultimately futile. She simply was made to watch like her father, who'd fallen to the ground with tears streaking down his cheeks. He had no right to mourn, but his heart couldn't stop. 

She watched Mr Grisha die. The light slowly seeped from his eyes as he struggled against the ropes. The sight of him would never leave her. 

It was the pressure of Armin’s grip that brought her back. She inhaled sharply, trying to focus despite the needles in her head. The lack of sleep and constant dabbing in drinks left her head permanently splintered. She needed seconds to distinguish between the timeline of things, as she suddenly felt like a naive sixteen-year-old child faced with the world's cruelties. 

“Do you need me to go through with it?” Armin offered, and she promptly shook her head. She was the one who led them, and this was her burden to carry. 

Armin had tirelessly transcribed the event and the reason behind the marriage. Her people weren't keen on the union, as it was built on the soldiers' sacrifices. Still, Armin had presented her as a benevolent hero who saved lives and deliberately emphasised that the consort was from Shiganshina. She felt like an absolute fraud who had only acted selfishly. They refused to establish any predefined relationship, as she'd be seen as incompetent and emotionally driven by the War Council. There were still security concerns and paranoia, but for now, Mikasa was focused on her people's sorrow. And that meant standing outside Alison’s house, as she gathered the courage to knock. 

The oldest child opened the door, blissfully unaware, with a toothless smile— she nearly had a breakdown right there. They were brought into the cosy home, which smelled like vinegar and burnt candles. They waited for Mrs Alison, who had refused to meet with anyone. She felt the anguish course through her body, as Alison’s blood was still on her hands. Facing the families of the dead never got easier. Her father called facing enemies in battles easier than facing a grieving mother. Mrs Alison eventually appeared, cradling the newborn. She looked tired beyond her years, with another child hidden behind her knee-length skirt. Her brunette hair was a mess, and ill-fitted clothes hung on her small frame. The hollowness of her gaze left Mikasa unable to breathe. 

“We've brought you East Wing Leader Alison’s seal, please accept it with due compensation,” Mikasa quietly said, her voice breaking and shattered into bits. 

Mikasa didn't get any response; she just had water splashed on her face. Mrs Alison had emptied a mug over her head. She didn't move, as the water ran down her face. Armin fidgeted next to her, but she kept a grip on his arm. They wouldn't prevent the woman's grief. 

“You will never forget his death like I won't,” Mrs Alison said hoarsely, bitterly regarding the drenched Queen. She only remained still, unable to withstand the pain burrowed in the woman's gaze. 

“Until my death,” Mikasa whispered, feeling her eyes sting. It was her duty to carry their names and memories until her knees would give out and she'd face her final fall. 

Mikasa stood leaning against the door as she composed herself. They had handed off Alison’s belongings and swiftly departed. Just her mere presence was triggering to the poor woman, and she didn't want to incite further grief. 

“I think maybe we should stop here,” Armin suggested, his face caked with worry. 

He was standing close, with arms raised in case she collapsed forward. She simply shook her head and beckoned him to follow. They had several more families to visit, as she soaked in the weeping streets and the people consumed by it. They wouldn’t be done until night settled, and by the end of it, she was irrevocably exhausted. Her emotions were drained, and her body yearned to give out. But another task was left, and she couldn’t put it off any longer.

Meeting with her mother had given her the strength to continue. She’d confront the boy from her childhood, even if the inevitable scared her thoroughly. 

***

A dinner was held late at night. It wasn’t anything grand, nor did it impose on her, but the anxiety-riddled brain couldn’t stop. She was dreading the meeting, knowing nothing good would come from it. There was far too much baggage and space in place of their childhood kinship. Those memories were nostalgia-laden respite, she clung to during harsher days. They both had changed and ended up on the opposing sides of the violence. Still, she had to face him, her crimes and her guilt.

It had nearly been a month and a half since she married him, and they still hadn't spoken. Armin couldn’t bring himself to do it either; both actively avoided the reminders of their past. Sasha ended up being the mediator, as no memories sullied her determination. Seamlessly, she had integrated herself with the rebels and meticulously undid their leader’s guard. It was bizarre seeing her talk about him like they were the ones with an old kinship. Mikasa didn’t chide her handmaiden's interventions, someone had to keep an eye on them. They still presented him as their leader, and the reports from Sasha only disproved it. They likely had an agenda, and uncovering it was paramount, but both the Queen and her Advisors instead battled their demons with the man. 

The dinner was set in the castle’s great hall. The indigo room contained paintings of her ancestors, all women who held the title of the Queen. They stared at her with unattainable expectations, and Ackerman's tapestry loomed over them like a darkened sky. The expansive table was set with ancient cutlery and lined with empty plates. Their food was a light broth with a creamy side dish. She insisted on their chairs being set a world apart, hoping not to intrude on his space. They wouldn’t consume, but having dinner gave her an excuse. It was either that or commanding him to appear. 

Sasha brought him at the stroke of midnight, as the walls began closing in. The intense candlelight made her head spin, her joints ached, and her vision blurred. She was dressed in the attire of normalcy: a bleached ankle-length skirt with a lilac blouse. The optics of wearing her commander’s uniform would’ve jeopardised any semblance of peace. Despite all the clothing, she felt naked with nausea. She knew her guilt would come back with a vengeance, but no amount of time could’ve prepared her. With a sharp intake of air, she ordered the servants to bring him inside and to leave their stations. Only the walls were left to witness their unravelling. 

The moment he stepped inside, the pulsing in her forehead got worse. In the heavy silence, he dragged the designated chair and settled down. Only the wind hollered through the room, unable to hide their screams of discomfort. She couldn’t dare to look at him as a mirage of emotions swelled inside of her. She couldn’t even understand half of them. They remained like that for an eternity, restless from the forced proximity. 

She was the Queen and needed to act like one. If her ancestors saw her like this, then they’d spit on her eventual grave. She forced her festering emotions and swirling thoughts back and bore the face she was taught to wear. The Queen wouldn't sweat through her clothes and clench her clammy palms if a relic from her past returned. The Queen would identify his motives and see if he’d be a friend or foe. But none of that seemed applicable, as she struggled to meet his gaze. 

He had aged remarkably over the years. But those vibrant green eyes were indisputably his, drenched in the turmoil of emotions. But, the cold, bone-chilling anger was unmissable, and it was directed at her. The sight of him chipped at her sanity, knowing he’d never look at her as he used to. There was only irrevocable pain and hideous resentment. But, she couldn’t blame him; it was the least she deserved. Her father's sin fell on her shoulders, and she knew forgiveness wouldn’t come. 

His hair had grown out, and the bandage was removed. Sasha talked about him getting his left eye treated before they departed for Shiganshina. He was wounded, but the form-fitted tunic hid most of it. The tunic hung low on his chest, partially exposing his sun-kissed skin, and a key dangled around his neck. He was like a mosaic forged by rough hands and vibrant hues. His body was tense, biceps rigid, and jaw set as if he was half-expecting an attack. He was still the boy she once knew, but so much more. And yet the fury in his gaze bore into her soul. They remained suspended in the unbearable silence. 

The sound of his chair being dragged along the floor ricocheted through the room. She almost jolted like a feral cat but maintained control over her tense body. He had gotten up, picked up his plate of broth and walked towards her side. Her heart came to a beating halt as she anxiously followed his actions. He sat on the chair next to her, nearly threw the plate on the table, and like an aggressor, tore through the bread. Up close, he looked like fragments of her memories forged into a beautiful visage. He was the spitting image of his mother; the woman she had only seen twice before the plague came and took her. He smelled like firewood and freshly washed linen.

It was terrifying trying to piece him together; the boy from her child and the stranger who sat before her. She still couldn't speak and decided to mimic his actions. But she only dangled the spoon around. The sounds of cutlery only unnerved her. She desperately wanted to leave. 

The silence left her on the verge of madness. She had to speak. She was the Queen and had handled far worse circumstances. But nothing could affect her as deeply as this man. She was meant to be the fortress of strength, even if such a title felt like Armin’s propaganda. 

“I hope your stay in the city has been well,” she forced the words out, mortified by how high-pitched she sounded. 

He didn’t respond immediately. Her words hung between them until they became unfathomably uncomfortable. She almost got up and ran towards her salvation. With jittery fingers hidden away, she tried to maintain eye contact, despite his seething gaze. 

“What should I even call you now?" His voice was low, gotten deeper over the years, and had a vitriolic edge to it. Her question was completely ignored as he merely wanted her to commence the conversation. “My wife?” He bitterly mocked her, head tipped to the side, as he scrutinised her thoroughly. He didn't seem pleased with that outcome. It was expected, considering how she married him using the very law that began their rebellion.

She winced and tried her hardest to hide the mortification. It was inevitable, the whole marriage would become another point of conflict. It was still surreal having this conversation with him. She half expected to wake up from this nightmare. 

Still hearing him again, seeing his visage, and almost being in his presence, made her heartache. She had missed him. 

“It is up to your discretion,” she responded in a measured tone. Her fingers interlocked on the table, with a straightened back, she evoked the grace of her role. Despite their history and her sins, he had an audience with the Queen. He looked seemingly uninterested in continuing further. 

“You had your people keep an eye on me,” he said instead, referring back to her haphazard question, “If I hadn’t been well, then you’d already know.” The frustration was evident. 

Her lips formed a thin line. “I apologise, I’ll have them leave you be.” The ‘them’ in question was just Sasha. And, from what she had heard, he seemed fine with her presence. She mentally noted to reprimand her handmaiden later and to school her on being discreet. There were clear fabrications in the rebels' stories, and she had every right to be paranoid. Still, there was no harm in reassuring him, even if both knew it was merely a formality. 

He threw the fork onto the plate as she instinctively reached for the sword at her feet. She had to curse her unparalleled nerves. “How generous, the Queen is going out of her way to appease me,” he humorlessly laughed, looking at her with indignation. “I wonder if it’s just the Ackerman hospitality or the guilt that makes you act.” She almost forgot how to breathe. After all those years, she’d finally get the due retribution. The nausea spread through her aching body. 

“I acknowledge my role and would apologise for it,” she said in a small voice, as she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. There wasn’t any room for forgiveness, but she said it with practised ease. The look of utter disappointment on his face made her shrink away further. 

“That’s a funny way of saying you’re sorry for letting my father die,” he continued, with unimaginable pain on his face. “And, as repentance decided to save my life.” 

He stabbed where she felt the most vulnerable with self-doubt. She wanted to believe her actions were selfless and she’d save lives, but the erosive part of her knew how deep her selfishness ran. She wasn’t any different from her father and his personalised brand of empathy.

“Would you have preferred I didn’t?” She asked, unable to face herself or the rotten core of her heart. 

“I don’t owe you anything,” he snapped, fists thudded on the table. “All this was merely your way of clearing your conscience.” He was furious, breathing fast with every ounce of venom distilled in his voice. 

“I am not that heartless,” she whispered, arms crossed around her body as nails dug into her skin. Even if all the maliciousness was poured onto her, the need to be understood became a silent want. She still tried to undo every mistake. 

“Really, would you have done the same if I weren’t there? From what I’ve heard, you wanted to leave the Capital, and it wasn’t until that little traitor dragged you inside that you did something,” he retorted, hoping to strike every nerve. She lacked the words to defend herself, unable to meet his piercing stare.

“Just like your fucking father,” he growled, visibly shaken by the declaration. Her vision blurred, as she didn’t want to hear anymore. All her self-doubt and mistakes demanded to be faced. The coldness crept through her body, as her heart throbbed viciously. 

“And, you know what’s the worst part?” His voice broke from immense anguish. “I knew you’d save me, and—” His jaw tightened as he held back words, “You always did that.” His face softened, focusing on her with profound longing. “I can’t stop feeling this way.” Fingers clenched onto the front of his tunic, “That I missed you—” he whispered as if he had just realised that. She refused to comprehend the extent of his words, as her heart couldn’t handle it. It was easier bearing his hatred than the brunt of his sorrows. She deserved the hatred, but not the tenderness of his confession. He looked utterly dishevelled, as the need to hold him prospered. 

“You were just a child back then, but what about now? Are you still that naive little girl who can’t do anything?” He continued, having lost most of his fumes. His elbows were supported on the table, brows furrowed as he leaned towards her. The conflicting emotions on his face only made her contort with guilt. 

The logical part of her could derail most of his conjunctions. Back then, she didn't possess any power to stop her father, nor was she actively involved in the hanging. She had to side with the Emperor because he threatened them, and the War Council would've overruled her regardless. The Queen's orders held little compliance if national security was at risk. She did everything in her power to safeguard her people and did everything that was expected of the Queen.

She wanted to leave the Capital immediately, in case of possible retaliation, as their numbers had dwindled. And, she saved him because of personal sentiments, and by extension, saved sixty lives. The rebels were likely plotting, and he should've only been thankful. But all that was simply the Queen imposing her righteousness. 

The girl he knew, Mikasa Ackerman, was riddled with unthinkable guilt of bearing her father's sin, and of acting selfishly when lives were at stake. If she were anything like her mother, she'd have bargained for the rebels' lives, with or without his existence. And yet, her actions started aligning with her father's, as she couldn't reconcile with that part of herself. Would she have saved them regardless? She couldn't dare to think about it. This was the one thing that bothered him the most. 

“I have done what was needed for my people,” she repeated the phrase that ruled over her life. She sighed, crestfallen from the way he recoiled away. 

“That’s what your family always says, for the people this, for the people that,” he exclaimed with pronounced irritation, as hands were pointed around the room. He was accusing her ancestors, who were infamous for their ruthless indifference. “You sided with the fucking monster and had many of my comrades killed.” 

She bit into her bottom lip and almost drew blood. “I am aware.” She held back the need to mention the losses they had suffered. He didn't know her anymore, and the sinking feeling rattled through her nostalgia. They were mere strangers chipping away at each other. 

“I used to think you'd be different,” a fresh coat of pain filled his eyes. “But imagine my surprise. Imagine my fucking disappointment,” he lashed out again, unable to hide the festering sorrow, “The fucking betrayal I felt, you were meant to be my—” He trailed off, refusing to look at her now. He swallowed, rubbing his creased forehead. She couldn't understand most of his rambling, as it made little sense to her. She had assumed those memories were only cherished by her. Maybe he felt the same way? It was incongruous to the idea she had built over the years. 

He continued to confuse her. His arm stretched out, suspended in the air as if he wanted to be certain of her presence. He was close enough to touch her face, and she leaned towards his outstretched hand. It had been a long time since she'd known the feeling of his skin and the warmth he used to offer. But before contact was made, he pulled away and growled at his inner turmoil. His hands curled into fists as he smashed them onto the table. The cutlery clamouring and plates threatened to fall. 

“I hate people like you the most.” That shattered her heart thoroughly.

A part of her had hoped they'd rekindle the friendship, but now that hope went up in flames.

Despite the conflicting emotions, it was clear he didn't want to be near her, and she brought waves of residual pain. There was nothing between them except faded memories and empty promises. They had become strangers, and there wasn't any way of undoing that tragedy.

She had to be strong. She couldn't fall apart, not now, not ever.

Chapter Text

Mikasa struggled with estranged emotions. He had every right to hate her, but having those words materialise left her heart wounded beyond repair. There wasn't anything possible beyond acceptance. 

“I understand your hate, and it isn't within my capacity to resolve it,” she concluded, feeling utterly dejected. 

The things he wanted weren't in her hands. All the years had passed, and she attained the title of Queen but still lacked the necessary power. She wasn't much different from the little girl who watched Mr Grisha die. The only thing that changed was her outlook on morality; time had jaded her beyond the point of idealistic conventions.

She wanted to support him and the cause, but her people didn't need to suffer. Any decision she made stopped being individualistic long ago. And, suddenly, the father she once chided became another victim in her eyes. He had to make those impossible choices and then succumbed to their aftermath. Still, she opposed them in her minuscule way and tried to emulate her mother. What would she do in this situation? No part of her wanted the answer. 

“I’ve done what I could, and the person who sits before you will bear the consequences,” she exclaimed, meeting his wretched gaze. 

There wasn't any room to regret, for such a thought would unravel her thoroughly. The unprecedented amount of regret in her ledger would’ve only burdened her vacant body. She had sided with the Emperor, went to his Capital, defended it and killed his comrades. They could never move past that. 

He muttered under his breath, hands roughly combed through his hair, as splashes of anger filled his face. “You've made me a part of it, too.” 

She had stripped away his right to choose and made him part of the system he hated. Another brand of guilt coiled around her throat. His father had spent a lifetime opposing the Emperor and then died at the hands of royalty. He was ready to walk down that path, but her intervention resulted in their marriage. 

“At least make some fucking excuses, dammit,” he was almost pleading. Deeply stained eyes refused to leave her face. 

She couldn't, even her tongue betrayed her. What could she even say? She married him for his survival, and the entire ordeal with the Emperor was layers of meticulously constructed reasoning. Regardless of the outcome, in her limited options, she made the most of it and had to live with the consequences.

She wished for a world where they weren't on opposite ends or embroiled in such thorny circumstances.

She fantasised about seeing him again, but never in such a tumultuous aftermath. 

He practically leaned over the table, invading the last remains of her space. His breath fanned her face as he stared at her with utmost determination. She inched back, unable to withstand the intensity. He was clawing at her nerves, hoping to uncover something underneath. He wanted to witness the girl he once knew, unaware of how deeply she had buried that part. 

“I can't stand your apologetic tone, it sounds nothing like you,” he fumed, trying to elicit a response. 

Her patience was like a well always on the verge of spilling out. She had contained it when the blame solely lay on her actions, but now he moved on to petty disarmament. Rationality slipped past her fingers as the desire to expose her frustrations became too overwhelming.

“Do you even know me anymore?” She snapped, but kept her voice levelled, “That girl died long ago.” 

“Bring her back, at least she could sound genuine,” he retorted, brows furrowed despite the hint of satisfaction. 

“There is nothing left in here,” she jabbed a finger at her chest, “But the Queen of Shiganshina.”

The declaration flared him in a different direction. He gritted his teeth and glared at her with utmost irritation. The floor creaked as he moved the chair backwards. She thought he was going to leave, but then another wave of confusion struck. The chair fell, and so did he. On his knees in front of her, with deplorable disgust plastered on his face. She was holding her breath, dreading any foreseeable outcome.

He was mocking her, but without an actual bite to it. Only those who needed her mercy knelt.

It was her condemnation he sought. 

It wasn't the Queen who saved him, but the girl he used to know. And, he was determined to find her again. It was a futile want. But, how could someone as stubborn as him realise that? A fruitless battle with time, as he'd finally realised the truth, and would give up on her again. He would hate her wholeheartedly, and it was what she deserved. 

“Is this what you want? Your Highness,” he forced the title out, laced in unimaginable venom, “Then that's all you'll be for me. The Goddess-damned Queen.” 

“Stop it.” It was only so much her poor heart could endure. 

“No, Your Highness, you and your family, and your castle— it's all built on the blood of those you abandoned. And, I was the fucking fool who through you'd be the exception to the rule,” his voice crippled, as he bowed his head and took the stance of a humiliated soldier. “Then you went ahead and made me a part of it.” 

She fell on her knees and pulled the sword along her waist. She stared at him, fully consumed by the sorrow edged between them. The pain on his face refused to light up, and the anger wouldn't dissipate. He was unravelling, the sight of it convulsed her soul. She couldn't stand seeing him this way. They silently soaked in every limit transgressed.

He only wanted to see that Mikasa, and upon her insistence, he was made to drop the familiarity.

She was the Queen, and he was the Rebel. Their past was a pit of despair that neither of them wanted to traverse. 

They were both emotionally exhausted, at their prescribed end. Nothing could alleviate the ache or undo the tragedy. There wasn't anything left worth saving. 

“I wish I hadn't met you, at least then I wouldn't be feeling this way,” he muttered, unable to look at her now. His fingers roughly dug into his palm as he tried to retain some semblance of composure. She noticed tears dripping down his chin, and it snapped her apart. They had reached the finality of their exhausting entanglement. She didn't want to be the cause of his anguish.  

“It can be done, do you want it?” She offered wearily. 

She killed a part of herself to say it. Those memories were precious, and she could never part ways with them. But none of it was at the expense of his current suffering. He didn't answer; instead was eerily still in front of her. The ability to understand his flippant emotions wasn't in her grasp. 

She was left surprised once again. He took hold of her hand and gently caressed the scar on her palm. It was a relic from their childhood, when she fell from the tree and he tried catching her. He wasn't very successful and ended up with cuts on his knees, and she almost broke her arm. Only the scar remained, and it staunchly proved the existence of their kinship.

Life was much easier when sunshine coloured their skies, and the world was their bountiful playground. His touch was feather-like, as it agitated her skin. She had missed the feeling of him, and having it returned was like ecstasy shot up her heart. He was real, solid to touch, living and breathing.

“It's not like I'm any better,” he whispered, tracing a circle on her palm, “I'm just exploiting the guilt you feel for me.” 

It was a never-ending battle between their conflicting paths. There wasn't anything to gain from their compounded pain. She found compassion in letting go. They simply weren't good for one another. The bitter truth eradicated whatever was left of her heart. 

“I don't want to strain you further,” she said gently, and withdrew her hand, “This marriage, you'll have to endure it for a year, and then we'll officially separate. It's only in name until the Royal Court is satisfied. You shouldn't worry,” her voice broke, and her eyes stung, “I'll set you free.” 

Her throat clogged up, and it took everything in her to continue. “During your time here, we'll never have to see each other again. You'll have no obligations to the marriage. We don't have to hurt each other again.” It was another decision she made, and the consequences of which were self-inflicted. 

That's right, it didn't matter what her heart desired. She wouldn't see him again and ended the familiarity they shared. At least then he wouldn’t be in pain, and she'd quietly repent. By some miracle or human intervention, they met, and she'd willingly sever it again. For his sake, she'd endure anything. 

She was barely holding herself together. “This will be our final conversation. You have my Handmaiden to communicate through, and I'll have the rules drawn up on paper.”

She was already on her feet, incapable of looking at him. He tried to grab her hand, but she moved away swiftly. He muttered incoherently, but she lacked the heart to hear it. “That should be all. It was good seeing you again, and I apologise for any inconvenience.” 

“Eren,” she whispered before escaping outside.

A single tear rolled down her cheek. 

Chapter Text

The heartbreak was terrible. She lacked the necessary tools to deal with it, which compromised her efficiency. For two days, she struggled to get back on her feet, when half her mind was focused on the tragedy.

Still, being the Queen left little to no room to decompress. She still inspected every corner of the castle and began questioning her attendants. The castle was left alone for three years, and the War Council liked fiddling with her people. The persistent exhaustion made focusing harder than it needed to be. He brought back memories, and that delight morphed into cruelty. She had desperately missed those days.

Now, after another crippling choice, she had ended everything. They wouldn't look at each other again. It wasn't meant to hurt this much. She barely knew him, but that didn't stop the pain from resurfacing. 

That's what made it worse; she wanted to know him again. To find the boy she once knew, even if all that remained were his furious eyes and bitter words.

A part of her hoped to rekindle their relationship, but it wasn't meant to be. She was a fool. They lived worlds apart and had different people depending on their shoulders. She couldn’t openly side with him or his cause, nor would he ever compromise his ideals for her. She didn't want him to. They stood in direct opposition, and to make matters worse, she was the harbinger of their deaths. She had been there without direct involvement and sided with their oppressor.

She wanted to laugh at herself. Every choice came back to haunt her with vengeance. 

You're just like your father. The words stole her peace.

It was agonising being shown a mirror when the woman who stared back was utterly unrecognisable. 

Many soldiers died under her command. Their blood still coloured her hands, and their families looked at her with disdain. She couldn't get the image of Alison’s wife out of her mind. Then there was the War Council still demanding pieces of her. There was just so much to do. She didn't have the time for heartbreaks. The pressure was mounting on her shoulders. 

After a dreadful day of lingering like a numb shadow, completely distracted. She went back to the chambers and left her Advisor in charge. It was nighttime, and she desperately needed the rest. But the nightmares kept her tossing and turning until the dawn finally returned. Even back home, rest wasn’t applicable. When was the last time she slept like a log? She couldn’t even remember. 

There were murmurs in her chamber. She heard footsteps of thick leather, a foreign scent, and the clasp on the door came undone. Instinctively, she leapt from the bed, rolled onto the floor, and grabbed her stationary sword. She had a pair of blades hidden in every corner of the castle. Breaths came short, eyes adjusted, as she took the stance to draw blood. She’d render the intruder limbless in seconds— she blinked, focusing on the frowning man. 

It was her uncle. She exhaled, putting her body at ease. 

“Why are you here?” She hissed, anger bubbling up. Her mind was such a mess that she would've attacked him in confusion. 

“Perhaps if you bothered reading my fucking letters, you'd know why I'm here,” Levi snapped, arms folded, ready for a verbal clash. 

“I've been occupied,” She averted her eyes, and her lips formed a thin line. 

“You look like shit,” he noted. 

She unsheathed the sword and hugged it against her body. It was a way to settle her alarmed nerves. “I feel worse,” she admitted with a loud sigh.

The oversized nightgown swallowed her up, and her hair was in a constant state of disarray. The mark of fatigue was evident under her eyes. Still, the internal turmoil superseded most of her superficial carnage. Slowly, she pulled herself together and stood up. The sword was still in her grasp. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her uncle; having it on her just alleviated paranoia. 

Uncle hadn’t changed much. His right eye was lost in a battle. And, so was half his face, as a scar was left there permanently. The prosthetic fingers weren’t functional, but they helped him to hold his sword. The oversized indigo coat was draped to the floor. A colourful array of badges was displayed, and the Ackerman crest was embroidered on the chest. His curiosity was aimed at her. Still, she noticed concern about taking over his features instead. He wasn’t the kind to display his care, so to see his face break meant she truly looked like shit. 

“Something tells me it has nothing to do with the Council being on your ass,” he concluded, slowly pacing across the room. He was analysing it and her choices. “And, more to do with the mess you brought home,” his voice rose a few octaves, as he stared at her point-blank. She couldn't face him, nor did she possess the strength to talk about it. 

Thankfully, Sasha, with her perfect timing, came into the room. She’d have hugged her if it weren’t for the lack of intervention. Sasha yawned, covering up her mouth, as she stumbled through. Her short hair was tied up, and the blue nightgown reached to her knees. It was her handmaiden's job to schedule meetings. But, Uncle ended up in her chambers without any declaration or intervention. 

Mikasa swiftly walked over to her and picked the ends of her hair. “Wasn't it your job to stop people from entering?” She grumbled. 

“I lacked the strength to carry it out,” Sasha protested, trying to pull out of Mikasa’s grasp. She yelped when the pressure got worse. But that was the extent of it, and the hair was loose again. 

“I literally let you eat meat twice a week,” Mikasa huffed, pointing viciously at her uncle. “The least you can do is stop him.” 

“With what? The teacups?” Sasha shot back, hands on her waist as she matched Mikasa’s stance. “Ya don't let me carry my bow and arrows inside.” It was true, there wasn’t any power capable of stopping her uncle. Still, bickering with Sasha over the silliest things just felt natural.

“You almost blinded poor Mrs Fiona,” Mikasa reminded. 

“It was an accident, and there was no blood.” 

Levi sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can I get some Goddess-damned tea?” He flared up, as both of them stared down at him. “I didn’t come all the way here to hear your nonsense.” It was directed at Sasha, who straightened up and nodded rapidly. Levi didn’t use his commanding voice indoors unless they got on his nerves. Sasha even gave him a haphazard salute before leaving. 

“You,” his irritation was focused on Mikasa. “Little brat, stop moping around and have tea with me.” 

“Shorty,” Mikasa said under her breath, begrudgingly following his order. 

“I better not hear you say that again,” Levi went off without any bite to it. 

The chambers were distinctly silent once they departed. She had insisted on having no windows in her humble abode. The decision often came back to bite her, as the candles melted into a pool of wax. It would’ve been a fire hazard, but the room lacked any decorations, except her metallic bed, closet, Ackerman tapestry and her mother’s dead plants. Sasha called it a tomb of respiratory irritation, she called it the chamber of no assassinations. The theory wasn’t tested since she rarely slept there. 

She wrapped her arms around her head and willed the headache away. A much-needed groan escaped as she sorted through her thoughts. 

Levi Ackerman was favoured by the War Council. But, Asami made Mikasa the next Queen four years ago. She had sent her brother away before the coronation, and by the time he came back, Mikasa had succeeded to the crown. The War councillors became a bunch of maddened wolves out for blood. The number of times they got her jailed over petty things was staggering.

They never stopped trying to make her uncle ascend the throne, even though he never explicitly desired it. They simply didn’t want another Queen and called for the male heir to become their King. It was the same nonsense all her ancestors faced, but somehow, only a Queen ever ruled over Shiganshina. They either lacked male heirs like her great-grandmother, or simply were unqualified in the moment; Levi was a child when their mother passed away, and Asami had to become the Queen. She was a child who was taken advantage of by the War Council until she saw their true face. But by then, it was too late. 

There was a particular kind of hatred Mikasa felt for the War Council. It burned furiously, but it slowly simmered over the years. She allowed it to build, and built, knowing patience would bring ultimate satisfaction. Or, the flames would consume her fully. 

She found the commander’s coat and threw it over her nightgown. Patted down her hair and splashed water on her face, before going to accompany her uncle. He was relocated to her study, and tea was presented to him. She took the seat opposite him and tried to brace herself for the inevitable. The War Council used him like a prosecutor, and he generally went along with it. But what choice did he have? Most of their army was funded by the War Council.

She wanted to change that, but then another war happened. And, once again, they used war to strengthen their influence. She made it easier for them by being away from home. Now they wanted to see her, hoping to feast on her wounds. She lacked the fortitude to handle it right now. His abrupt presence meant their demands must’ve intensified. 

A part of her knew Uncle came to see her for two reasons: he cared and likely had something to divulge. Over the years, he had mellowed out, and his concern wasn’t as hidden as before. People still feared him, but he wasn’t as formidable anymore. The last battle crippled most of his left leg, he could only move around a little without aid. 

They wanted this man on the battlefield before she intervened and went in his place. The thought still boiled her blood. He was a better commander than she, but his death would've been inevitable. 

“Well?” She asked, taking another sip of the lavender tea. 

“Well, what?” She tried again, growing impatient, “Can't you just say your piece and leave? I am really not—”

Without haste, he drank the tea and only continued after a handful of sips. “All there?” He retorted, pointing at the side of his head. ”Yes, I noticed that when you brought sixty unidentified Rebels to our city. Then allow them to do as they please. Are you even keeping track of their activities?” He demanded, as she only shrank away. 

The Rebels, the boy from her childhood, the families of the dead soldiers, the War Council, the— her head started spinning again. “There's just been a lot,” she admitted, unable to hide how little control she had over things. 

“Then get some fucking help. If you can't handle it, then get people who can. The world wouldn't end without your active involvement,” Levi scolded, but even his voice got soft near the end. 

“Like that turned out well for my mother,” she drily laughed. 

Asami was only sixteen when she was made the Queen. Her mother never trained her, as she hoped Levi would ascend the throne. But fate played its hand, and it left the little girl in charge. Taking advantage of her innocence, the War Council merely fattened their pockets and ruled through her. It took her eight years to undo their entanglement, and it had her trust ruthlessly broken. At some point, they even wanted her to marry the Emperor.

When Mikasa was born, her mother began the mission of succession. She surrounded her with trustworthy people and taught her the truth. She never allowed her daughter to face similar hardships. At least not at the hands of the War Council. Despite all her mother’s efforts, she still felt like an utter failure.  

All the hopes and dreams were pinned on her. And yet she couldn’t live up to the greatness expected of her. 

There was just so much on her plate. “I still need to look through all the things they've done in three years. There are the legislations, and the backlog of their deals— fuck, actually, I don't even have time for this.” She waved a hand between them.

Just talking about it was shooting up her anxiety. And her nerves hadn’t been normal in such a long time. The pressure kept mounting, knowing her absence of three years likely ruined any good she’d done. The War Council had free rein over her home, and they likely did everything to undermine her efforts. She needed to go through it, but the dread kept building up. There wasn’t any time for mourning losses. Just a day ago, her heart was ripped out, and she terminated another possible relationship. She lacked the time to even feel bad for herself. 

Her body had gone eerily still as she stared off into the distance. 

“Mikasa, you'll pop a nerve at this rate.” Levi leaned forward and placed his calloused hand on her shoulder. 

“I need to go—” Her mind was racing a mile a minute. She started getting up, but Levi planted his hands on her shoulders and made her sit down. She was momentarily startled. 

“There's something we need to discuss before you go off,” he reminded, settling back down. “But, firstly, I need to confirm one thing.” 

She dreaded the impending question. People around her only wanted to know the same thing. And, she didn't want to think about him. There wasn't any time on her busy schedule to unravel thoroughly. 

“Why the fuck did you marry that green-eyed menace?” He snapped, causing her to flinch despite expecting it. 

She was going to repeat the tale Armin forged, but he interjected instantly. “None of the bullshit Armin's is selling to the public. Either you tell me the truth, or I'll ask Asami. Do you want me to go see Asami?” He was glaring at her, ascertaining the authenticity of his threat. 

She wanted to lash out at him. Going to Asami meant giving her needless stress. But, whenever Uncle wanted something, he threatened her mother's ignorance. If her mother knew half the troubles eating away at her sanity, she'd never live it down. She didn't want to worry her mother anymore. Asami was formidable once, but now whatever remained of her was too fragile. 

Mikasa sighed, holding back another crippling headache. “He's someone I used to know, and I just did it.” She was prepared to reveal only this much. All things considered, her uncle was still trustworthy. 

It stung how accurately Eren deciphered her actions. She wasn't thinking about saving lives, as only his life mattered in the moment. That realisation made her sick with disgust. She didn't want to imagine her mother's disappointment. She had raised her to do better. But, somehow, it was her father's choices she ended up emulating. Levi's eyebrow arched. 

She was confused for a second until she recalled other tales circulating. “Contrary to the public speculations, it's not a romantic affair, and with the terms we're on— there's just nothing there.” She clarified, still reeling in the pain of their final conversation.

She promised they'd never cross paths again. It felt like the correct choice, but her heart couldn’t reconcile. She didn't want to end it here, but how could they ever move forward? They would only hurt each other. 

Despite all the rationality, she still wanted to see him again. 

She wanted to know him again. But, in the grand scheme of things, her wants never mattered. She only needed to do good for her people. After all, he held nothing but hate for her. Just the sight of her agitated him. So, why did it still hurt when she made the necessary choice? It was all too exhausting.

“A childhood friend was suddenly at the right place, and it ended with sixty of his people given access to our city. Perhaps it's too convenient?” Levi contemplated, crossed his good leg and leaned back on the chair. 

“Just spit it out,” Mikasa exclaimed, lacking the strength to play a game of guesses. 

“I noticed an increase in settlements all over Shiganshina. But, mainly concentrated in the towns bordering Trost. The officers meant to supervise migration, left their posts and drained their salaries. So, anyone could fake identification and settle down here. These things are common during wars, but the orderly nature was strange,” Levi revealed in a hushed tone.

He stared off into the distance, likely weighing his options. She had expressed a soft spot for a Rebel. Such information not only placed her at risk but also muddied her allegiance to her people. Would she pick that Rebel or her people? He was definitely considering that. 

“It's the Rebels?” Her heart sank. 

“I searched around,” Levi continued, refusing to elaborate. He was known for the ways he'd break people and obtain information. She hoped those ways remained a distant memory.

“I don't have the exact figures, but I guess around fifty folks who crossed into Shiganshina with forged identification. Most presented themselves as people of Trost, and some didn't need it as they were originally from Shiganshina.” 

She'd gone too numb to be affected. A part of her knew a certain game was at play, but the extent of it blindsided her. Eren was actively involved in it. Suddenly, his comment about exploiting her guilt made so much sense.

She wanted to laugh.

She wanted to cry. 

And yet, she just remained absolutely still. Betrayal was just an ordinary part of her day. What else could she expect? She was the Queen, and many wanted to use that title.

It still did hurt.

She trusted the idea of him.

He wasn't any different from the people who desired her ruin. She just wanted to see the boy from her childhood. Only a complete fool would wish upon such fantasies.

“Imagine my fucking surprise when I got the word that you married their leader,” Levi fumed, refusing to let her off the hook. “I wanted to inform you but didn't want my letters intercepted. And, I tried writing to you now, but you used them in place of firewood.” She couldn't say anything. There was a particular kind of humiliation in being scolded like this. 

“They exploited your familiarity, got themselves out of the Capital, and now have enough people to be troublesome,” Levi sighed, rubbing his palm on his forehead. Even he was exhausted from all the mess she brought home. 

“He's not their leader,” she meekly corrected. 

Levi nodded, seeing no point in trying to lecture her.  “That brat didn't look sinister enough to pull this off.” 

Mikasa inhaled sharply and massaged her eye sockets. Dealing with the Rebels needed more of her attention, and she was already spread too thin. She needed more people for surveillance, the land laws needed to be fixed, the settlements reevaluation, and the— she needed a fucking drink before her mind collapsed on itself. 

It didn't matter. She had to act like the Queen and not show such utter helplessness. 

She salvaged whatever remained of her strength. “We suspected malicious intent but found it not worth consideration. Even if the Rebels plotted to be here, it doesn’t endanger our people,” her reasoning caught Levi off guard. 

She wasn't a fool when it came to her people's safety. The Rebels wouldn't hurt her citizens, and at worst, they'd only recruit in secret. They were the least threatening people she could bring home. And, from the looks of it, their situation was dire enough to use such a risky plan. If she hadn't intervened, they would've lost their heads. What madman constructed such a plan? She wanted to meet him.   

“It's your safety I'm concerned about,” Levi grumbled, much to her surprise. She hadn't really thought about it. “Their entire purpose is dismantling the royalty, and maybe you’ve forgotten, but you are that.” His frustration was evident. It almost warmed her heart. “But, of course, just like my fucking sister, you didn’t even think about it.” 

Armin had expressed concerns for her well-being, too, but she only shrugged it off. She repeated that sentiment. “They already have you as my successor, it shouldn't matter.”

The line of Ackerman rulers remained in the family. Levi was her successor as she didn't have any children. And, if something happened to Levi, then her mother would rule again. Their consort didn't attain power, nor was it transferable. Much to the War Council's dismay, Levi had sworn off marriage, and Mikasa used it like a bargaining chip. 

The Rebels wanted to end the royalty and the Emperor. She was the only ruler whose life was at stake. Her Uncle commanded the army, and he wasn't left unprotected. And her mother had no involvement in political affairs. She lived in a secluded town with little to no information. They were the only other remaining Ackermans, and they weren't in opposition to the Rebels. They'd still be safe. That was the only thing that mattered to her. 

She wanted to alleviate her uncle's worries. “Eren won't harm me.” Her resolve in that statement hadn't shaken.

Levi just shook his head with a heavy sigh. “That kid isn't even their leader. Would their real leader give you this grace?”

“Well, Uncle, why don’t you go and find their real leader?” She offered, knowing such a task would suit him. “I can’t trust anyone else with it.” He grumbled but mostly agreed. 

Their conversations came to their natural end, and she got up to leave. But he stopped her and stood up as well. He was carrying a pair of handcuffs, and the sight of them made her groan internally. 

“Must we really do this?” She whined, knowing the impending headache awaiting her. 

She had almost forgotten about the War Council's request. They wanted her arrested for ignoring it. Their flair for having her jailed or handcuffed hadn't lessened over the years. She held out her arms and felt the metal clasp around her wrists. This was how they treated their Queen. It was ridiculously hilarious. 

“They want blood,” Levi said, patting her head.

Something just never changed. 

She was taken to the War Council.

Chapter Text

Ignar was a visionary who expanded the Ackerman rule and united the twenty clans. But then the opposition rose, and he created the War Council as his final noble act. It was made up of people who represented each clan. He wanted to give them a voice, but ultimately, the appointed Councillors sought power. The capital city of Shiganshina was named after him. And yet none of the books produced his visage. He became a faceless legend, championed by the people. His name was often chanted alongside the Goddess of Winter. 

Mikasa never believed in the fables. It never made sense when her ancestry only showed Queens, dating back to the alleged tale of Ignar. 

The inception of the War Council didn’t matter. They had simply integrated into the political ecosystem. Despite years of assimilation, the city was still divided based on the original clans, and every sect of people saw their officials as their true leaders. The Queen’s role was merely celebratory in their eyes. The people would riot if she harmed their representative. It was a fragile balance each Queen needed to sustain. The War Council wanted power, and during Asami’s reign, they placed the role under the law. 

They could punish the Queen for breaking the law. And, in their typical hostility, they chose to force her presence. A rule stated that she could only ignore their summoning thrice, and that number was exceeded today. They had Levi handcuff her— likely for their protection— and she was brought to the tower. The tower was just an outstretched building harbouring diplomats and scholars. The War Council ritualistically met every month and demanded the Queen’s presence. It was merely a waste of her time. But, once again, the petty laws made her compliant. 

She could resist, but it wasn’t worth the aftermath. Once she yelled at the Kiey clan's Councillor and his people, who were only dressed in white, to protest. That's how they held her hostage, as she wasn’t going to lose her people’s favour. The War Council successfully leveraged it. It was funny being played like that. Even the Rebels managed to pull her sentimental strings. 

The scholars called her the Second-in-Command. She never behaved like a Queen and worked better behind the scenes. The never-ending attention was a vice held over her head. The walk to the Grand Hall was a long procession, where each scholar bowed and saluted upon her entrance. She’d been away from home, and the conduct was associated with her role. She was the Queen, and the bountiful attention it sprang on her was still bothersome.

She’d gotten used to having soldiers treat her like a Commander, beyond the mandated ‘Your Highness’ thrown in occasionally. She certainly didn’t miss all the fuss her presence brought. People bowed, they chanted, they presented her with items— it was exhausting. Her face strained from all the relentless smiles and forced pleasantries. After an endless stream of greetings, they finally reached the Grand Hall. 

“Don’t accompany me,” Mikasa requested, stopping before the extensive ivory doors. The handcuff was edged into her skin, but at least it gave her a sense of control. Learning to hold herself back was always the hardest lesson. 

“I will side with your cause,” Levi offered, but she shook her head. He aimed to unlock the handcuffs, but she pulled away. 

The rage was building up inside her. “It won’t help me.” He nodded in understanding. They would be unkind to her, hoping the laws and consequences would keep her in check. But abiding by logic and reason came with unbearable restraints. 

The Grand Hall predated the structure built around it. Its marble floor and stained glass windows told stories of her ancestors. The pungent scent of dried oak greeted her, and then the looming shadows. Twenty of the War Councillors had assembled, their ruthless gazes set on the empty throne. They turned towards her in unison, bowing as the scribes penned down everything.

There was a particular hierarchy among the Councillors; the richest possessed the most power. Four Councillors superseded the others and were representatives of the largest clans. Sergeant Gross served in the army for most of his life and became a Councillor after his father’s death. He was a cruel businessman with a history of malpractice that Mikasa wanted to expose. Then there were Councillor Nile Dok and Councillor Dot Pixis, who tended to be neutral on most things. Finally, Dhalis Zackery, the oldest Councillor, was unpredictable like Shiganshina’s weather. It was generally Gross who provoked the Queen, but the rest remained passively compliant. 

Bile rose in her throat; it was for their sake she wanted to avoid a meeting. She was vulnerable with a fleeting sense of control. They were in danger, but they’d never admit it. She forgave most things. But not when it came to her family. And, those bastards were responsible for her mother’s ruin. She cursed under her breath, inhaled sharply, and trudged ahead. At least they had enough instincts to keep her cuffed. 

She walked past them as they assembled in lines. Her nightgown and handcuffs were in stark contrast to their official attire. This was how they wanted to see her: unruly and unseemly ordinary. The commander’s coat kept her warm as she marched to the throne. Her birthright was within grasp, and yet she never felt deserving of it.

It was a luxurious chair, garnished with the rare stones of Shiganshina’s mountains. It was the luxury they wanted; the dazzling throne and the treasury. Two items were solely kept with the Ackerman family. 

“I was rudely brought here. So, I hope it'll be worth my time,” she spoke with practised nonchalance, looking down at them. 

The scribe diligently penned down everything as the Councillors presented their greetings. This was once Armin’s job: being her Advisor, but she needed him for more important tasks. After the whole debacle with Eren, they both agreed upon leaving him be, but with added surveillance. It was the only statement she didn’t honour. Armin was busy mapping out the Rebels and their members, while she dealt with the War Councillors. 

“The nature of your actions must be questioned, Your Highness,” Nile said, growing perplexed. Like all the Councillors, he wore an indigo robe with his clan’s symbol embroidered on the back. 

“I suppose you suspect me of treason,” she sighed, leaning back on the uncomfortable throne. They had done this song and dance too many times. 

“You brought troubles to our doorsteps and compromised Shiganshina’s safety,” Gross said, with inhuman calmness. “We will have a petition drawn up to have you removed.” He was always to the point. 

“Under which law, might I ask?” She asked, as her fingers twitched. Despite the familiarity, it still infuriated her. They used the law to mess with her head and made petty demands. 

“The Sanction of Shiganshina Security: Article 10,” Gross continued, his ruthless gaze on her face. There was no ounce of empathy in that man. She had heard tales of him bleeding enemy soldiers out. There was macabre fascination behind his actions.  

The Sanction of Shiganshina Security: Article 10 gave the War Council limitless control. In a state of national emergency, their decision overruled the Queen. It was the same law they used when her mother wanted to save the Rebels, but opposing the Emperor threatened the region's security. They propped her father up and completely disregarded the Queen. It was an act of treason that couldn’t be punished.

And, in the worst iteration of the law, they could remove the Queen if she compromised the region's security. That hadn’t occurred yet, but the War Council kept trying. 

“Are you under active threat, Councillor?” Mikasa asked, laughing at the absurdity. “Did you not sleep soundly last night?” 

“Your actions will bring forth the—” 

“If nothing has happened, then you can't evoke the law based on chance,” she interjected loudly, getting on her feet. “If that's the case, I'd have you charged for extortion and blackmail, assuming I'll have the evidence in the future,” her voice was low as she challenged. It wasn’t in her nature to sit and confront. So, she ended up pacing down and staring down at the man. He remained resilient while the other Councillors stepped away. Nile commanded the scribe to stop recording. 

“Mr Gross, don't you get tired of doing this?” Mikasa spat out. “Is seeing me like this your greatest ambition?” She waved her bound arms around. It was ridiculous being the Queen and having to present herself like this. 

“You speak too frankly for a child who just learned to walk,” Gross countered, eerily calm. 

“Unfortunately, for you, I learned the law before I learned to walk,” Mikasa bitterly reminded them. It was the one thing they exploited to ruin her mother. And, Asami made certain of Mikasa’s prowess in the matter. She had spent too many nights memorising their law, dropping candle wax on her skin if sleep called. It was probably then that she ruined the act of slumber. 

“The Emperor favoured my decision, and there is no security risk. The war is over, you have no right to question my authority,” she fumed, unable to hold back the rage. “And next time, I'll take this as an active threat.” She looked at the other Councillors, who were uncomfortable with her scrutiny. 

“Your Highness,” Nile cleared his throat, “If I may, you shouldn't have married that Rebel.” 

Nile wanted the Queen to marry one of his sons. This was his way of trying to get any semblance of power. Gross wanted to remove her and install Levi in her place. He considered Levi a manageable target who presented little opposition. That notion was preposterous, but their thinking rarely made sense to her. Levi’s patience wasn’t as deep as hers. 

“I married him under my personal affairs. You don't have any judgment there,” she snapped, hoping to quell the entire matter. She wanted them to leave Eren alone, but his existence posed specific threats to them. 

“Little girl, you shouldn’t have fucked the commoner on the battlefield,” Gross said humorously, as Mikasa’s lip twitched. It took everything in her to remain calm. He wanted to trigger her, and she refused to take the bait. His words had a way of repulsing her thoroughly. She was sick of having to explain the rumours away. 

“A heart desires what it desires,” Zackery pondered, running fingers through his beard. He rarely sided with Gross, but his agenda was usually the hardest to decipher. Unlike Gross and Nile, he wasn’t upfront about it. 

“At least we'll have an heir before she loses her fertility. She is past her prime,” Gross continued with nonchalant ease. He was chipping away at her control. 

“We don't have an issue of succession,” Nile countered, clearly bothered. But he didn’t dare step in between them. The other Councillors whispered amongst themselves; no one wanted to be in the room. They were afraid of seeing her erupt. Unlike Gross, they didn’t want to withstand her rage. The only thing keeping her in check suddenly didn't seem concrete enough. 

“I'm not pregnant, nor is this a romantic affair. I married him to save lives,” Mikasa willed the fury away, and stated it through barred teeth. It was best to go with Armin’s story. The last thing she wanted was for them to know Eren’s importance. 

“How virtuous,” Nile’s voice was high-pitched, sweat evident on his forehead, “Just like your magnificent mother.” He was trying his hardest to defuse the situation. Even Zackery seemed interested in the conversation now. 

A wicked grin on Gross's face and unhinged eyes were fixated on her. “At least the commoner was wedded, we won’t have another bastard like you. Still, I must say, the rotten apple never falls far from the tree.” Each word was laced with utmost vitriol, much to his enjoyment. “A whore, just like your mother.” 

She just saw red. 

Her mind went completely blank as rage took over her body. 

She swung her bound hands and struck his face as the sound echoed in the room. His jaw was dislocated as he stumbled onto the floor. Blood and teeth falling out, as he wailed like a wounded animal. He was laughing hysterically through the fits of pain, bleeding and groaning on the floor. None dared to speak, none stepped forward. 

They feared her; they couldn’t control her; they wanted to break her. She was just like her mother. 

Unlike Asami, who was pleasant to a fault, Mikasa was born with a silent madness. She was trained to put it under wraps, as being rational outweighed most things. But the euphoria of letting go consumed her thoroughly. She had missed this feeling. Breathing hard, smiling, she observed her handiwork. He was squirming on the floor, and wet noises filled the quiet room. She jerked her hands to the side, the blood residuals strained the marble. 

The euphoria only lasted for a moment. This was likely what he wanted, and she played into it. He likely expected her to snap but hadn't anticipated a physical confrontation. She racked her brain, trying to find any useful law. Then, the answer presented itself, and she took it. The other Councillors jumped when she looked at them. Their faces were ghastly, and fear eroded their composure. 

“When I took the throne and came before you,” she announced, struggling to shape her voice, “I only had one request: you would not speak to my mother or about my mother.” She flared up, pointing her bound hands at the injured Gross. 

The consequences would present themselves. She’d take responsibility for her actions, but the delight of finally letting go was too powerful. She tasted it again, and a part of her feared the hunger for it. His clan would boycott, and he’d likely use it for sympathy. The possibilities were endless, but the little rule of obeying the Queen's first courtly wish gave her slight immunity. Impulses were high, and her control was slipping. This wasn’t the Queen her mother wanted her to be.

Many of her ancestors were tyrants, bled the War Council, and had their way with the people. She wouldn’t become like them. She’d play the petty games and evoke civility. There was no gain in having her people’s ire. 

“You've only known my patience so far. I pray you won't see my wrath,” she added for good measure, settling her beating heart. The need to calm down was paramount. 

She inhaled sharply and diverted her attention to her duty. Despite everything, the War Council's main purpose was to bring their people’s troubles to her. “Well, Councillors? Any useful matter that needs discussion?” She asked, hands still stained in Gross’s blood. 

The bizarre nature of her address wasn’t lost on anyone. They had moved towards the wall, most were standing behind Zackery and Nile, who seemed too engrossed in the theatrics. Pixix was the only one who retained his position, gulped down more wine and tapped his heel on Gross’s limp leg. And, the poor scribe had fled the room. 

“If I may,” Zackery cleared his throat, stepping back into his position. “I'm concerned about the cost this will incur. My people will be paying for most of it.” 

The Rebels were mainly situated in the area surrounding the castle. That wasn’t counting the ones who settled on the outskirts. The cost of supporting sixty people, especially with food scarcity during the winter, was a challenge. 

“Most of the people brought here have roots in Shiganshina. My Advisor is on top of it, he's relocating and sorting them,” she revealed, hoping to quell some of Zackery’s concerns. 

While the War Council wanted power, they still needed a cordial relationship with the Queen. For the most part, she rarely denied their demands. Going to war and bringing home a husband and his sixty people was likely the most defiant she’d been. “Ideally, no one will starve this winter.” 

“Will your consort be part of future courtly affairs?” Nile muttered, much to everyone’s dismay. 

It was strange having that word used for Eren. Legally, he was the consort,  even if she had no intentions of holding that title up. Usually, the consort was insignificant in their family, as the crown was passed to the children. Many of her ancestors didn’t even name their consorts, nor were they strictly monogamous. It didn’t matter as long as an heir was provided. It was only in recent years that the War Council demanded marriage sanctimony. 

The exhaustion was profound. She just wanted to go back home. 

Then there was Gross, still bleeding out as his cries were ignored. 

She rubbed her aching eyes and clarified, “No, this is purely ceremonial.” She noticed the way Nile’s face lit up. The prospect of subsequent marriage was still on the table.

She couldn't stop thinking about Eren. 

Just like that, everything came back. His words haunted, and his touch wounded. The way he cradled her hands, feeling the forgotten scars, made her want to see him again. A glance around the room, and she knew they’d used it to their advantage. 

This wasn’t the mess he needed to tangle in. She would save him, even from herself. 

It pained her heart knowing there was no future for them. 

“Your Highness, I need more hands on deck. The deals you brought as victory have brought too many ships,” Pixis said, much of his speech slurred. She just nodded. Even though the Council had a history of hanging rebels, they couldn’t openly hurt them. 

The deals with the Emperor were another thing that demanded her attention. Then there was the matter of granting Rebels identifications, and seeing the honouring ceremony of the dead, then the plan with Armin to gain the rebellion’s trust, and then—

She realised long ago that exhaustion would kill her before the enemies. 

End of Part 1 

Resources 

I've sort of combined the Hizuru and Ackerman into one family for the sake of simplicity.

We'll defo have Kenny & Kuckel somewhere in the story.

The Question mark means unnamed characters/some plot point for later on.

A little visual of how Shiganshina looks in this story. The Capital city, called Ignar, was previously scattered into twenty clans, and then they became a city. But the people still follow their ancestors' practices and remain divided like that.

• So, each clan has a War Council member representative. Just like the Ackerman family, the role of the Councillor is kept within certain families.
• The sort of monarchy here is constitutional, where the Queen can be held accountable & isn't above the law.

Chapter Text

Part 2: The Wedding Set Ablaze  

6 months later 

It had been a long time since things felt content. There wasn't any profound happiness or crippling sadness, and yet the mundane was good for her soul. She could live like this. 

Things finally fell within her grasp. 

The War Council had, for the most part, backed off after her actions. The Flien clan, whom Gross represented, still protested her actions. Their Scholars come to her court every morning, adorned in white robes, as they’d sing the Winter Goddess’s tunes of betrayal. All things considered, it was harmless, as Gross was silent. He was planning, but she couldn’t think much of it. Everything came to fruition on its own. It was only so much a Queen on borrowed time could do. Instead, her attention was focused on the present, as too much needed her intervention. 

Rebels, for the most part, had integrated into the city. Many originally hailed from Shiganshina and came with a roster of skills. Sasha kept a watchful eye on them, but they’d gotten too fond of her. Then there was the Emperor, who had entirely backed off. There were occasional letters from his court, demanding the status of the rebels. They were promptly dealt with, as Armin intercepted them before the War Council could hinder them. 

She never wanted to suspect her people of treason, but the flames of war only benefited some. The deals she brought home mostly gave certain Councillors trade benefits. It was odd how the world burned, but certain Councillors never felt its flames. Could she accuse them of conspiring with the Emperor? Such words would earn her dethronement. The War Council’s devotion to the people and land couldn’t be questioned. This unwritten rule kept them safe.

Still, for her sanity, she went through everything the War Council did in her absence and reversed laws threatening her position. They wanted more autonomy over creating legislation, and such an advantage, she kept to herself. While she couldn’t pass any law, her approval was needed to pass theirs. There was resistance to her actions, but the lack of war meant she could wield her authority. 

The Queen took control, and those around her withered with fury. 

She had burned enough skin with wax to squander her sleep as laws needed rectification. After months of gruelling endeavours, she finally had everything within control. Each day still presented her with complications, but the damage of her absence was curbed. The War Council had hoped for her death; she came back. Then they hoped for her decline; she pulled herself together and became the Queen again. It wasn’t in her blood to give up until her last breath. The conduct ruined her mother, and she happily traversed that path. 

Ultimately, the mundanity could only stretch so far. Her mother’s declining health still kept her up at night. Then there was the food security, still eating away at her sanity. She tried establishing deals with the other regions, but most were mysteriously squashed. She hated being at the mercy of the Emperor’s whims. She had sent letters to the neighbouring region of Trost, considering how their ruler had been removed, which gave them an edge in trade. The word was that the Emperor's Advisor, Floch Forster, governed the region. She could leverage that control and make deals with the dethroned ruler. Maybe then her people wouldn't starve. She had Armin profusely involved in the regional affairs. 

They would never go to war for that monster again. She would ensure it even if it cost her life.

Perhaps she finally felt like a Queen. 

The kind of Queen who jumped at loud sounds and couldn’t sleep without violent nightmares. The war’s marks were permanent. This normalcy was her final resistance. 

She was seated on the throne, as birds chirped outside and sunshine poured. Her mother’s tea kept sleep away and refreshed her, as lack of sleep blemished her eye sockets. It was another meeting with her people. She’d listen to their woe and provide judgment. While the War Councillors were their voice, she acted like an impartial observer. It was Sasha’s idea to have the people meet her with their unresolved issues. It was a hectic thing, but worth the additional effort. 

“Your Highness, I simply refuse to give up my ancestor’s land,” Kitz screamed, as his voice echoed through the Grand Hall. He was a thin businessman with bewildered eyes and a penchant for shouting when things didn't go his way. He belonged to the Sina clan, represented by Nile and his family. 

The screams were making her ears bleed as she suppressed a groan. 

Civilian laws weren’t as straightforward as the military laws. Many civilian laws relied on contextual differences; this made reaching any decision impossible. It was the thirtieth case presented to her. Two different clans claimed a strip of land. And yet their claims were never backed by sufficient evidence. She spent two days going through the extensive paperwork and found no applicable solution. There would be a compromise and further hurling of words. And, just like that, two more people would disfavour her. She was merely prolonging the outcome at this point. 

The entire purpose of her courtly interventions was to garner favour. Yet, nothing ever went her way that easily. 

“His family sold it to me, and now they are behaving like it didn’t happen,” Henning argued, passionately stamping his chest. He wore his best suit, draped in the peacock symbol of the Maria clan. 

Her head was starting to hurt. It was only so much that the tea could soothe her nerves. The constant chanting in the background added to the irritation. It was louder than usual, it meant the protesting scholars had something to say. They hummed the Winter Goddesses' songs loud enough to disrupt her court. She tried her hardest to ignore them. 

Thankfully, this was the last petition of the day. Then she could be off on her horse; the harvests in the South needed inspection. She’d hold on until the noises bled out. 

“My family did no such thing!” Kitz sobbed, lamenting like a wounded soldier, “These con artists are taking advantage of my ailing father.”

Mikasa cleared her throat. “From the observatory reports, your father is in good health,” she flipped through several documents and read the fine print. 

Kitz’s mouth opened and closed several times, and sweat filled his forehead as he found his footing again. He had tears in his eyes as he dramatically placed a hand over his eyes. “Time escapes me, he was sick last month. I have been just so grieved.”

That was another lie, before she could point it out, an accusatory finger was thrown her way. “Your Highness, please don’t favour his clan just because of your rapport with Councillor Nile,” Kitz begged, drawing his voice low. 

She rubbed her brows and sighed. This was another issue of trying to emulate justice. 

“Your Highness, that’s not fair, just because I’m not from that clan doesn’t mean you can overlook the truth,” Henning protested. They both looked at her as if righteousness meant nothing in this world. It probably didn’t, but that wasn't what she lived by. Even the scribe stared at her, hoping to write down her decision. 

“Provide me with your authentic documents,” she finally said, “I’ll make my—”

The singing in her court got worse. Their voices were as unpleasant as a mountain goat's screech. It only added to her headaches. 

“I’ll make my decision then,” she practically shouted. 

The disruption caught Armin's attention, as he left his position and ascended the throne. He was sorting through the remaining pleas; most wanted her removed for hitting Gross. But the sentiment has lost its value. She had acquired enough goodwill by coming home victorious, and he did disobey a pivotal law of ascension. While it wasn’t stated who he badmouthed, it was enough to evoke public sympathy. Mikasa wasn’t known for warth; at least until now. 

The two businessmen didn’t seem pleased as the songs got louder. 

“Maybe you can ask them…” Armin trailed off upon her bitter frown. The last time they demanded an apology, she refused instantly. Their songs only got worse from then on. 

He was dressed in the indigo garment, as it draped around his shoulders, and his hair was freshly parted. He had similar dark circles, as his nights were ruined by duty. She didn’t want him to face such burdens, but as always, he was one adamant Advisor. He had a penchant for political affairs. He learned it from his cunning mother, who— for lack of a better word— was called a Courtly Witch. 

“These visits are expensive, Your Highness. I hope we’ll have a decision soon,” Henning shouted, giving Kitz a nasty glare. Both were important businessmen who dabbled in agriculture, an essential component of Shiganshina’s survival. 

“Yes, I—” She was interrupted again as they sang about the Winter Goddesses' descent. 

Her hands were itching to grab the sword. Thankfully, it was safely tucked away in Armin’s embrace. Irritation was becoming something dangerous; she’d tasted the delight of letting go and the ease of violence. 

Armin touched her shoulders, and that's when she realised how hard she was breathing. The two businessmen looked at her nervously. And the scholars had cold sweat on their foreheads. “Words are mightier,” Armin gently said, tucking her goodwill. 

She sighed, releasing the pent-up frustration. This wasn’t the kind of Queen she wanted to be. 

“Your Highness?" Kitz tried and nearly jumped backwards when she stood up. They knew her prowess, and none possessed the guts to challenge it. And yet her kindness was often exploited, and she willingly allowed it. It was the easier option. 

The weight of violence was a terrible burden. It was the kind that kept her awake at night, blood hands grabbed her throat, as they demanded retribution. 

“We’ll settle this tomorrow,” she declared, flinging on her coat. It was marked in the slain soldier’s name. Their deaths would be a constant reminder. 

She stomped towards the protesting scholars. They still sang their tales of woe, but panic was evident on their faces. It was fear she desired, but the profound respect. She steadied her footing and walked gently. Many of them were old and likely just wanted to hold up the sanctity of the Grand Hall. Punching a Councillor meant a Queen could silence opposition. A notion that didn’t sit right with them, with justified reasoning. Many had ancestors slain by the previous Queen, who challenged the natural order of things. It was through blood that they shaped the world around them. 

“Speak,” she folded her arms, “You have my undivided attention.” She wouldn’t hurt them, but absolute compliance never did her any favours. 

The Grand Hall was like a bird's cage with its gilded arches and painting of salvation. She hated it with a slight passion. It represented everything she stood against: excess and monetary subjugation. It was built on the backs of starving labourers and completely co-opted by her ancestors. She still couldn’t bring enough people of every social class onto its premises. 

Justice only served the rich. It was another reason she could never discard the Rebels. They were people who wanted a system that didn’t exploit their endeavours. Yet she was everything they stood against. 

She wanted to be better. Would she be able to face him again? The woman he saw was the version she desired. She would hear them and all those who lacked a voice. Maybe then her soul could rest. 

The oldest scholar stepped forward. He had a little patch of grey hair on his head, and most of his face was hidden behind a beard. He gave her the obligatory bow, and then the others circled him. They were frail like sprouts of dandelion. Maybe if she blew hard enough, they’d fall completely apart. 

“My Queen, we have a proposition. It will resolve your courtly misconduct,” he began, voice faltering at every syllable. 

She was impatiently tapping her foot until Armin cleared his throat. “Please tell us, Great Scholar of the South,” he said with a customary bow. She didn’t like the idea of him bowing before anyone, but the elderly held a soft place in his heart. 

“Hold your wedding in the Flien clan’s land. It’ll mend your transgressions and rectify our standing with the others,” he proclaimed, as the rest chimed in support.

Mikasa laughed; a rich, full-throated laughter that echoed through the halls. “What gutsy gentleman has offered to court me?” It was ridiculous. 

All eyes stared at her in disbelief. Then it hit her like a smouldering projectile. 

She was already married. 

To Eren Yeager. 

She had forced herself to forget and moved along like nothing had transpired between them. It was easier that way, but now everything returned, and she covered her mouth. She used Armin’s arm to muster some semblance of stability. 

“For fuck’s sake,” she growled, unable to hide her conflicting emotions. 

His voice filled her head again. No, Your Highness, you and your family, and your castle: all built on the blood of those you abandoned. And, I was the fucking fool who thought you'd be the exception to the rule. Then you went ahead and made me a part of it. The ringing in her ears intensified. I wish I hadn't met you; at least then I wouldn't feel this way. She had told him that the girl he knew had died. Perhaps it was another lie she told herself. That girl, trapped under the burden of her role, wanted to shed tears for the bond they once had. And for the bond, they never could rekindle. It was the flames of his hatred that burned her. 

Armin stepped in between them. “What, Her Highness, means is that she’ll have it—”

“There will be no wedding,” She firmly interjected, regaining motor functions. 

She had promised to leave him alone. It was a promise she intended to keep. He was a pain she didn’t have the strength to endure. Nor did she wish to hurt him anymore. Things had been good; both remained far away, enough to stamp away any residual anguish. They only needed to pretend until the Royal Court pardoned the Rebels officially. It would be a couple more months of endurance, and then she’d set him free. Being tied down to the very person he hated was a cruel punishment. She wouldn’t betow that on anyone. 

No wedding demands were going to disturb her peace. She didn't want to see him again, much less rekindle his anger. It was another lie she told herself. She wanted to see him again, but the truth only ached her heart. 

“Your Highness, I believe we are being reasonable,” The scholar continued. He was puzzled by her strange actions. “You married him only on paper. It’s only natural for you to have a ceremony and uphold our traditions.” 

The word around the city— meticulously spun by Armin— was that the Queen and the Rebel kept to themselves. They had an amicable relationship born from duty to their people. There wasn’t any love or fondness between them. Their marriage was mutually beneficial. They were just strangers who came together for a mutual goal. Under those conditions, she wasn’t meant to have such strong emotions for him. People left Eren alone because he was unimportant to her. The perception kept him safe, and she wouldn't ruin it. 

She corrected her posture and levelled her voice. “It would be rude to disturb the Rebels for such frivolous events. And winter will be upon us in four months; we can't spend senselessly.” 

She tasted the heartbreak again. It was like molten ash on her tongue. His words had torn her apart and even invaded her nightmares. Just like your fucking father.

Armin noticed the unravelling, even his nerves on the edge. Then there was the glint of sadness in his eyes. He was terrible at hiding his emotions and was mere moments away from a treacherous sob. He had spoken with Eren, embraced him, and then felt the wrath of his words. Her poor Advisor didn’t leave his room for days. The situation needed to be handled. She forced everything away. Only a blank face greeted her audience, as all internal chaos was aptly covered. 

The stress would bleed her one day, but she wouldn’t allow that day to be today. 

“The war brought dread to our land, and it’s within your duties to elevate the public. The Wedding will be an excuse for Winter festivities,” Another scholar reasoned. 

The Winter Festival; her blood ran cold. It was as if the world were conspiring to unravel her thoroughly. The tradition was paused when wars started and people starved. They wouldn’t have snow until two months later, but she understood the sentiments. 

“I simply refuse when danger lurks everywhere,” she protested, clearing her throat. There would only be firmness without attachment. She was speaking for her people, not for him. A little distinction that kept her reasoning steady. 

“Must I remind?" The smile on the scholar’s face meant she had fallen into a trap. “You insisted that there was no danger; then attacked a great Councillor.” She wanted to rip something apart. Respect be damned, she wanted to tear that smugness of the old man’s face. 

“People will enjoy the relief of peace through these festivities,” Another scholar chimed.  

“They’ll appreciate our ability to feed them later,” she countered, her stance as defiant as ever. 

She had rejected the apology and intended to reject this uncomfortable demand. She made it about the people, while in reality, her wounded heart needed relief. Yet, giving in felt like a manageable option. She’d quell the protests and grant her people some semblance of joy.

No, not at the expense of hurting him again. She remembered the way he looked at her, anguish mixed with fury. He wasn’t a prop for her political affiliations. He wouldn’t be another puppet dangled for the people’s satisfaction. 

“The wedding will fix the Flien clan’s reputation, which was recklessly ruined,” they continued, piling reasons onto her flimsy rejection. “Funds will be mutually provided.” They didn’t stop until only their voices echoed through the Halls. They were loud and boisterous once they had the Queen cornered. 

“Those funds will cost us precious deals,” she continued to refute their claims. 

They were locked in a heated exchange until she was fatigued. They were relentless, chipping away, hoping to uncover everything. 

The pounding in her head got worse. Armin’s gentle gaze found her face, and he knew how hopeless it was. They wouldn't stop pestering her until she gave in, and too much force would reveal her soft spot for him. She was once again caught in a trap with predefined choices. The Guilt in Armin’s face didn’t light up. He had done her the same way, and now he watched others enact that play. 

She would give Eren discomfort once again, for her role's sake. She deserved the hatred he felt. There would be no forgiveness for her. 

“I shall wed Eren Yeager on the 5th of the full moon. It will be a grand affair, on the land surrounding the willows.” The Grand halls erupted in cheers. 

She only felt numb as sounds were drowned out. 

Chapter Text

His mother was pure sunshine— unweaving, warm, and the epicentre of their happiness. The world just tilted right when she was around. He would race up to her bed, bringing her all sorts of potions and anecdotes. One of his fondest memories was a dinner; his mother had prepared broth while his father chatted about the funny patients. He hadn’t realised what blessings these quiet moments were. Slowly but surely, came the wretched decline. 

First came the coughs, which bloodied her handkerchief. Still, she had learned to smile through the pain. Once, he even brought Mikasa and Armin to see his mother. They were enamoured by the woman who spoke of constellations and the world's wonders. Before her family settled in Shiganshina, they lived as nomads in distant lands. Eren had only heard tales of the places her people resided in. It was all too wonderful. 

Second came the numbing pain. He’d grown enough to understand illness and lack of remedies. The worry on his father’s face only worsened with time. He wanted to see Mikasa and Armin again. He waited for them each Winter, but his dreams were quietly crushed. He waited, and waited until his abandonment was obvious. 

He would spend most days with his ailing mother, listening to her idle chatter, or helping her through convulsions. They needed treatment but lacked the money to travel to the Capital. They were at war, and the Capital was entirely guarded off. A particular ire was placed on Shiganshina; it remained neutral while the world burned. His father had left them, with unimaginable agony in his gaze. Eren slowly learned about the legacy which would be his to inherit. His father caused the great rebellion, while his son and wife slowly withered away in the white brick house. Maybe it was the loneliness or the lack of medication, but his mother only got worse. He often tried to lighten her mood; once he and his friends enacted her favourite play. That was likely the last time she had smiled. He still waited for them every winter. 

He wanted to see Mikasa again. There were only blessings when she used to visit. A childish part of him thought of her as the Goddess's apostle. If only she’d come again, their troubles would go away. Mother would be well again, and he’d run through the fields again. It was simple dreams that gave him hope. They kept him going when nothing made sense.

He was then ruthlessly crushed under the weight of his childish wonderment. 

Third came the final breaths. His mother passed away in her sleep, while the world burned to indiscriminate ashes. He didn’t speak to anyone for days; for his heart was marred with unadulterated anger. He hated the father who abandoned them for the greater good, and he hated the girl who didn't come to see him again. Tears were hot on his face, trailing down until the night came, and he remained beside his mother’s grave.

Riots took over his little town, and a manhunt for the rebels began. His house was burned, and everything he loved was taken away from him. The numbness had etched onto his bones, and hatred shaped him into a vengeful monster. Perhaps it was for the best that his mother didn’t see him this way; she was the light in his cruel world. Without her guidance, he went on a path laid out by his father. He didn’t see that man again, but his legacy coiled around his neck.

He and his friends were unofficially part of the rebellions, working to slit throats and gather intelligence. Then, dreadful news came, and he hurried back to the town that brought him nothing but pain. 

Fourth came the retribution. He remembered the tension in the air, thick and unforgiving. There were incoherent chants as the people around him desired blood. He felt like an aimless boat in a sea of faceless bodies. They kept moving him forward, towards the epicentre of their morbid desires. The captured rebels were prepared to be hanged; between the lifeless bodies, he spotted the man he hadn't seen in ages. His face was filled with brutal scars, drenched in dried blood, as defiant eyes stared at his oppressors. He couldn’t breathe anymore; in an instant, everything he knew came tumbling down. He was screaming, but strong hands held him back. Jean and Connie refused to let him go. Every restraint came undone as the need to ruin prospered. It was his father, the man who once abandoned them. His wails of anguish became part of the disharmonious symphony of the crowd. They chanted for blood, and he cried for his father. 

Time lost its meaning. He felt like a puppet, lifeless without his strings, as he watched the unthinkable unfold. There she was, not the Goddess's apostle, but the harbinger of his pain. 

She was pulling on her father— Commander Albert— who remained steadfast in his decision. The word amongst his people was that the Queen had ordered the death of Rebels. The Emperor had demanded their head, and like a coward, the Queen caved to his demands. She was a woman he once respected, but like with everything, the respect shattered in a second. This cursed family wasn’t any different from the ruthless Emperor. They abandoned their people and allowed the monster to seek blood. His blood-curdling screams were lost in the chaos of the crowd. 

At some point, his friends gathered him and hid him away. They didn’t let him witness the hanging of his father. 

It was the finality of his naivety. He was abandoned and left to rot in the wake of every devastation. His rage was suffocating enough to break him apart. He blacked out for most of those days— drinking away the pain, and killing when the missions were thrown his way. In the blood and pain, all he could do was lick his wounds. He hated her; he hated everything she stood for. 

Time passed, and he became fully involved in his father's legacy. He ascended the ranks, and their skirmishes grew. His wounded heart never healed, and his hatred turned into begrudging understanding. It was easier when the world was black and white, and a malignant force bore his wrath. But time unveiled his father's path; it was ruthless and blistered his feet. Until the end, his father had a gentle spot for his family. He didn’t want his son’s involvement and wanted to shield his wife; ultimately, nothing was left of them. The son took his father’s fight, and his wife passed all alone in pain. Time showed a father who had love, but the cruel world took him away. 

Eren still couldn’t think of him fondly. Even in his father’s last moments, he looked away before the ending. The Emperor had killed him, the Ackerman family had carried it out, and the bloodthirsty crowd cheered them on. He never went to that town again and abandoned Shiganshina. There was far too much despair in the soil of his motherland. 

She became the centre of his hatred, but even that withered with time. The rage that once burned like molten lava turned into ashes of regret. He still waited for her to find him, and even that longing got its foretold demise. It was hard to blame her when she lacked the power to undo any commands. His last memory of her was marked in blood and disdain. He still thought of her from time to time. It was impossible not to when she took the throne and became the spitting image of her father. The anger became disappointment, and soon just the mention of her made his soul bitter. 

A part of him still waited for her; he couldn’t get rid of that part.

Mikasa Ackerman— the name was engraved in his heart.

He was disoriented and groggy when he finally woke up. Everything was hurting, and his head was a chasm of splinters. He could barely remember the last night, but the one thing he wanted to forget still loomed over him. Today was the day his mother passed away, and many moons later, it still ached his fucking heart. Obviously, like any sane grieving son, he spent his night drinking away his misery and brawling when the moonshine didn't balm his despair. He was still in the tavern, dirty and wine-stained, looking around the strange cacophony of creaking wood and murmurs. He was still in the rusty caravan, but where did he end up sleeping? He moved his head around, and the ache made him audibly gasp. With a heavy sigh, he lay back on the rough surface. Whatever ordeal he landed in could be dealt with later; for now, he tried to quell the anguish in his mind. 

He thought of his mother, but nothing came back except a faded smile and scent of decay. Tears filled his eyes, and he allowed them to pass. He'd done so much to escape the pain, but in the end, he was marinated in it. He longed to visit her grave, but that cursed town threatened a breakdown. It was for the people's sake that he didn't go. 

“You look like shit,” a voice observed. “You tend to be even on your best days, but it's extra bad today.” It was Jean relishing in the sight of a deeply wounded man. 

Eren just groaned and rubbed his eyes. “Where am I?” His voice was hoarse, and his throat was too dry. 

Jean walked around the tiny room and studied the surroundings. “The owner allowed you to use one of his spare rooms, and called for me first thing in the morning.” He viciously pulled the curtains apart, and the light disrupted Eren's vision. Suddenly, there was an uncharacteristic concern in Jean's voice. “It's today, isn't it?” He didn't need an answer. He was there when Carla passed away. He was there when Eren refused to leave her grave. He was there when Eren refused to eat. And he was certainly there when Eren vowed to ruin the Emperor. He tended to witness all that was ill in his friend's life. 

Eren felt around his body; fully clothed and entirely untouched, except for the punches he'd thrown. He was married to the Queen; the last thing she needed was rumours of him sleeping around. Although, it didn't fucking matter. They were nothing to each other, and he wanted to laugh at himself for wanting to hold up the sanctity of their marriage. 

His wrecked heart never fully got over her. Even when she promised not to involve him and kept up that promise, he couldn't stop thinking about her. It was hard to conceal an open wound when it started festering again. When she came back into his life, everything he'd managed to conquer became insolent again. He began thinking about his father and the sins he carried, and then thought of his mother, and the unforgivable nature of her demise. And then he thought of her; the pain in her gaze as she promised another finality. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, trying to forge some semblance of composure. 

It had been six months since they last spoke, but he still couldn't get her out of his mind. It was a feat he was incapable of achieving; not then, not now, and he suspected, not in the future either. 

Jean helped him sit up and brought water. “I want you to sit this meeting out.” Eren opened his mouth to object, but Jean shoved the water jar closer. “Listen to me for once.” 

Eren grabbed the jar and drank in thick gulps. The room was filled with cobwebs and remains of distant life. The bed was mostly wood, and there wasn't anything valuable. He could smell bacon, as his stomach turned, and he tried to remember when he last ate. What had he even been up to? He couldn't remember most of it, as the days leading up to his mother’s death were hazy.

“I'm not letting those bastards have their way," he spat out. “I’ve done nothing to tarnish my father’s legacy.”

“There is no point in resistance,” Jean said, frowning at his resolve. “The marriage isn’t even your fault.” 

“Then why am I being punished for it?” Eren bitterly asked, knowing Jean couldn't provide any solace. He just shrugged. 

“Imagine if I had stepped up in your place and this occurred. How would you have reacted?” He rubbed his chin, a glint in his eyes, as he presented the possibilities. Eren gave him a nasty scowl. The incessant teasing had not stopped; it was like salt applied to his wounds. 

No one had expected the marriage. Even someone, as consumed by madness as their Leader, was shocked. The plan was to use her sentiments, start a court battle and settle in Shiganshina after a year. Instead, she declared marriage, performed for the Emperor, and brought them to her home. Only three people knew of his history with the Queen, and it was kept that way. His fellow rebels started suspecting him, and their trust in him dwindled. He was working for the Queen; they said, hoping to weaponise her kindness. Why else would the Queen save them this way? Surely, there was something between them. The sound of accusations followed him around, and he wanted to throw something onto the ground. There were only faded memories and ghoulish anguish. Nothing else could exist between them. 

She didn't see him again, and he preferred it that way. Once again, time uncoiled his rage and brought him understanding. He regretted most of the things he had said to her that day. He lashed out because a part of him was still waiting for her, and she never came. She confirmed the demise of the girl he once knew, and all that remained was the Queen. Her actions in the war filled him with unimaginable disappointment. Did he even know her to begin with? All they had were childhood memories that felt like a dream. The accusations flaunted his way came with a sense of unease. He didn't want to move past his all-consuming rage. What would he feel for her then? Longing for the Queen who stood with the Emperor? He didn't want to betray his comrades. 

He shouldn't have longed for her; his heart wasn't meant for her. And yet even time couldn't undo the mark she left on him. 

“Get cleaned up,” Jean grumbled, slapping Eren’s good shoulder. “I’ll see you at noon.”

He paid respect to the poor owner who housed him for the night, fulfilled the dues, and left for the lodging where he stayed with Connie. Most of the people didn't recognise him as the Queen's husband, and those who did know didn't make much fuss of it. She remained true to her words and kept him away from the royal affairs. She didn't present him as important, and to the world, he didn't matter without it. There wasn't even an official declaration of his title or the wedding. And the tale told to the public was merely goodwill publicity for the Queen. He wanted to spit on that sentiment. She saved him, and other lives came along with it. There wasn't any benevolence behind her actions. She was selfish just like him, and it swelled his chest with treacherous emotions. 

He just couldn't let it go. He held it tightly enough to bruise his hands. He remembered how she looked at him; it broke his Goddess-damned heart. Even after everything— the betrayal, the retribution, the disappointment— he still reached for her hand. Thankfully, she said her final piece and left him. It was hard being next to her, and she likely felt the same way. Even when their paths crossed, she always went the other way. Abandoned once again, but this time he appreciated it. He was a rebel, and she was everything he wanted to dismantle.

He washed away the waste and returned anew. The face he pulled hid away the festering pain and insecurities. Withstanding the world was easier than thinking about his mother. 

There was a particular kind of cruelty in his fate. Married to the Queen, whose father hanged his father, and whose mother allowed it to happen. He was married into the very family he hated. There was only bitter laughter reserved for such a predicament. The irony was poisonous enough to kill him. He couldn't even blame his comrades for hating his presence. He was doing the same to himself. 

Fresh out of the shower, he threw on clean clothes and wore the key around his neck. It was the parting gift from his father. He hadn't learned about its purpose and lacked the will to unearth it. He'd forgotten what his father looked like, and all that remained was a shadow hanging in the sunshine. 

With a heavy heart and equally burdened soul, he left the lodge and went to see his comrades. 

The blacksmith’s workshop was their unofficial meeting location. It was owned by a rough man named Dimo Reeves, who only spoke the language of coins. He turned a blind eye to their activities when enough pennies were lined in his pocket. He stank of cigars and bad luck, but the rebels had to rely on his promise. Eren didn’t like the man one bit. He spoke of the Queen in questionable words and often wanted a reaction from the supposed husband. It was a trifling matter, but it still irritated him. 

Connie was tasked with keeping Sasha distracted as the six rebels gathered for their weekly meeting. Over the months, Eren had developed a fondness for the girl who hunted for fun. She was clearly assigned to spy on them— one part of their agreement the Queen didn’t keep— but ended up befriending most of them. He even taught her to pickpocket last month, and his comrades stared at him in disbelief. He was cordial with the Queen’s handmaiden. Official titles aside, Sasha felt more like the unruly sister of the Queen, who revealed too much. She often talked about the Queen's activities and shortcomings, and he’d listen earnestly. 

“Fancy running into you,” the cloaked man said, stepping behind Eren. It was Leader Erwin who was pretending to be a flute-playing beggar. He liked the role for the mobility it gave him. Things were rough, considering Commander Levi was after him and was relentless in his pursuit. It was becoming increasingly hard for the Leader to show up. “Who really is the enemy, boy?” Eerie words were whispered in Eren’s ear. He was jolted to the side, but before he could respond, the Leader went inside. This man was cryptic to an infuriating degree. He rubbed the back of his neck, gathered his nerves and went inside. 

The meeting was between two sections of the rebels. Samuel Jackson and Daz represented those who came before, while Eren and Jean represented those who came afterwards. There was palpable tension between them, as many saw Eren as the traitor. Their leader didn’t bother stepping in between; his mind was never focused on such petty feuds. His plan had worked out better than expected. 

The insides were smouldering hot. Eren perspired until he reached the basement and breathed in the cool air. It was dimly lit, and the sound of metal being shaped echoed through. He could taste the rust in his mouth. Samuel and Daz were not delighted to see him, having grown into men who supported the absolute perishment of royalty. The Emperor had their families killed for treason, and they desired nothing but royal blood.  Eren felt the same way, but she always came in the way. It was fucking annoying, feeling conflicted over something so simple. Eren grew up training with them, but now their accusatory eyes were on him. 

“I don’t recall inviting the traitor,” Samuel said, folding his arms. 

Leader Erwin simply descended into the shadows, where he fiddled with his flute and allowed them to continue. 

“Don’t waste time with this, Sam,” Eren countered, feeling ever so fatigued. “Let’s just discuss the status of our armoury.”

“So, you can report it to your wife?” Daz chimed in, hoping to strike a chord. 

Eren cursed under his breath. “Motherfuc—”

Thankfully, Jean arrived before blood was drawn. Unlike Eren— who was always disliked for being Grisha’s son, and now was disliked for his marriage— Jean was everything other rebels admired. This disparity often curdled Eren’s heart. They were the people he gave up everything for, and it wouldn't ever be enough. He was forced into this marriage, and that fact didn't seem to matter. 

“Let’s not be petty,” Jean tutted, throwing Daz a playful glare. “The Queen doesn’t even speak to him.” Jean dramatically wiped under his eyes. “His sacrifice saved our lives.” There was firmness in his voice, “It it fucking go.” The threat was administered, but Eren doubted it would last. The two looked displeased but didn’t express it. 

Eren appreciated the intervention; his head was throbbing, and he barely held on. Today was a terrible day to be on his bad side. He often lost the internal battle with his anger, and it would result in regrettable actions. 

They gathered around the central table and lit candles around the important documents. There were snippets from all the spies left in the Queen's abode. Strangely, it was utterly mundane information. She either stayed in her study and didn’t return to the castle for days; it was mostly abandoned. Everything that transpired in her abode was an open book; it was too deliberate. 

“It’s like she is mocking us; look, there is nothing but boring paperwork to observe,” Samuel sighed, flipping through more pages. 

“There was an obstruction during her last court session,” Daz noted, studying the fancy, written letter. “Unfortunately, the scribe is too tight-lipped about it.”

“There was a disruption in the Grand Hall six months ago,” Jean recalled, tapping a finger on his folded arms. “A Councillor was hurt.” 

“Maybe it’s all connected, but it's rather useless to us,” Samuel groned, throwing the pages back on the table. 

“Eren, at least get some useful information on your wife,” Daz chirped, giving him a smug smile. 

Eren counted until his rage subsided. “I thought you were against me fraternising with the royalty.” He retorted, holding Daz’s glare. 

Jean irrationally tapped on the table. “Gentleman, we’re just wasting time following Mi—” he covered the mishap with a cough. “---the Queen around. The War Council seems to hold substantial power in this region.”

“Should we follow them?” Samuel asked, intrigued by the idea. The other nodded in agreement. 

The discovery of the War Council's influence had been their reckoning. All their defences were focused on the Queen, but as it turned out, the War Council was the real thorn in their way. They hated the rebels and did everything to impede their assimilation. The Queen had most of her decisions go through them, and from the looks of it, she rarely made choices alone. She couldn’t move without them breathing down her neck.

It was a factor he needed to consider: how much of her actions were even her choices? He felt irreparably guilty. Obviously, she was the kind of person who’d shoulder the entire responsibility. Whatever he felt for her got ruthlessly complicated. Where did the War Council begin, and the Queen's choices end? It was a wrench thrown in his plans to hate remorselessly. 

“That leaves the issue of having a functional armoury,” Jean said, putting paper in a neat stack. 

“The Queen forbade us from owning land,” Daz reiterated, “I tried filing another petition, but it didn’t go anywhere.” 

“I’m sick of playing these games with the royalty,” Samuel exclaimed, balling up his fists. “Can’t we just  kill that pompous bi—” 

It was a bait, and he didn’t care. “No one is killing the Queen.” Eren declared, hands striking hard on the table. 

“What a fucking traitor,” Daz snickered, “Your father was such a great man, but look at his Goddess-damned son.” 

“Licking the royalty’s boot,” Samuel added, disappointment in his eyes. 

Jean placed a hand on Eren’s shoulder and pushed him back. “He has a point,” he began, trying his hardest to remain diplomatic. “The War Council hates us, and the only one who favours us is the Queen,” he reminded, despite the glares reserved for him. “You want to cut the hand that feeds us? We don't know what they'll do once she's out of the picture."

“Have you gone soft, Jean?” Daz asked, voice laced in hate. “Do you bed her too?” 

That snapped Eren. His hands were around Daz’s neck, and he stared at him with a mixture of fear and disbelief. He was trembling and muttered incoherently. The table had toppled over, and the sound ricocheted through the room. “Say that again,” Eren’s voice was methodically low, hands firm around Daz’s sweaty neck, “I dare you," he whispered, seeing the panic erupt in his comrade's gaze. Anger had a way of dissolving his resolve, and making him act irrationally. 

“Oh, for fucks sake, Eren,” Jean cursed openly, pulling on his friend’s arms. “Stop it, you fucking idiot.”

“Threatening your comrade for the fucking Queen,” Samunel muttered, trying to step inbetween them. “What a Goddess-damned scum you’ve become.” Eren instantly regretted it and allowed Daz to breathe again. He stared at his guilty hands. This was his comrade and he just tried to choke him. The same comrade he'd grown up, starved, and battled with. Eren’s entire face broke, and an apology was on his lips. But their words kept striking him like a hammer on smouldering iron. Daz had coiled away against the wall, and his gaze of utter disappointment studied him.

“Must you target me today of all days?” Eren growled, throwing his arms up. The ache in his head worsened, and he kept seeing blood. He started to feel sick, and Jean laced his arm around his waist. He pulled his friend back, hoping to put some distance between the triggers. Everything felt so fucking suffocating. 

He hated the royalty, and he devoted his life to dismembering them. He hated having her as an exception, and the slightest words triggered him. It was terrifying, dancing for the Queen’s honour when her family was responsible for her father’s death. He couldn’t stop thinking about his mother, and it continued to sully his restraints. 

“They killed your father.” Daz’s voice was hoarse, as he felt around his neck. The red marks blemished his pale skin. “She watched while your father was hanged.” Eren was reminded, and that moment already haunted Eren. “If your father saw you now, he’d painfully die again.” The bitterness reverberated through the walls.  

Eren felt so fucking exhausted, his pulse was beating at an alarming rate, and his vision got blurry. He was sweating, unable to withstand the tarnishment of his reputation. He had done this to himself. He was incapable of truly hating her, and that’s where his downfall began. The guilt came with scorching humiliation, and he wanted to rupture his conflicted heart. Jean rubbed Eren's shoulder, grounding him, as he tried to calm his breathing. 

The flute sounded and instantly captured their attention. The leader wasn’t the kind who intervened until he had something worthwhile to add. His gaze lingered on all the comrades' faces, and he regarded each with calculated indifference. He cared for their lives, but it never outweighed his bargains. “Would you bear the consequences of taking a life?” He asked, to no one in particular. “Life is such a funny embodiment of vengeance,” he got up, stretched his arm, and walked to their table. “Let's say, you kill the Queen, then who comes after her?” He turned to Samuel, who withered under the intensity of his gaze. Eren was holding his breath, if the Leader demanded her blood then what the fuck would he do? He didn't want to think about it. 

“The Commander,” he stammered, averting his eyes to the floor. “Levi Ackerman.” 

Levi Ackerman was once known as the monster who slaughtered a hundred men. There were tales of him, spoken like legends, where he crossed every line of cruelty. Compared to Mikasa, people feared him. That was their greatest mistake, underestimating her wrath. Unlike her Uncle, she had a polished image and kept her violence wrapped up. They were much the same; only the public's perspective differed. He often warned the rebels about taking her lightly, and those warnings fell on deaf ears. They saw her as easy because she didn't deem them a threat. She wasn't killable, much less reproachable in battle. 

“Then you kill the Commander, who comes after him?” He continued, setting the table up again. Jean quietly helped him and collected the papers. 

“The former Queen,” Samuel said, swallowing. “Asami Ackerman.” 

“Unless you’re prepared to burn down the whole system, there’s no point in killing a handful of individuals,” Erwin sighed, his brows drawn together. “Will you burn down the whole system?” He turned to every face in the room. There wasn’t any answer. 

Erwin fiddled with the stack of paper as softness filled his face. “My father used to teach children of nobility, and once he brought me along. I said things which were forbidden and the next day, I found myself on his grave.” A deathly silence cascaded through the room. “The Emperor had him killed, and now he must bear the consequences.” Those piercing eyes were set on his comrades. “I am the consequence of his action.” He whispered, lost in distant thoughts. It was unlike the Leader to express pieces of his past. 

“Would you.” His gaze flickered onto Eren. “Endure what will follow your actions?”

There was no response.

Chapter Text

He couldn’t face the aftermath of his anger and drowned in self-pity. Often he felt like a victim of the fury that burned inside him, and other times he felt like a malignant perpetrator who used the fury as an excuse. Emptiness clung to him like a second skin. 

He was hammering away at the molten steel, ashes and smoke filled his lungs. The workshop was cast in darkness, only lit up when he struck the hot metal. Embers scattered around as he worked on the rusted sword. It once belonged to his father, handed down like a curse bestowed on his soul. It broke in their last battle, and he didn’t intend to fix it. But the overwhelming need to claim his legacy compelled him, and he profusely sweated over its reconstruction. His father left him a path of glory, and he never reconciled with it. 

There was far too much pain and anger. He remembered screaming at his father when he abandoned them. He remembered reaching for a father who only looked at him with anguish. He just wanted his father to stay, but ended up being entirely abandoned. That man wasn’t seen again until the day of his hanging. He saw his father’s eyes; unbreakable, but when he met his son’s gaze— there was only wretched regret, fear, and unspeakable pain that made him look away. His father died for the revolution, but couldn’t sacrifice the part of himself that cherished his son. If this was love then why was it so fucking ruinous? Eren never understood. 

The hammer struck wrongly, and embers scattered around him. With a snarl, he threw the tool aside. The sound bounced off the stone walls, and his eccentric breathing filled the remaining silence. He wanted to hit something as the irritation under his skin worsened. 

He grew up with the other rebels. They were like his brothers who walked the path and laid down their lives for the cause. There were nights when they wept in silence, and had little joys expressed over bonfires. He was particularly close to Daz and Samuel, who followed them through mud and sharp blades. The moon was upon them like a brazen intruder, enviously witnessing their final happiness. The breeze kept them cool despite the heat of Trost’s summer, as they danced to the tune of the Spring Goddesses' song.

A gathering was held to celebrate Leader Erwin’s successful skirmishes. But, as expected, the man didn’t appear, and the rebels just danced in his name. There was ample food and wine, no care in the world. Samuel revealed his new hairstyle. They were laughing as Marco mocked their similarity. They looked like twins, upbeat and gentle to a fault. Jean and Connie were busy arguing over the semantics of Daz’s new contraption. The world was filled with their laughter. Eren sat in silence, observing them, as he consumed more wine. He could live like this; maybe the world wasn’t entirely broken? And, even if it was, they always pieced it together. 

What a fucking lie it became. A month later, the Emperor created a law to wed Ymir, and took over her land. Rebellion erupted in every corner as they went to battle. He lost Marco and pieces of himself to the bloody conquest. 

Fate had a penchant for being particularly cruel to him. 

Three years later, she used the very law they rebelled against to marry him. He wanted to rupture whatever parts of him remained. 

Now, despite his best efforts, he was intertwined with the bloody family's legacy. 

He held his weight against the table, trying to live through another head split. Memories mixed with buried emotions did a number on his mind. Things got exponentially worse after she came back and reopened old wounds. He started thinking about his mother again, about the conflicted emotions he felt for his father. There wasn’t any composure left when the ghost of his past lingered so utterly near. The worst part? She still never came back to him. The woman he saw was almost unrecognisable. There would be no rekindling when her very existence threatened everything he fought for, and his heart be damned, he’d never trample over the cause so many laid down their lives for. He wished to draw his final breaths as a rebel. 

So, why the fuck did he attack Daz like that? His teeth were clenched together as he looked at his sinful hands. They were trembling as his self-loathing got worse. His comrades were wary about the marriage, even though it fulfilled their plan. But, as time went on, he kept pushing for alternatives that didn’t harm the Queen. His friends caught on, and since then, Daz and Samuel looked at him differently. They saw him as a traitor, and he proved them right again. 

He assaulted his comrade for the Queen. That was the Goddess-damned problem— she wasn’t just the Queen, but Mikasa Ackerman. The girl, all these years later, he still waited for her. 

His heart was a graveyard of unspoken longing. 

The woman was just a stranger who refused to recognise him. Her words rang in his ears, erosive as the mouth that uttered them. This marriage, you'll have to endure it for a year, and then we'll officially separate. It's only in name until the Royal Court is satisfied. You shouldn't worry. I'll set you free. There was melancholic sweetness in her voice. During your time here, we'll never have to see each other again. You'll have no obligations to the marriage. We don't have to hurt each other again. This will be our final conversation. He believed her then; he didn’t matter anymore. But she gripped his hand, and her eyes only possessed anguish. She wanted finality while her fingers struggled to let go. Thankfully, like cruel mercy, she walked out before he could stop her. What the fuck was wrong with him? He still couldn’t silence the yearning. 

Would you endure what will follow your actions? The Leader had asked him. He wouldn't live with himself if traitor was written over his name. He was going to forget about her and support the cause. He’d never think about her again and wield his sword against royalty. He would honour his fallen comrades. His resolve had to be concrete. 

Water was splashed on his face, and he nearly lost his balance. “What the—” he snarled, trying to find his footing. He roughly jerked the water off and blinked till his eyes focused. 

It was Connie, gleefully holding the emptied jar. “I kept calling your name,” he said, making an obtuse face. “You looked constipated and didn’t respond.” 

“I was thinking,” he grumbled, squeezing water from his shirt. The cotton stuck uncomfortably to his skin. It was nearly translucent. He ran his fingers through his hair and pushed the wet strands back. 

Jean’s thick boots echoed through the room. “It’s fucking hot,” he fanned his face and pulled the windows apart. “Are you trying to suffocate?” He scolded, eyeing the partially molten sword and the hammer flung aside. “Or, are you going through another phase?” He glared at Eren, who rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t want to pay that greasy old man more money if you break things.”

“Look, I’m just—” Eren struggled to find his voice, but Connie waved him off. “It never gets easier,” Connie said quietly, handing him a towel. The days leading up to his mother’s death and beyond were difficult. They had seen him at his worst, and today was no exception. There was far too much self-inflicted pain that none of them wanted to address. 

That's why he called them. The Queen's letter called for his presence in a meeting, but he lacked the emotional capacity to deal with it. His fate enjoyed tormenting him. The key dangled around his neck and felt restless against his blasphemous heart. 

After six months of pretending like he didn't exist, she wanted to see him again. Such a meeting would only tarnish his reputation. It was an official meeting, within the confines of his workstation, as his comrades would spin stories. Multiple possibilities ran through his head, and the anxiety it caused him was unforeseen. He called them because he didn’t trust himself to function properly. What could she possibly want from him? It boiled his blood, she was going back on her words. Still, in the depths of his heart, he wanted to see her again. 

He couldn’t help but laugh— a deep and uncanny sound. All these years later, she still affected him intrinsically. His condition didn’t ease his friend's concern. Connie threw the other towel on his head.

“What have you done this time?” Jean asked, backing him against the oak table. 

“Is it necessary that I’m at fault?” Eren muttered, folding his arms. They nodded in unison, and he dramatically clutched his chest.  “Really, I have done nothing.” His friends didn’t look convinced. 

“The Queen wants to meet with you.” Connie pulled out the letter, scanning through the content again. It was precise, ensuring that she wrote it. Unfortunately, that meant no details were provided. “Why are we here?” Connie asked, but Eren just avoided his gaze. 

“Emotional support,” Jean offered, his brow raised, as he studied Eren’s reluctance. It was embarrassing to have such an inconsequential shortcoming. 

“Don’t worry, we have your back,” Connie tutted, patting his friend's shoulder. 

“Shut up,” Eren snapped, but there was no bite. He appreciated them, even if he rarely voiced that appreciation. 

This situation wasn’t easy for them either. The Queen was someone they knew, too, and beyond the official bowing ceremony, they didn’t cross paths with her. She didn’t acknowledge any of them, and there wasn’t any proof of their kinship beyond childhood memories. 

“I wish we hadn’t met her,” Connie sighed, leaning against the table. “Plotting against her feels so wrong.” It was reassuring knowing that these conflicted emotions weren't his alone. 

“Keep that sentiment to yourself,” Jean rebuked him, but similar feelings cracked him. “Unlike this idiot,” he turned to Eren and glared at him. “Who goes around choking people for badmouthing her.” 

“I don’t know what came over me,” Eren mumbled, too fatigued to defend his actions. He just wanted to find Daz and apologise. 

“Half the people want you gone,” Connie reported, then gestured at Jean, “He’s been up since morning trying to clear your image.” 

Jean tugged on the collar of his buttoned-up shirt. “I don’t want to deal with the fallout of losing him,” he said, pretending as if his actions were not motivated by undying care. “Don’t worry about it, though. The final say would be the Leaders, and from the looks of it, he doesn’t seem to mind.” There was a softness in the way he observed his friend. 

Eren was staring at his hands again. Whatever they had in the past didn’t matter anymore. She told him clearly how the girl he knew died, and only the Queen remained. They were just strangers, and that felt like a lie. 

Connie threw his arm around Eren’s shoulder, noticing how lost he looked. “Being Grisha's son just makes things extra bad,” he reasoned, knowing how targeted his friend already was. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I should’ve just taken your place,” he said, fingers perched on his chin as he wiggled his eyebrow. “Connie Ackerman has a nice ring to it.” He elbowed his friend, who just mumbled his curses. 

“Oh, not Connie Ackerman! You’ll make him cry,” Jean teased. 

Eren wrestled away from his friend's grip. “Must I repeat myself? Shut up.” He bared his teeth, but couldn't help but feel lighter. 

But that feeling was short-lived. 

She came like an unpredictable storm, brought out every buried emotion and left them utterly uncomfortable. 

She spoke about a land dispute, as Armin jotted down things in his ledger. The blonde boy had grown into a fine man; his hair glistened in the sunset as he stepped into the shadows. He wore the official attire but had dirt sullying his polished shoes. There was an unspoken fondness in their childhood friendship. She used to only come in the Winters, but since Armin lived on the outskirts, he visited a lot more often. They would read through his father’s books and plan for their glorious future. They promised to set sail one day. But then he was moved to the city, and Eren never saw him again.

Following in his father’s footsteps, he became the Queen’s advisor and never sought his friend. There was an unprecedented pain in their broken bond. After the verbal bloodbath with the Queen, he was approached by Armin and ended up lashing out again. He hurled unforgettable words but surrendered when Armin embraced him. But, as per his agreement with the Queen, all officials avoided him, including Armin. There was just too much guilt and dread of familiarity. 

Armin couldn’t look at them as he stood behind the Queen. Unlike her advisor, she scanned the room first and then gazed at her old company. Jean and Connie struggled to match the intensity of her gaze, but Eren refused to waver. Why wouldn't he hold her gaze? His heart longed to see her again and sped up with her arrival. He hated the emotions he felt for her, and irritation pricked his skin. 

She wore a simple button-down shirt, black pants, and dirty long boots. It was as if they had traversed through fields before coming to visit. Her hair was styled by the wind, haphazardly angled around her face. She had grown into a tall woman with an intimidating aura. Her grey eyes looked pitch black in their darkness-consumed abode. It was hard to identify her as the Queen. There was never an entourage of helpers or people who gawked at her appearance. The public loved her, but she wasn't excessively sought after. He had seen bigger greetings carried out for the Councillors. It was a strange disparity; she worked like the second-in-command who meddled in every affair. That wasn't anything Queen-like about her. 

She is memorising— she took his breath away and compromised his sanity. He had dreamed of seeing her again and had seen paintings of her visage. None could do justice to the woman she became. Her beauty enamoured him in all the ways he’d never admit. 

But then he stared too long and only found anguish. She saw him in a way that made his pulse rise. She scrutinised his face, and for a split second, she lingered on the soaked parts of him. He wanted to know if she liked the view. He wasn’t concerned about looks but knew he could muster attractiveness. It was fucking rotten, thinking about these things and allowing treacherous feelings to run amok. 

Everything came back— the sight of her while his father died, her choices, and the continuous abandonment. He was staring at a stranger. He noticed her face split for a second, emotions threatened to erupt, but she composed herself. Only indifference was left on her face, and he couldn’t halt his unravelling. Anger was seeping through, as his hands curled into fists. He felt so utterly broken, as the rage added to his pain. Thankfully, Connie was holding onto his shoulders. 

Thirteen years later, they met again under grim circumstances.  

Air was sucked out of the room, and the unease blistered. It was fucking annoying. He still couldn’t look at her without the shattering of his heart. He was bothered beyond comprehension; there was no relief. His heart needed to be ripped out. 

The awkward silence stretched for an eternity. At some point, Jean and Connie remembered her status and customarily bowed. She nodded but was noticeably uneasy after their action. None of them considered meeting her again. They were in the same room, but time had made them regrettable enemies.  

Connie stepped forward, finally ending the uncomfortable silence. “We’d offer you tea, but options are limited.” He looked around the room and found nothing worth providing. “Maybe you’ll prefer apple juice instead?” He meekly added, refusing to let the awkwardness win. They were at the blacksmith’s workshop. It was grungy and covered in smoke, not well-versed in hospitality. 

Eren tried to control his nerves. He was seconds away from lashing out or from capturing her in an embrace. He was struggling to understand his wants.

“No need, we won’t stay long,” Mikasa said, her words were effortlessly precise. Everything about her was proper and pristine but came apart at the seams. Her gaze lingered on Eren, and emotions coloured it with ache. “Have you been well?” She asked, focusing on every individual in the room. There were silent nods as her question was merely a formality. She had people watching them. She cleared her throat and nudged her advisor to continue. He took his sweet time, trying to muster up his composure, as words escaped him. 

After an agonizingly drawn-out silence, he finally found his voice. “We bring forth a proposition. Six months ago, an altercation took place, and the Councillor of the Flien clan was hurt. As compensation, they have demanded our corporation, and well—” Armin swallowed, refusing to look at Eren. He desperately wanted to leave the room. 

“They want a wedding,” Mikasa declared in a crisp voice. 

“Who is getting married?” Connie’s face lit up until the realisation came. “Oh, right.” 

“Fuck no,” Eren spat out, the ringing in his ears got worse. He was already considered a traitor, and their proposition would be the final nail in his coffin. “We had an agreement,” he shouted, unable to control himself. 

His blood was boiling, and he started seeing red again. She couldn’t just do this to him. It was fucking cruel, and it ached him in all the vulnerable places. So far, everything between them had been done by forceful necessity. Did she even want it? And then a small voice chimed, Did she even want him? She did everything for her people's sake, and he felt like a disposable prop. He wanted to laugh; he had no right to complain. He exploited her unwavering sentiments and used them to save his people. There wasn't anything real between them— a sham of a marriage, followed by hefty acting. 

They were using each other as it seemed fit. The realisation mutilated whatever remained of his heart. 

He was meant to hate her, but couldn't help but miss her. Maybe that's where all his rage came from, knowing he’d never part with those emotions. She was the Queen, and his entire life’s purpose was to dismantle people like her. 

She was eerily still, arms folded, as his world convulsed. “I held up that agreement for six months, but circumstances have changed.”  

She chewed on her bottom lip, refusing to come undone. It was a habit she had since childhood, and he often used it to identify her emotions. She was always terrible at expressing herself, and such actions showed her apprehension. He was far too familiar with her, and it continued to haunt him. She could pull on a brave face, but these little actions always betrayed her. 

“It’s nothing special,” Armin quickly added,  “They just want an official ceremony on the Flien clan’s land. The wedding is just an excuse to start the festival. You don’t have to do anything; show up, eat, drink, and go on as usual. Afterwards, we’ll go back to your original agreement.”

“What part of fuck no is hard to understand?” Eren lashed out at Armin, who jumped considerably behind the Queen. “I’m not a doll you can wind up when it's necessary for your games.” He was intently staring at her, hoping to convey every bit of his fury. She didn’t look away. 

Connie stepped in front, aiming to add purpose to his actions. She was still the Queen and all things considered, he was on thin ice. “You will cause him more issues,” he said, presenting a way forward. “There should be appropriate compensation.” He was propping up his friend. 

Jean’s nails dug into Eren’s arm. It was an ache that reminded him to come to his senses. Not every situation needed his bottomless rage. “Our people are already at his throat,” Jean continued, building onto the proposition. He turned to Eren and gave him a nasty frown. “The title of being your husband isn’t very compatible with being a rebel. I’m sure you understand.” The word husband made her flinch, and he was thoroughly mortified. They were just strangers who were advantageous to each other. 

“What do you want?” Mikasa asked, lips forming a thin line. She was getting agitated. Never the kind to beat around the obvious. 

“Your Highness, maybe don’t offer without—” Armin’s mumbling was interrupted by her abrupt movement. 

She stepped closer and invaded his space. He visibly coiled backwards, heart a palpating mess, as her presence consumed everything else. It was a crime how good she smelled. His eyes flickered onto her full lips, a small scar on her jawline. There was another under her right eye. He couldn’t help but wonder about them. So much history engraved on her skin; he wanted to feel all of it.

“I’ll grant you anything.” The intensity of her gaze was rather unnerving. 

He was breathing hard and tried to find his footing. It was a blessing his other comrades didn't see him this way— utterly ruptured by her presence alone. The tension was thick enough to suffocate them. People around them were on their toes, desperately awaiting the outcome. 

Their last conversation was like ash on his forsaken tongue. 

He couldn't stop the words from forming.  “Even if it's yourself?” The question visibly baffled everyone in the room. His brows drew closer in confusion, not knowing where that came from. More precisely, he was only meant to think it. It was too late to take it back, as his skin felt warm, and he refused to back down. She was leaning into his space, challenging and dauntless now, as she had always been. 

Her lip twitched, but in a heartbeat, she said. “Anything.”

He was at a loss for words. What the fuck was he doing? It was their never-ending game, viciously pulling on the strings of hope, while in reality, they were nothing to each other. 

He stopped himself before ruinous words left his mouth. Instead, focused his splintered mind on a possible plan. He desperately wanted to concentrate on anything else, as she overpowered most of his senses. She didn’t trust him and only approached him with a purpose. Thankfully, his friends were there to cushion his unravelling.

“I want land ownership,” Eren demanded, “Your Highness,” he added with utmost disdain. Jean and Connie breathed a sigh of relief. 

The Rebels would hate him for the wedding, but if he could resolve the issue of land ownership, then they’d begrudgingly accept him. They’d finally be able to restart their extensive armoury, as it was essential in the Emperor's elimination. The weaponry was their only advantage. Most of it was acquired from a foreign land and replicated over the years.  

“That isn't possible, Ere— Mr Yeager,” Armin gasped, concern edged on his face. “We can’t compromise on safety. It would be absurd to grant you land without proper surveillance.” 

“We are the rebels; the rage of the common folk,” Jean countered. “We pose no threat to your people.” 

“The Queen and her family’s safety is also considered, Mr Kris—”

“Don’t do that, it makes my skin crawl.” 

“My apologies,” Armin blinked, as his cheeks heated up.  “As I was saying, we can’t just…” 

Eren’s entire attention was on her. Their stares were locked, as all sounds faded into the background. She was thinking about his demand, and he couldn’t help but admire the soft curl of her lips. Then she concluded, and the raw glint in her eyes was compelling.

“I agree to your terms,” she spoke nonchalantly, to the utter shock of everyone in the room. She refused to back down from the challenge. “Have the agreement drawn up, Armin.” Even Eren blinked, startled by the ease of her acceptance. She was likely plotting something. He didn’t think much of it, as her sheer audacity delighted him. 

“Mikasa, why would you do that?” Armin sighed, not bothering to correct his slip-up. “The War Council won’t take it lightly.” 

It was the War Council that wanted to restrict the rebels. Since they came here, she barely intervened and that puzzled everyone. What game was she playing? He couldn’t help but feel intrigued. She was openly defying the War Council and strengthening the rebels. It should’ve made no sense. Her natural enemies were the rebels, as they wanted to remove hr. It was a dangerous game, but she didn’t mind the risk. She looked at him — all shiny and vicious— and it drove him insane. 

He was having a silent conversation with her. 

Those weapons would threaten her command of Shiganshina. Unless— it finally clicked — he was exploiting his sentiments. He would never hurt her. 

Even if she allowed the rebels to take root, they’d never get past him. She was aware of his emotions and was fully utilising them. He knew she’d save him and allowed sixty lives to dangle on his faith. She was doing the same, putting her and her family’s lives on the line, knowing he’d prevent harm. He felt so fucking used; it was devastatingly visceral, knowing she could mess with him so innately. 

They knew each other unfathomably well. The grin on his face came with a vengeance. They were incompatible, and that made her so utterly irresistible. 

He wanted to knife his fucking heart. 

Chapter Text

As one would expect, his brothers weren’t happy about the wedding. He felt the full brunt of their contempt, once only reserved for their enemies. 

The inn, once their desolate respite, turned into an unofficial warzone. Most rebels spat on the traitor’s shoes, while the other half defended his actions. The leader wasn’t seen, irrevocably persecuted by the Commander. Voices merged into a chorus of disharmony, as bodies seethed with rage and reason. Amongst the madding crowd, stood the man so utterly conflicted that his heart refused to concede. Blackened and bruised, as fists were thrown his way, and they cursed his father’s sacred name. 

Eren was staring at his bloodied knuckles. It wasn't the pain that baffled him, but the sorrow of betrayal. Daz was held back, breathing hard, as he desired to strike again. Bloodshot eyes scanned his face, hoping to witness his ruin. Eren couldn’t hide it anymore. 

They battled merciless monsters together. Then one mistake deemed him unworthy. He was forced into a marriage against his will, and the price of treason was his to pay. He was trying to live with fate's cruel handiwork. Despite his conflicted soul, he still sought their cause. He hadn't stopped fighting, but his brethren gave up on him. The torment wracked his body, and rage desired its promised control. 

That's how it always went— backed in a corner, anger grew and thrived. He tried his hardest to remain composed, but his fist itched to engage. He drew blood when nails dug deep in his skin. 

“You were with me when my mother was killed in cold blood. ” Daz shouted, his spit landing on Eren’s bloodied shirt. “You were fucking there, holding me, while I cried for my mother. Now you side with the Emperor’s hound.” Night was upon them, as the chaos brewed under its guidance. Those screams shattered him into pieces, as he couldn’t reconcile with the agony. 

“Are you deaf? He will get us land through these charades,” Holger barked, trying to hold back the crowd demanding the blood of the traitor. They were compacted in a small room, filled to the brim with differing bodies, as candlelight engulfed them. It wasn’t safe to hold congregations, but the nature of Eren’s action brought most of them home. “About time you got off your high horse and acknowledged his sacrifice?” He continued, throwing words that carried venomous weight. 

Eren felt too numb to participate. He was effectively held by Jean, who by all means, was ready to sew his mouth shut. 

“He choked our comrade,” Win shouted, pushing Holger aside, as he hoped to reach the traitor. But the man stood firm and didn’t allow further altercations. 

“For royalty,” Samuel bitterly regarded, tears etched in his eyes. “He harmed us.” 

Many voices buzzed around them, and other rebels voiced their opinions, as words got incoherent. But it was clear his sins wouldn't be forgiven. He couldn’t even look at Daz; the red fingerprints still blemished his neck. All this for the Queen, who used him. 

“I must reinstate,” Jean snapped, stepping forward with a flair of dramatics. “He was just defending my honour.” The groans across the room didn’t deter his standing. “I was accused of giving unsavoury favours.” Jean placed a hand over his forehead. He’d make Eren pay later, but for now, his testimony was the only thing averting self-righteous riots. 

“I’m telling you, they’re both licking the same boots,” Samuel countered, but the odds were not in his favour. It was a circumstantial lie with two differing witnesses. Such matters required the Leader's intervention, but he was rarely around to offer it. 

They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, staring each other down. Their discussions got intense, but no conclusion could be reached. He was a traitor but offered them considerable advantages. They could assess his loyalty but lacked the means to carry it out. They were short-staffed and stranded in a foreign land. They had to rely on him, begrudgingly or otherwise. 

“The entire purpose of abandoning Trost was to set up our stronghold here,” Connie reminded the whispering crowd. “We’ll finally have armour to hide our weapons. And, let me remind you, the leader’s plan landed Eren in this situation.” He looked around the room, hoping to catch more sympathetic eyes. “Do you think he wants to dance around the Queen? His options are limited.” 

That was always the plan— the armed rebels infiltrated first, the Queen was forced to save the rest, and then they’d claim Shiganshina as their stronghold. Eren had gone along with it, but then she altered the very course of his existence. That’s how she’d always been; ruthless in her arrival and torturous in her departure. 

“Is it worth selling ourselves to royalty? I don't want such victories,” Oliver screamed, each word laced with defiance. “Cosying up with the Queen that actively sought our destruction.” They were all wounded by the Emperor. They continued to argue, mingling words until their sense was depleted. The monster had taken their families and stripped them of peace eternally. They wouldn’t rest until the monster met his end. Eren’s soul resonated with their conviction. 

Eren grew up with them, fought and sacrificed with them. Each face brought back agonising memories. They were people he’d known all his life, and now they stood as his opposition. Venom pulsed through his pain, as rage naturally coursed through his body. He pulled the key off and threw it on the floor. The sound ruptured through the room, and it silenced his opposition. He was breathing hard, refusing to relent under the intense gazes. Jean’s looks could kill, and Connie sighed like an aged veteran. 

The golden key, extensive in its design, glistened under the candlelight. It was their departed leader’s symbol— the man who started the great rebellion and cornered the Emperor in his gilded cage. His father, who never came back, left him a pitiful gift. The legacy was roped around his neck, and the trauma would haunt him till the end of time. 

“They killed my fucking father,” he growled, unable to hold back. “I watched him die.” He looked around the room, eyes averted, while some returned the fury. “Do you think I'll sit still while everything I've done is smeared upon? No, I fucking won’t,” his voice kept rising. “I am a rebel and I will die as one.” He was seeing red, as the need to strike drove him mad. His knuckles were still bruised, refusing to heal, as he kept applying pressure. His words felt hollow; his heart never acknowledged these wants, nor aligned his conflicted soul. He wanted to believe them; he really did. But the absurdity of his decline came with her appearance. She had a way of crippling his world. 

What a talented liar he was; the Queen brought out sides of him that didn't make sense. Denial became his salvation. 

Daz had nothing more to say. He loathed the sight of the man he once knew, and utter betrayal cracked his face. There was silent madness, as wheels churned in his head, and he continued to stare at the traitor. There was pain hidden underneath the lashes of fury. The worst part? He couldn't even blame them for these reactions. In their eyes, the Queen acted like the Emperor's proxy. Yet he still wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. He hated himself for it. 

The bond, forged in iron and wounds, reached its finality. Daz left, and with that, Eren’s fragile resolve crumbled. Tears pricked his eyes as he held back the urge to follow. The battle was lost, and he’d fallen. 

Daz always saw through his lies and saw the hypocrite underneath. 

***

He tasted the guilt of his actions. The bitter aftermath wasn't good for his headache; it worsened over the weekend. 

Armin had adamantly claimed that the wedding would be a simple affair; it was anything but. He wasn’t too surprised. The people of Shiganshina only gathered during death and love. It was fucking hilarious. There was only deception in their nonexistent vows. People would cheer while they used each other. There was much to gain in their mutual destruction. 

The southern side of the city contained sprawling markets and never-ending enchantments. There was luxury on the brim, but underneath, it was a cobweb of connections. It was a festering entity but remained invisible to the naked eye. The Queen had attempted to understand the intricate lines of the Flien clan, but they maintained their weaponised anonymity. The rebels, for the most part, were unwelcome on this side of the city. They were mainly located in the harbours or under Councillor Zackery's watchful eyes. It was abundantly clear how disfavoured the Queen's interventions proved to be. 

Around the Willow tree, the festival was being set up. A parade was scheduled under the moonlight, and the feast would commence. Upon the Queen’s insistence, their wedding ceremony was reduced to a conjoined walk. There wouldn't be anything grand or worth the spectacle. They tried to sink him in the wedding ritual, but her command saved him the hassle. 

It was just business between two unwilling individuals. The people weren't disillusioned with any love affair, and the festival captured their fascination. The Queen's preferred soldiers were actively involved in the preparation. It was a strange choice, but he assumed it was for her safety. For the time being, he was barred from any rebel meetings. There was far too much unease surrounding his presence. Still, those who favoured him kept an eye on the proceedings. 

All in all, he was entirely left at his discretion. That was until her demand developed an asterisk. The people hadn't met the husband, and his showcase would boost morale. Or, as he understood— a disposable doll paraded around for her people's amusement. It was humiliating; he brought it on himself. However, he added more asterisks and tried to ascertain the depth of her giving nature. So far, she had accepted all his demands. More rebels got land, and she even allowed unsupervised relocation.  

The thought made him tremble with curiosity. What if he had truly demanded her? His erosive mind wanted to wander, but he had to stop it. The strange looks from Jean and Connie were enough to silence that part of him. He was meant to hate everything she stood for; yet, it was a struggle to comb through his complicated feelings. 

Today's agenda was a visit to the orphanage. It was a scheduled meeting, where he grumbled his acceptance and frightened Armin. It lightened his heart knowing Armin was still squeamish as always. The dawn came, and he arrived at their destination. It was a modest place where orphans and the children of fallen soldiers congregated. A fountain was set along the hedges, and a puppet show was being constructed. The little sprouts of tenacity ran across the fields as the attendants tried to keep up with them. The tiny balls of energy were a wholesome sight. He thought about his childhood and how often his mother reprimanded him. At some point, she even tasked Mikasa to look after him. Fuck— he ceased the memories. He didn’t want to sully his fragile mood. 

Eren was playing a makeshift card game with five kids. The scent of grass surrounded him, as dirt besmirched his pants and wind dishevelled his hair. They were on the ground, looking past the orphanage's horizon. The sounds of laughter hung in the air like a bundle of joy. The kids had him fretting about the rules, as those little devils were seasoned cheaters. The eldest one, who looked about seven and deeply contemplative, hid cards in his socks. He was a professional, all toothy-grin, while cards vanished in thin air. The other kids were not old enough to spell their names but wanted to own shiny things. 

A particular blonde kid sat far away; he wanted to join, but hesitation kept him at bay. That kid wasn't an orphan but had lost his father to the war. Eren despaired for the little sprouts' plight. Death never got easier, and endurance was hammered into him. He could hate the Queen for siding with the Emperor, but she had lost many soldiers. He called out to the kid, but he just moved away. Eren had grown up surrounded by children, orphans and child soldiers alike; he learned to look after them, especially his comrades— the pain was rampant, as the hole in his heart worsened. They had fucking raised each other through thick and thin, and their bond came to an end. 

For a moment, he could forget about everything. But, of course, his mood was destined to plummet. 

She was unabashedly late and came quite remorselessly. They were meant to meet at the first strike of dawn, but her arrival was at noon's onset. She hurried her horse around, paperwork clutched underneath her arms. Her advisor followed closely, talking a mile a minute, as she found the orphanage’s director. There were words exchanged and documents were handed off, followed by a sigh of relief, and Armin’s hand was placed on her shoulder. It inexplicably irked him. He swallowed, forcing himself to look away. The Brunette child pulled his hair and gave him the much-needed distraction. He didn’t want to think about the Queen's relationship with her advisor. The rambunctious rumours painted Eren as the thorn in their side. Everyone, mercy on his poor heart, suspected something was going on between them. They were just so intimate; the thought itched his skin like a recurring rash. Vileness coursed through his veins, as he detested himself for feeling this way. Even if she was involved with another— it didn't fucking matter. They were nothing to each other. 

Yet, no matter how hard he reasoned, the possessive longing made a mockery of him. 

What the fuck was wrong with him? He was abandoned by his comrades, and these were the thoughts tormenting him. How pathetic. He couldn't live with himself if this continued any further. The kid with a runny nose poked him, and he realised how intently he was staring. He was breathing hard enough to frighten the littlest one. He shook off the deceitful emotions and tried to smile. Once again, just the sight of her left him so utterly frustrated; all barbed wires and ruthless bites. 

He gripped the key around his neck and caged his anger. There were children around, and many were scarred in the war. They didn’t deserve his intensity. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she walked towards him. He was sprawled on the grass, with leaves tangled in his hair, as one kid threw the cards around. They couldn’t help but stare at each other, unable to reconcile with their blistering emotions. She wore the commander’s coat over a frail cotton dress. It was simple in design, as it fluttered with the wind. She was ethereal— at this rate, she was destined to be his ultimate demise. He remembered the way she adorned simplicity as her armour. It was when she felt at peace that a dress made an appearance. Above everything, she preferred practicality. Some things just never changed. 

She caught one of the cards thrown aside and brought it to the lonesome child. There was a familiarity between them, as she kneeled next to him and heard his mumbling. Her kindness wove through his heart, and at some point, he couldn't help but admire her. They remained in the awkward pretence of not knowing each other, as children noisily filled the space. It was so fucking unnerving, but ultimately came to an end.  

They were forced to stand next to each other. They were uncomfortable to a miserable degree. 

The wind continued its persistent assault, and the scent of grass clung to him. Sunshine, like a divine delight, poured on him. The visage was a beauty, irrespective of the storm brewing inside him. His scowl deepened— he was sick of her, himself, and every goddess-damned thing. But then she glanced at him, and his heart skipped a beat. No matter how hard he tried, she was smeared on his mind, his bones, his skin— fuck, no part of him was untouched by her unyielding mark. There was no remedy to the numbing pain she brought. 

She mouthed words, but they died soundlessly. Until the voice of his undoing finally spoke to him. "I must apologise for the continued inconvenience.” It was a simple sentiment, but it tore him apart. A hollow apology that amounted to nothing. She’d always satisfied her people, even if it meant dragging him through hell. 

He was a fucking fool. The way Daz looked at him made his insides ache for retribution. His knuckles were freshly wounded. 

"Thank you, Your Highness. That is what I wanted to hear," he sarcastically mocked, giving her an elongated bow. His nails were digging into his skin enough to draw blood. It wasn't just anger he felt— something worse twisted inside him. Strangled him till he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, and couldn't fucking function. 

Her brows drew closer, arms folded, and she returned his frown. "Must you rebuke everything? I'm trying to—" 

"Act like a proper Queen?” He bitterly chuckled, hoping to inflict anything if it showed that she still cared. “I won't entertain your little theatrics." He drawled, noticing the irritation on her face. She inhaled sharply, dispelled the frenzy and returned to indifference. The sight disappointed him to a frightened degree. She was never expressive, but now a wall stood between her feelings and what she chose to show. 

"I understand, Mr Yeager,” she said with utmost detachment. It rubbed him in all the wrong places. She effectively turned off any lingering emotions and, in an instant, made him a stranger. Still, her gaze was betrayed, as unmistakable sorrow was edged in it. 

"Your Highness," he spat out, teeth clenched. She continued to haunt him, no matter how many moons passed. 

He was being unfair. He raked his fingers through his hair and tried to control his self-loathing. Anger had a taste of her, and it desired to devour her wholly. She made it too fucking easy. Carried on her father’s legacy, sided with the Emperor, and continuously showed her aloofness. But, under the dazzling lights and a forced smile, he found a woman suffocating. Clearly, many malignant forces were after her, and control wasn't absolute. Maybe that's why he felt so utterly conflicted— it was getting harder to hate her. Still, venom coursed through his veins and poisoned him thoroughly. 

They stood next to each other, but worlds apart. The soft breezes flickered with her hair, as gentle fingers untangled the strands. There was beauty in quietude, but his thoughts ruined anything salvageable. Children played around, preparing for the puppet show. The wind carried their imminent laughter. 

"What happened to Marco?" She calmly asked. 

His heart came to a screeching halt. "He died a hero," he managed to say, as words died on his lips. The assault of memories crippling him to no end. He vividly remembered the moment. Marco, ever the kindred soul, got in front of Jean and had a sword pierce his heart. He died in the arms of those who endlessly wept. The Emperor took so much away, and they couldn't avenge their fallen. "Shall I tell you what led to his death? I'm sure you'll be able to pinpoint his assailant." He wanted to be cruel. 

Her face instantly broke into a horrified stare.  "Was it my—" The sight confused him. All these years later, she was affected by a childhood friend’s demise. Just the prospect of carrying it out made her tremble. What a fucking hypocrite; her army still slaughtered his people. 

"No, it was in Trost,” he clarified, begrudgingly. “Why does it matter, though?” He fumed, incapable of holding back the venom. “You killed us all the same.” His laughter was dry and vengeful. “Now, all this flimsy pandering to the rebels. You're mistaken if you think it’ll clean your sins.” His heart was beating hard against his rib cage; it wanted to escape their miserable bickering. 

She was unnervingly still, as emotions tore through her face. Her eyes, always the window to her soul, were raw and dissolute with sorrow. She was staring at her hands— they were trembling. Fuck, that broke him. It felt so utterly wrong, like he wasn't meant to see this side of her. It took everything in him not to reach for her hands. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. 

“Was it even your choice?” He quietly asked, knowing unearthing the truth would seal his fate. What was he meant to feel if she wasn't the monster they made her out to be? It frightened him. 

She turned towards him, brimming with anger. "What difference does it make?” She asked, profusely clenching her fists. “I will endure the consequences of my actions.” The rawness of her voice urged him to match its intensity. She purposefully refused to clarify, and he needed that fucking answer to— No, he wouldnt go there. He bit the inside of his cheek and tasted the metallic tinge of blood. 

His gaze flickered onto the children running around. For their sake, he kept his voice low. The ache in his throat just got worse. "Was it the War Council or was it you?" He repeated, meeting her eyes; they were burning, and the sight surprised him. She’d done everything to kill her humanity, and yet, it burned so fucking bright. She was real, not a Goddess-damn dream he’d gotten used to having. 

She studied him until the conclusion drew her vitriol. "You just want to redirect your hatred," she spelt it out, irritation evident in her voice. "Only I deserve it,” she declared, her fist hurled against her chest. The guilt was etched onto everything. 

He blinked, fazed by the intensity of her words. "You're sorely mistaken if you think I want to salvage anything. It's not about hatred, I just want to—" Understand her? Reconcile with her? What the fuck did he even want? He remained tongue-tied long enough to incur her wrath. 

"Want what, Eren?" She snapped, falling apart at the seams. 

He didn't dare to answer. It could call forth unspeakable cruelty. He’d prefer a knife twisted in his heart, instead of having to comprehend his selfish desires. 

"There's nothing here,” her voice was rough but controlled, “As soon as you accept that, maybe we'll finally be free of each other." She made it sound like another finality, but relentless emotions clouded her gaze. He was spiralling, but in a way that unhinged his restraints. She could try, but the rawness of her soul trudged past her walls. He wanted to pull her care. 

To have her come undone, like a spool of threads, just for him. He’d given up on trying to understand what was wrong with him. 

The puppet show was a handful of inexperienced attendees who recreated one of the Winter Goddesses' battles. It was called the Plight of the Forsaken, where she found love and fought the beast. The children gathered around and cheered. He accompanied them, but she remained far away. Only her watchful eyes scanned the premises. That’s how she’d always been, on the sidelines, ensuring no harm came their way. The show came to an end, and the kids started arguing. They were fascinated with the logistics of this old tale. 

“She shouldn't have been able to carry that monster,” the timid nine-year-old said.

“The Winter Goddess, idiot,” the little girl with pigtails countered. 

“Precisely,” the attendant clasped her hands, studying the children. “The Winter Goddess possessed many powers, one of which was strength.” 

“Like the Queen?” A red-headed kid asked. 

The attendant promptly nodded.

She fidgeted under the sudden attention, and he found it rather endearing. The children focused on her, and she tried her hardest to remain stern. Her arms were folded as she stood with tension in her shoulders. She pretended not to hear them. The little devils circled her, and curious eyes demanded. So fucking cute. Suddenly, despite the sanity of his mind, a plan was forged in it. 

“I have a question,” he nearly sang the words out, and her entire face fell. The glint in his eyes made her nervous. “Do you think she can carry me?” he gestured at his weighty build. The children were ecstatic at her utter horror. They kept throwing around their assumptions; he had mobilised an army against her peace. She was frowning at him, and it compelled him to continue. “Well?” All eyes were on her, and she tried to find her voice again. 

Her lip twitched, but there was something distinctly challenging in her eyes. “What do I get for humouring your demands?” She asked, walking close enough to witness his contemplative face. Some kids offered her dirt, sticks and hidden candies, but she waved them off. “I asked your representative,” she clarified, jabbing a finger at him. The tables turned, and his army turned against him. 

The little smile on her face stumped his thoughts. The guilt of his actions gnawed at his sanity, but he couldn't help but crave the fleeting delight. When was the last time he’d seen her smile? The thought irrevocably consumed him. 

He played along with the murderer of his people. “If you can lift me, then throw me in the fountain,” He proposed, refusing to look away. “It’ll uphold your reputation, and my disgrace will be your award.” The children expressed their excitement, enjoying the exchange as the tension didn't exist for them. “But, if you can’t lift me, our afternoon feast will be sponsored by you.” Now the cheers roared, as nothing got the children going like the promise of candy. It was fucking ridiculous, even the attendants giggled. 

They were treating this silly game like a proper high-stakes negotiation. He wanted to crucify himself, but the sight of her was worth the ordeal. 

Her frown deepened. “I can just give that…” The excitement drowned out her bargain. She sighed heavily and muttered under her breath. 

He relished in the victory. Sure, she threw him around like a porcelain doll in their childhood. But they grew up, and now he was all hard ridges and muscles. Sure, she was still in shape and had lean biceps that he couldn't help but admire, but it didn’t mean anything. He clapped his hands, claiming victory, and faced the children, “Our feast will be gran—” 

He was suddenly suspended in the air. 

The shock perplexed his body, and alarms sounded in his head. It took him a moment to understand, and when he did— his heart was beating so fucking fast. He couldn’t breathe, his senses dulled away, as the excitement roared around them. The throbbing in his chest got worse as he stared at the instigator. Her firm hand pressed his back, and another looped around his knees. She was carrying him like a Goddess-damn sack of potatoes. Careful in her touch, but vicious with her conduct. The growing smile on her face, he couldn't help but admire.

Then, the scent of her— all bellflowers and earthly delights— enveloped him. For a moment, nothing else mattered. His eyes were set on her face, incapable of holding his composure. Reflectively, he held onto her shoulder, daring to enforce their closeness. Her face was so utterly within reach. He couldn't help but admire her fondly. Her lips parted, hoping to speak, but she couldn't muster words. He ached with wretched wants, incapable of detaching from her. Why would he? He was lost in her intense gaze; he wanted to hear her repeat his name. 

He was thrown into the fountain. 

It was shallow enough to sustain his descent and soaked him quite profusely. Hair stuck to the translucent cotton shirt as he tried to regain his bearing. The fountain was a rustic relic of the past, barely functional, and overflowed each time he moved. She was staring at him, eyes coloured remarkably with amusement. 

The abruptness made him curse out loud. They were cheering for her as she basked in the glory of her victory. Something else twisted in his guts; something equally troublesome as his rage— the relentless impulses unfurled, as his eccentric heart palpitated with anticipation. Unlike rage, his impulses had a way of humiliating or driving him close enough to the edge. For a moment, he saw glimpses of the girl he knew, and that was all it took. He growled but without any bite to it. 

For the first time in forever, he surrendered to his heart. 

He got on his knees and grabbed the collar of her coat. She was too distracted to notice his movement, as within seconds, she was pulled down to his eye level. She supported herself on the fountain’s edge, refusing to touch the water. There was bewilderment, but far too much anticipation on her face. Their faces were close; her breath lingered on his skin. He was left distraught, but the thrill made him continue. An unprecedented amount of oohs and aahs sounded around them. To the children, they were merely putting on a convincing show. 

“Do you like what you see?” He asked in a low raspy voice. There was no point in trying to understand himself. Just like that, words he’d never dare to utter came out uncharacteristically seductive. Maybe he just wanted to see her unravel, or the tease tethered on his need to sully her victory— whatever the fuck was inside of him, it fanned his persistent longing.

She straightened like steel, swallowed, and averted her eyes. He leaned towards her shoulder but stopped a few inches away. His breaths came hastily, and his body trembled, as holding himself together became a daunting task. Once again, he was teetering on the edge—so close, he could almost taste the abyss. 

He caught a glimpse of her and the sight mesmerised him. Her cheeks were flushed in such a delicate red, as she refused to meet his gaze. So many emotions crossed her pretty face. Her eyes kept darting below, fully conscious of his attention. She failed to offer an excuse. With ease, his lips turned up, and he gave her an all-knowing smirk. She definitely liked his visage. Heat unfurled in his stomach; he was at the mercy of desires. But then she noticed his knuckles, and concern overpowered everything else. 

There was satisfaction in knowing how deeply he affected her. That he still mattered; that he wasn't forgotten. 

It was a fucking lie. She had abandoned him, and would surely do it again. But he allowed the lie to soothe his soul. Just for a moment, he wanted to feel content. She was next to him, all warm and radiant like the sun. He allowed her to take him fully. 

Just for a moment, he wanted to stay like this. Wasn't he supposed to hate her? It was such a fleeting thought. 

She gently pulled him out and settled him on the fountain’s edge. His knuckles were held between her palms. Her calloused fingers encased his rugged skin, and with a feather-like touch, she studied the damage. Then, to everyone's surprise, but not his, she placed her lips against the bruised knuckles. She didn't linger, as if she feared retaliation. Her hesitancy wounded his heart, as he stared at her, all wide-eyed and breathless. 

There was immeasurable misery written in her eyes— they sought his face and then the crescent bruising. "Don't force me to intervene, Eren," she warned, voice low and riddled with fury, "Because once I do, you won't be able to stop me." His heart was rampaging as he tried to subdue a shiver. 

She draped her coat around his shoulders. Her features hardened, and she stilled like stagnant water. A silent fury raged inside of her, and only the colouring of her eyes showed it. This was the girl he knew, and so much more— she was calm to a fault, then he’d get hurt, and she’d erupt in an incandescent blaze. This little dance marked most of their childhood; his recklessness got him injured, and she’d kiss it anew. Through this tradition, she called the Winter Goddess’s aid, while to him, it was just his means to acquire her affection. All those years later, he felt like that boy again. 

He held the coat around his shivering body. There would be no salvation in his descent. 

Chapter Text

There were many expectations he’d been shielded from, and the sudden burst of their pressure was disorienting. He was paraded across five different garment shops and made to watch the excruciatingly slow practices of the wedding. It was meant to be a daunting affair, with all representatives and citizens gathering around the Willow Tree. The fields were turned into an abode of tents and glistening lights, as every corner was left ablaze. The scent of food and brittle wood engulfed the prevalent air.

Shiganshina wasn't known for its celebrations, but festivals were the only source of joy. There was laughter edged in the desolate soil, as the world tilted towards a better tomorrow. The Winter festivals died after the first war, and resurrection never came— Until now, as the land was swept in saccharine smiles and indigo decorations. Posts with lanterns were set along the road for the grand parade. Masks decorated in the likeness of the Winter Goddess were carried in each individual's hands. 

The day of the wedding was upon them as the preparation reached its crescendo. The wedding would begin at night, as people awaited it with anticipation. 

Eren watched the happenings; it was deeply nostalgic and unfathomably troubling. The last altercation with the Rebels had strained him with newfound worry. The look Daz gave him had something darker in his expression. If it was pure passion, he’d understand, but the flicker of something more erosive kept gnawing at his mind. 

He had asked his compassion to carry out a little search. Hopefully, his paranoia would be deemed unfounded, but it wouldn't hurt to look right. He definitely hated her, but she was useful in their plight. This was surely the only reason he was unnerved. He kept telling himself, knowing lies often became the truth if said enough times. 

“Can we be done with this?” Eren groaned, his arms numb from being kept stretched out.

They were in the eighth shop of the day. It was a grand place with pristine flourishing and rows of excessive fabrics. The tailors were fretting about his measurements and drowning him in different layers of fabric. He held back the curses growing acidic on his tongue. Today was the last day of the entire fiasco, and he’d just have to endure it. The needless attention to detail had delayed his attire; they were fiddling with whatever was possible now. He wasn't the kind to care about such things, and exhaustion was still overwhelming. This wasn't what he was made for, and it was clear how effectively she’d kept her promise. This was the world she hid him from, and he felt begrudgingly grateful.

He’d been asked about his allergies, taught which cutlery to use, and made to practice his speech. It was fucking endless as the eve of the wedding approached. Still, the lack of her company irked him the most throughout the ordeal. 

He wanted her to suffer through it; surely, that was the only reason. After the fateful encounter at the orphanage, getting her out of his head became an arduous task.

Sasha was seated in the corner, busy stuffing her mouth with a stolen cake. The Squad Leader, a small woman with ginger hair called Petra, carefully observed each outfit thrown on him. She treated the task of finding him an outfit like a life-or-death mission. It was strange having the military so involved in the Queen’s wedding. Then, it dawned on him, it was likely the Commander who wanted his people around for security. One thing was evident: many wanted the Queen gone. The thought halted his heart for a second— fuck, he needed to get his shit together. 

He couldn't even blame the Commander; he had his brewing paranoia that needed alleviation. 

“I preferred the black one, it emphasises his weird eyes,” Sasha said, munching on the cake, as little pieces got stuck on her cheeks. He held back the urge to wipe her face. Connie was another messy eater, and he’d often done that to him. She is with the Queen, he kept telling himself, but those reminders became utterly redundant. He grumbled, got off the stool, pulled out the spare handkerchief and threw it on her head. She was startled for a moment but caught it before it fell on the floor. 

“My eyes are perfectly normal,” he fumed, narrowing his gaze on her, refusing to acknowledge the smile on her face. He couldn't develop affection for the enemy, but his restraints were chipped at daily. 

“She has a point,” Petra stepped closer, the rough ends of her boots echoed through the room. “You say you’re from Trost and the Leader,” she repeated his lie, as he willed his face to remain stoic. “But your eyes are too foreign. Maybe you are originally from Shiganshina? Many on the outskirts have your eyes and skin,” she concluded, as he held back any reaction. She was trying to get under his skin, and he wouldn't allow it. 

“What about you? That fucking orange head of yours isn't native either,” he retorted, hoping to escape her bait. He was deflecting, but she couldn't use that as concrete confirmation. 

Petra just shrugged, her smile unwavering. “We’ll have the black one,” she called to the tailors standing around nervously. They were delighted to leave the room after the decision. “Have it ready before sunset.” She added as the wedding was fast approaching. All attention was focused on decorating the location, and very little on the two getting married. He was at least involved in some wedding decisions, while she was entirely missing. 

Why did it disappoint him? This was a sham of a wedding being conducted for their mutual benefit. She had people to pacify, and he needed land for their armoury. It was just business. He wondered about her dress, then mentally stabbed his heart. But, how would she look dressed in fluttery indigo? He’d never seen her get dolled up. It didn’t matter, after all, she was beautiful all the same; the fuck was wrong with him today? He kept teetering on the edge of dangerous affection. The incident at the orphanage had truly messed him up. 

After an array of complaints, he went to collect his belongings. Then, his traitorous heart grabbed her coat and held it close to his nose. It still smelled like her, all bellflowers, earthly delights, and faint reminisce of bloodshed. He couldn't bring himself to part with it. How fucking pathetic. It was tight around his shoulders but was long enough to provide insulation. That's what he told himself; a fine leather would be wasteful to throw away. The winter was upon them, and nights kept getting chilly. 

“I’ve seen it before,” Sasha noted the coat, with a know-it-all smirk blossoming on her face, “It's quite far from its owner.” 

“It’s mine now,” he taunted, matching her accusatory gaze. Petra was oblivious to their exchange. 

A thing particularly needed confirmation. The looks Sasha often gave him solidified his suspicions of her knowledge. She surely was aware of the Queen's past and their involvement. But, like a true master of mischief, she only dropped hints and kept him guessing. It was obvious that higher officials like Petra, and even those like the Councillors, weren’t aware of anything. The Queen kept their past close to heart, and he was glad of it. The knowledge of their past involvement was an active threat. The Rebels could display fury over him but lacked critical evidence to call him a traitor. But if they knew he played dolls with the Queen, then the outcome would've been undesirable. The Leader didn't care and used it to their advantage; however, the others weren't this unorthodox. 

To the Rebels, there was nothing greater than loyalty. Once besmirched, a brother was as good as dead. 

“Where is she?” He begrudgingly asked and instantly regretted it. 

“Someone’s eager to meet the bride,” Petra arched an eyebrow, clasping her hands together. “We’ll ensure that she dazzles you at the wedding.” 

“Hopefully,” Sasha added, concern flickering over her face. Both of them stared at the poor girl, who soon realised she had slipped up. “I mean, she went away for an important matter, but will be back for the wedding.” She clarified, much to the surprise of everyone else. 

“We were not notified.” Petra’s expression fell. 

“It was urgent,” Sasha meekly continued, uncomfortable under their stares. “Something about an illness in the harbour.” 

“Your Queen is the first to respond to an illness?” Eren snapped, utterly baffled at the bizarre conduct. He always assumed that being the Queen kept her safe, but that very thing endangered her the most. It was fucking absurd the kind of things she got up to. Petra sighed and rubbed her eyes; it was clear this was a normal routine for them. 

“Is it about chicken pox?” Petra asked, all emotions drained from her face. She was back to being the Squad Leader. The difference was tense enough to startle him. “We instructed the Queen to remain in her castle.” 

It was rather amusing learning about the Commander’s impact on the Queen’s choices. He and his people always seemed out of the loop, and she operated lonesomely. He assumed her precious Advisor was taken along, and the Handmaiden was left to answer questions. 

“You can’t really order the Queen around,” Sasha shrugged with a sympathetic smile. “Just let her do her thing.” Despite her words, worry was evident in her face. She was like a little girl waiting for her sister to return safely. He wondered how often the Queen made her feel this way. There was far too much expectancy in her attitude. It saddened him, unfortunately. 

Petra muttered something under her breath. “Regardless, I’ll let the Commander know.” She donned her coat and marched towards the exit. “Keep an eye on him,” she said flatly, all amiability dropped from her tone. He was being paraded around because they didn't trust him and wanted to keep him under watch. His stomach churned with metallic coldness. It was fucking hilarious. Even the Rebels had people tailing him, hoping to catch him doing something worthwhile. 

He had to ask again and again. What did he even do wrong? Everything had been out of his blood-stained hands. 

Life was sucked from the shops, as the desolate atmosphere began closing in on him. He couldn't reckon with his conflicted heart, as emotions began to spill. He turned around and sat next to Sasha on the sofa. It was pristine white like everything else in the sun-kissed shop. 

“Why is she like this?” He muttered, hands clasping together. He fucking hated himself for being like this. But the need to understand overwhelmed everything. He clenched the coat together around his body. “Her life is…” important to me? He forced the words to remain unsaid. She was strong; always had been. But being this reckless was something new to her nature. She hardly took charge, much less ventured without explicit consideration. She was the calmest soul he had the joy of meeting, and yet, the Queen was anything but— maybe, she wasn't lying about the death of the girl he once knew.  

“Aunty Asami had a tough life,” Sasha combed a hand through her hair, “She did everything to ensure her daughter didn't face similar hardships. But, I guess my Queen just wants to be worth all the sacrifice,” Sasha pondered, equally unaware but deeply perplexed like him. “Then there is the matter with Uncle—err, her father, but it’s not for me to say,” She effectively trailed off, noticing the shift in his gaze. 

He was conflicted but the Queen, but it didn’t extend to her family. The hatred for them was burned in him like an inextinguishable inferno. They were responsible for the pain and suffering, and yet it was fucking hypocritical. How was she any different from her apathetic father? They were both the Emperor’s hounds and remained neutral when the world despaired. He fought wars for the Emperor until his finality, and she chose a similar path. 

But there were instances of her benevolence sprinkled all over. Regardless of her intentions, she still saved the Rebels and kept them secure. There was obvious meddling from the War Council, and it was rooted deeper than any of them expected. It was fucking impossible trying to comprehend her actions and her silence made it worse. Twice, he tried to get some kind of clarification, and each time, she just blamed herself. His head began to hurt with every rotten thought he peeled back. There was so much crippling anguish to uncover; he lacked the resolve to go through it. He had to act before self-pity drowned him. 

“Do you trust me?” He asked, turning to Sasha with utmost sincerity. If any of his suspensions were real, then he needed to understand her loyalties. The thought of working with a royal attendant was macabre in itself. But his paranoia got the best of him. He had fallen quite miserably. 

Sasha considered his question and then tucked his coat’s collar. “This was a gift from her mother, and it's very precious to her. If she has entrusted you with it, then who am I to question?” She mused, playfulness returning to her. “If my Queen’s interests are met, then I'll happily go along with anything.” Her declaration was nonchalant, but it came across as a warning. She’d play along as long as he posed no threats. 

The revelation about the coat damaged his heart. He tried to blink away those pesky emotions, but her gleeful smile confirmed his failure. He just gave her a deathly stare, hoping to intimidate the matter away. Still, he thought of the Queen’s smile and the way her lips felt on his hands. Fuck— he couldn't afford another unravelling. Not now, not ever. 

“Don’t you have an appointment with your lovely friends?” Sasha continued, leaning back on the sofa. 

“Is there something you’re not aware of?” Eren said with a gentle outburst. 

“Depends on what you're willing to tell me,” Sasha chimed, refusing to elaborate. 

She was like a strange little sister following him around and acting harmless. But the huntress had a way of getting her prey, and nothing got past her. She reminded him too much of the Connie he grew up with. She was a good ally if the circumstances called for it.

A part of him was glad the Queen had someone like that looking out for her. 

***

The Rebels' integration in Shiganshina came in two folds: The ones who settled with their weapons, and those who purposefully got captured. The goal was to give an illusion of total annihilation and to put the Emperor at ease. Then they were meant to grow roots in Shiganshina and make it their base of operation. The land offered natural protection and had long winters that made it impregnable. However, the Queen of Shiganshina wasn’t considered beyond her usefulness, and her fate was ultimately left as they were short on time. 

The short-sightedness of their plan became apparent. The Queen wasn't the only entity that held power in Shiganshina. More importantly, tactical prowess was in the hands of people they hadn't even considered. The War Council and the military under Commander  Levi— they were another challenge, and a lot more imposing than the Queen. The lack of planning created a rift between the Rebels, and the lack of their Leader added to the turmoil. What even was the way forward? Many had been uprooted from their homes in Trost and came to this foreign land. That anger manifested in something vile as it focused on Eren, who, unlucky in every sense of the word, bore their festering malice. 

Could he even blame them for hating him? Fuck no, these faulty sentiments were choking him. He was suspecting his people, and there wasn't a greater sin. Still— fucking still — he couldn't help it, and got others involved in it. He was drowning and kept pulling his friends along. He had never felt so utterly pathetic. 

Their weapons were hidden away in three crucial locations. Two were in the outskirts towns, and one was in a carpentry owned by Dimo Reeves. They were using his basement and kept him unaware through hefty payments. Holger was the custodian of the weaponry lodge, and thankfully, he was sympathetic to their concerns. In the musty basement, they went, greeted with dust and cobwebs. The weapons were hidden behind the false walls and wine crates. The candlelight barely lit their faces as they went through stacks of pages listing every visit and weapon taken. The space barely contained their grown bodies, but they lacked the time to go upstairs. 

It was going to be sunset soon, and his Goddess-damned wedding. Before that, for the sake of his sanity, he wanted to ensure no weapon was displaced. He wanted to be wrong so badly. And if he wasn’t? It would mean a planned attack on the Queen. No wonder she allowed them to fester on her land; he was ready to uproot the first sign of insurgence. He wouldn't let anyone hurt her and she fucking knew it. Even her coat wasn't allowed to get dirty; he'd taken it off and kept it away safely before coming to the basement. 

“I don’t see the point of this inspection,” Holger sighed, leaning against the creaking shelf. “What if we give away our location to the spies?” He mainly meant Sasha, but she likely knew most things. It was a worry for another day, and he doubted the Queen cared if they had weapons. 

Jean and Connie weren't ecstatic about his request, but they also had a soft spot for her. He was eternally grateful for the few people who still had his back. 

“If they were going to find our weaponry, then they'd have done that already,” Jean argued, flipping through another record.  “Although it's strange how we’re just allowed to move like this.” He waved a hand around the room, emphasising all the things that should've been a problem. “Seven months gone and our secrets remain hidden. Either they are just that obvious, or they know but won't act.”

“I was wondering about that too,” Holger contemplated, rubbing a hand over his chin. “The Queen saved us, brought us to her home, defended us in front of the War Council, and now is letting us buy land. Barely any surveillance except that one pesky girl. Either she thinks we’re no threat at all, or she is planning something.” He turned to Eren as if he had all the answers. “Do they still buy you as our leader? I’m starting to feel like they're just playing with us.” 

Eren refrained from mentioning Petra’s suspicions and just shrugged. The Commander actively kept tabs on their actual Leader; most of them had assumed their lie was caught, but no confrontation ever came. 

“Everyone is plotting something,” Eren said, unsure of how to elevate anyone’s concerns. He wasn't aware of anything and was purposely kept in the dark. The only insight he had was her unwavering need to save him, and it wasn't very useful in this situation. 

“Right, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Holger had a sly grin on his face, “How deep does your relationship with the Queen go?” His gaze was intently focused on Eren. “We all assumed that you were chosen because you’re Grisha’s son. Also, because you used to live in Shiganshina at some point. The Leader didn’t even bother giving us a reason, just laid out the plan and expected us to act. But, given the dire circumstances, I couldn't fault him, nor do I fault you for becoming the scapegoat.” 

“What are you trying to say?” Eren’s voice was cold, as something threatening simmered underneath. Holger was known for his inductive skills, and being on the receiving end of it was stressful. A single wrong expression would confirm his speculations. He felt Jean’s hand curl around the back of his shirt. 

Holger straightened up, swallowed, and scraped his caramel blonde hair to the side. The humidity was making them sweat. His clear grey eyes were set on Eren. “He picked you because you have some history with the Queen.” It took everything in Eren not to react. Thankfully, Jean’s hand kept him grounded. Then Holger lost his confidence, averted his eyes and fidgeted with his shirt's button. “There is no way to prove my theory, and I’ll drop the matter. I’m not interested in facing the infamous Yeager wrath.” 

Then his gaze swept across the room, which made both Connie and Jean rather uneasy. “All of you have some history with the Queen. Learned the dialect of Trost so well that I almost forgot where you came from—the little Winter Town in Shiganshina.” The tension in the room was blistering, but Holger just sighed. “I don’t want any confirmation. But, I will ask you one thing, do you still want to end the Emperor?” The agreement came in unison, and whatever apprehension he held melted away.

“That’s it, really,” Holger concluded with a nervous chuckle, “The mess with the Queen doesn't really matter if she helps our goal. Too bad the likes of Daz and the others can't wrap their heads around it.” 

“Is it just raw passion? I know he can be very hot-headed, almost like this idiot right here,” Jean pondered, nudging an elbow at Eren.  “He’s not that stupid.”

“He divided us into two sides,” Connie sadly smiled, flipping through more ledgers. 

“Three if we count the ones who only act under the Leader’s explicit instructions. But this was bound to happen. We never fully committed to whether it’s all Royalty or just the Emperor. Those who want all Royalty gone loathe the Queen and her help,” Holger said, curiously eyeing Eren for any kind of reaction. “Obviously, you’re a traitor in that sense and terrible at hiding your sentiments.” 

The pain in Eren’s chest only grew as he regretted his actions. He understood where Daz came from, as similar hatred burned inside of him, but over time, it simmered down, and he was left feeling conflicted. “When I saw my father die, if it wasn't for Jean, I’d have killed the previous Commander with my own two hands. Daz’s entire family was killed in front of him,” Eren bitterly exclaimed, forcing back brutal memories. “I know how he feels.” It was a kind of emotion he doubted many understood. Thankfully, Jean and Connie’s families were safe, and Holger’s family went into hiding as Trost fell. He wouldn't wish this pain on anyone. Still, Daz’s eyes were peculiar, and it wasn't just raw fury. 

 “What if someone backs him?” Eren asked, finally voicing his suspicions. 

“You’re accusing him of treason?” Jean frowned. 

“Think about it,” Eren tried to explain his thoughts, “He hates all Royalty, but he knows what getting rid of her means. Like you said, he’s not that stupid.” The others around him didn't look too convinced.  “I know I’m rambling, but he didn't seem entirely driven by rage.” He was trusting his gut on the matter. 

“He has a point,” Jean’s brows drew closer, “We wouldn't be here if she didn't save us and stop the War Council’s meddling. Now, why would anyone reject such unconditional help? Besides the ingrained hatred, maybe they found support elsewhere. Although we agreed to be transparent about our connections…” 

“It goes both ways,” Holger countered, making them uncomfortable with the accusation. Their integrity was lost when they decided to hide the Queen’s past. The rift between them worsened, as secrets brewed and transparency was lost. If Daz had found a better benefactor, he had no reason to disclose it. In the same way, they wouldn't disclose their history with the Queen. 

“Guys, I found something,” Connie broke the moment, as he waved the page around. “A crossbow was taken out two days ago.” Then they noticed the symbol of the recipient, and Eren’s blood ran cold. 

It was the symbol Daz used for his family. 

***

The night draped over the open field like a benevolent blanket. The winter breeze carried over, tingling the skin, but remained gentle. The Willow Tree stood the test of time, roots unfurled around the landscape. On its limbs were the names of the departed, unsullied by time and the living’s disdain. The colourful lanterns were erected on tall posts, and a path was created towards the tree. The Winter Goddess was meant to walk down this path, to reach the land’s heart, and to provide her blessing. The people wore masks marked in her likeness.

All around, the festival roared with careless ease. People moved like a sea of indigo and durable delight. They wore garments coloured in the Goddess's shade and called upon happiness. The food was served, and the scent was mingled with the night’s dew. Music surged like a lithe lullaby, as flutes were used all around. It was a ritualistic hymn, often used to curb the monster who once threatened the Goddess. There was nothing but life and beauty in every corner. 

Eren stood on the altar, created a mile away from the tree, without his bride. It was almost past midnight, and she hadn't shown up. He saw the happiness and colour looking like a damn curse left to rotten. 

Where was she? More importantly, would she come back? The dread weighed him down. Then a far worse thought threatened to ruin him. “Did something happen to her?” He breathed, praying to the Goddess he’d long forgotten. 

He’d gotten her back after so fucking long. To lose her again, just like that? 

He couldn't live like that.

Chapter Text

Dear Annie,

He reprimanded himself for the informal choice of words.

Dear Crown Princess, 

We wish to infer about the medicine Stohess has used for multiple ailments. Has there been an outbreak of some sort? 

Are you fine?

He stopped, cursing the personally aggravated tone. Yes, he was concerned about her well-being, in the most diplomatic sense, but it certainly didn't need to show in a formal letter.

I pray for your and your family's safety. 

Yours,

Armin

Titles were important, and he didn't want to establish familiarity. Official letters were intercepted many times before they reached the recipient. He didn't want people to know his informality with the Crown Princess of Stohess. Were they even familiar? He'd gone to Stohess on official matters and would end up chatting with her. They exchanged letters occasionally, but it wasn't anything concrete. Mikasa would say otherwise and teased him about it. 

Regards,

Shiganshina’s Royal Advisor 

He placed the pen down and sighed. The letter wouldn't reach them until days later, and a lack of confirmation left them in the dark. Stohess was situated on the opposite side of the Capital, and any communication with them went through many channels. Still, they traded through the sea, despite the heavy monitoring from the Emperor’s people. 

He handed the letter to the designated people and hurried along the pathway to her study. Leaving her alone right now would result in unwanted actions. He'd have to be glued to her if they wanted to end the day on a high note. But, of course, dread was building up in his stomach. He just knew something was about to happen. 

Mikasa was seated in her usual spot, surrounded by paper, and rows of dresses filled the study. All kinds of fabric were arranged around the oak table, as Isabella went through each and held it up for judgment. 

It was the wedding day, and they had just started picking her outfit. 

The fault mainly lay on the Queen’s shoulder and her workaholic tendencies. The last six months, she'd spent getting deeper in the clan webs, and continuously meddled in their internal disputes. She had set up her court, which was initially unpopular, but her thoroughness made more people seek her. Of course, such endeavours were dangerous to the War Council, as she directly won their people’s favour. They merely expressed frustration, but now he dreaded possible retaliation. 

Everything about the wedding was putting his nerves on edge. 

Isabella held up a beautiful pink gown against her body. “This dress goes well with your title,” she suggested, studying the elegant fabric. 

He couldn't help but smile at the effort. Unfortunately, Mikasa was too busy preparing documents and didn't even look at the dress. 

“Yes, it’s lovely,” she chirped, gaze still glued on her documents. 

Isabella's patience faltered as she held up a spare navy blue nightgown. “What about this?”

“Amazing, I want this one,” Mikasa said, once again not paying attention, and gave her an impromptu thumbs up. Isabella sharply inhaled, placed the nightgown on a hanger, and left it on the centre display. There was no helping the Queen.

Isabella looked at Armin and gave him a dejected smile. She promptly left the matter on his shoulder, and he nodded in agreement. No, he wasn't going to find a dress, but Isabella needed the assurance otherwise she'd call upon Asami. She was the last person Mikasa needed right now. Just like her daughter, she fanned every self-righteous act. After Isabella's departure, and once he was certain she’d stopped listening, he went over to Mikasa and finally interrupted. 

“I think it's a bad idea,” he unanimously declared. 

Mikasa was still in her matted button-down shirt, but her coat had suspiciously gone missing. She certainly wore it the other day at the orphanage, and it vanished somewhere in between. Her hair was purposefully combed down; it was likely Sasha who liked messing with her style. And, profound exhaustion was evident on her face. It saddened him to see her like this, knowing he couldn't ease her pain. He'd known her since birth, and not a day went by without her choosing harm over safety. She just never opted for the easy option. It was his job to make her pick that, and as always, she always had her way with him. The Advisor just became another accomplice. 

“Is that Armin telling me or my Advisor?” She asked, without looking up. It was her favourite way of getting under his skin. 

Both sides of him innately cared about her well-being, but she toyed with his sentiments and always crossed his suggestions. She wanted the risk at the expense of her life. They were raised together to ensure he'd always be loyal to her, and he intended to be until death. Yet he knew she used it to her advantage. His care was very exploitable when her determination flared up. 

She finally acknowledged him after the reading was completed. Her eyes were strained, and dark circles were prominent. She hadn't been sleeping much, yet again, he didn't know how to help her. It was painful being made to watch as she inflicted wounds on herself. It wasn't his duty to facilitate this side of her, but he'd gotten too attached over the years. 

“Most of the time I don’t even feel like your Advisor,” he frowned, hoping to establish some semblance of resistance. She merely supported her chin on her palm and grinned. They'd done this too many times. “I think I’m more like your partner in disruption,” he sighed, and couldn't help returning that grin. The sentiment was saccharine sweet, but it made him feel utterly guilty. After the plot he pulled in the Capital, she had placed an invisible wall between them. 

Losing her trust was unimaginably hurtful. Nearly seven months later, they still couldn't move past it. Obviously, he didn't blame her, but couldn't stand it. She was important to him; the last remaining piece of his family; the only one who hadn't died tragically. 

“In my defence, disruption seeks me and not the other way around,” she shrugged, leaning back in her chair. She pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut. She was this exhausted, and it was still morning.

Today was going to be a very long day. He certainly wasn't prepared for it and doubted her resilience.

The room was suffocating. Such needless excess was lying around everywhere, even the bed was stuffed in the corner. The mismatched sofas stood out on the thick carpet— it smelled like something burned. He sniffed around until he noticed the half-burnt documents on the floor. She must've fallen asleep and allowed that to happen accidentally. He wanted to clean her study but work always caught up to him, and she wasn't very cooperative. The rows of dresses ate up whatever space was left. At least the Bellflowers were freshly watered, since Isabella was around. He studied the mess and the woman who sat between it. Some things just never change. 

Despite everything, she'd always be the same, and the sight warmed his heart. 

“Well,” she drawled, finally sat up straight and supported her elbows on the table. “My partner in disruption, give me an unbiased report,” she ordered without authority behind it. They'd developed too much familiarity, so such a meaningless distinction didn't impact them anymore. Still, at least in public, he tried to uphold their official titles. 

She was aware of the letters, but he was the recipient. It was his duty to read every message before it reached her. The letters were from Councillor Pixis, who, in very frantic terms, called upon the Queen’s attention. It was strange since he rarely addressed the Queen this way. He often kept his clan and the harbours' troubles a secret. No Councillor wanted her interventions. That made this request all the more suspicious. He unfolded the letter and skimmed through it again.

“There are ten reported cases of chickenpox in the harbour. They're traced back to the ships that came from Stohess. The Councillor has requested your presence, stating that the situation is dire. There is a possibility of an outbreak,” he informed in a neutral voice.

He'd gone over every possibility and knew it was a trap. Unfortunately, all their people were occupied with the wedding, and no second source could go and verify the claims. The wording evoked instantaneous action, and she rarely sat idle. The dread knotted in his stomach. He already knew how she operated; her faults ran too deep.

“Your opinion?” She asked, lost in her thoughts. She was unconsciously biting on her lower lip, a habit that started in her childhood.

“It’s a trap,” he declared, refusing to dance around the obvious. “The last ship from Stohess came a week ago. Now, all of a sudden, we have chickenpox cases on the wedding day. The coincidence feels very deliberate.” 

The war Council hated her existence, and they never bothered to hide it. Nearly six months had passed since the altercation, and the consequences hadn't appeared. His nerves got worse every time he thought about it. She had punched a Councillor— it was akin to a death wish. They ate pieces of her mother simply because she was defying them. He didn't want to imagine what they'd do to Mikasa. Still, when the Council didn't operate as a collective, they were motivated by personal interests. Councillor Pixis was an aloof man who rarely picked sides. Out of all the rest, he always favoured Asami, and the same benevolence was given to Mikasa. 

If this was a trap— he was certain it was—then the perfect Councillor was chosen to call her. Whoever laid the trap was too familiar with the Queen’s behaviour.

“Right, that is happening today,” her brows knitted together, as she sighed deeply. 

The wedding weighed both of them down. But, he imagined, her plight was with the groom. Eren had been at her throat since the whole debacle started. She was miserable every time she met him, but clearly, other emotions held her hostage. Armin lost hair over the land ownership decision. The Rebels hated her, but she gave them bountiful favours. It was like she wanted them to overthrow her family and to give her a decent demise. He doubted she'd be that reckless, given how much the Ackerman legacy meant to her. But nothing about her actions reassured him. 

She had a plan in mind, and it left him feeling faint all day. So many things could go wrong with it, but she blindly trusted Eren to keep her safe. It was ridiculous. 

It made sense, though. Even in their childhood, they followed him without question, knowing he tackled the hardship before it reached them. Thinking about the past just stabbed his heart. How much did Eren remember? He often wondered, seeing how much the man had changed. He joined the rebellion, and just like that, his very existence opposed them. Still, much of Eren’s hatred felt personal. 

“Don't tell me you forgot,” Armin groaned, fully aware of how she suppressed everything about Eren. It was done for her sanity, but the wedding was today and she had to attend it. “Isabella was here fretting about your dress moments ago.” Once again, he couldn't blame her. 

She had decided to leave Eren alone; perhaps there was a confrontation, but she didn't disclose the details. The decision was upheld for six months, and surprisingly, everything was peaceful enough. If it weren't for the pesky meddling of the Scholars, they would've thrived in mutual ignorance. Even Armin didn't want to see Eren, as their last altercation was mostly screams and an impromptu embrace. Those conflicting emotions were painful, and he imagined Mikasa bore the worst burden of it. Once again, he couldn't elevate her troubles. 

What did Eren feel about all this? He certainly hated them, but the way he looked at Mikasa was confusing. In their childhood, much to Mikasa’s obliviousness, that boy held a lot of affection for her. Armin was certain that most of his fights with Jean were about Mikasa. Alas, mere memories of the past had little weight now. If only they could go back to that happiness, he'd get to give his parents a final goodbye. 

“I believe I have picked one,” Mikasa snapped her fingers, recalling her choice as if it happened centuries ago. Armin pointed at her choice. 

“Oh.” Mikasa blinked, facing her tactical choice, and her nose flared up. She held her fingers against her mouth as a slight blush formed around the corners. “That looks rather too revealing for a wedding.” It was a nightgown, and certainly not the kind she wore. The cloth was a little too sheer for her comfort. Having been her Advisor since birth, he was familiar with everything, even the tasks that fell on Sasha’s troublesome shoulders. 

“You called that amazing,” Armin quoted, eyebrows arched. 

“I wasn't paying attention,” she protested, promptly banging her fists on the desk. It caused some ink to spill on her documents, as she haphazardly tried to save them. He just watched, knowing his warnings about the mess fell on deaf ears. These were the consequences she had to withstand all alone. 

“What has Sasha reported so far?” She asked suddenly, her voice low. He swallowed; he was praying that she had forgotten about it.

Sasha was the singular entity keeping an eye on the Rebels, at least from their side. She wasn't very charitable about the details, as she followed the Hunter’s code of secrecy. But what she did report placed Eren in an alarming situation. For his safety and standing with the Rebels, they had buried any indication of childhood familiarity. Yet, he seemed affected by strange sentiments, which stirred his people’s ire. 

“The Rebels are divided into two distinct categories— those who support Eren and those who don’t. The latter pose a threat to us, as they’re spurred on by the wedding,” Armin revealed, trying his best to level his words. A single wrong utterance would prompt her action. She was rather sensitive when it came to Eren. Again, could he blame her? Not really, when even his emotions betrayed him. Eren had a way of pulling their heartstrings. 

She had initially rejected the Scholar’s proposition for this very reason, and despite all their efforts, Eren’s position with the Rebels was still at risk. From the looks of it, he wasn’t helping matters either. 

The other day, she came back from the orphanage looking distraught. She wasn't vocal about the cause but demanded to know about the Rebels’ positioning. She had met Eren that day, and likely saw something that troubled her. If only she were open about her triggers. He knew there was a gap in his knowledge about the Rebels. Levi patrolled the streets in secret and likely crossed paths with the Queen. She hid too much, for the sake of keeping him safe— he hated it. 

“There was a fight at their stronghold, and I believe Eren was struck,” Armin quietly said, as the pen snapped in her hand. His heart was beating fast; please don’t retaliate, he prayed to the Winter Goddess. She simply stared off into the distance, as ink doused her hand. He grabbed the spare cloth and wiped away the liquid. 

“Your intervention will simply ignite them,” Armin gently prompted. He was leaning against her desk, half expecting her to get up. 

“Yet again I'm made to watch,” Mikasa’s voice was dangerously low, as she clenched her fists. 

Eren’s battles were never meant to be theirs, and from the looks of it, that choice was bothering her. “If you eventually intend to win the Rebels over,” he repeated her ridiculous plan, hoping to pull her attention there. She was barely breathing; a terrible indicator of wheels turning in her head. “Leave them be for now.” He concluded and touched her shoulder gently. It was often a way to remind her about the surroundings. 

They remained silent for a moment. Clearly, her heart was fixated on him, and it was terribly hard to look away. He left out the part where Eren choked a Rebel, and how the people had turned against him. It was his executive decision as her Advisor, for her sake essentially. If she knew about his favourable antics, stopping her intervention would be impossible. She often matched his recklessness; both drove his blood pressure up. 

Armin hated the silence— it gnawed at his need to fill it with words. So many possibilities were running through his head, and most disfavoured her. This wouldn't do; they had more pressing matters at hand. He tapped on the table until she faced him. The sorrow on her face broke his heart. When was the last time they were happy? He really couldn't remember. Things got progressively worse as she took the throne. She sighed and rubbed circles on her forehead. It was sleep she desired, not another maze to conquer. 

“Regardless, don’t go there,” he exclaimed, “Let the Councillor handle it, then go on a later date.” 

He knew she had no intentions of sitting idly, but did his job of advising. Any sane ruler would leave the matter in others’ hands. But, she was raised by Asami and had seen the consequences of relying on others too much. It had traumatised her to the point of discrediting her own life for the sake of transparency. 

“Explain your reasoning because right now you’re just being overly cautious,” she said sharply, words chipping him. She stopped trusting his words without evidence, and the disparity still haunted him. This was his price to pay—he had broken her delicate trust, after all.

“You punched one of them, Mikasa,” Armin reminded, almost agitated by her nonchalance. She gave the War Council every reason to act invariably. “You’re favouring the Rebels openly, and allowing them to own land. Then you’re doing all these open court sessions with their people, and meddling in their clan affairs. All your actions have been in opposition to the War Council.” He counted on his fingers, hoping to emphasise the direness. She looked unconvinced— they would harm her, but she assumed it would be endurable. Again, she wanted to place herself in harm's way. It bothered him how much she relied on her strength.

“The whole wedding thing made me uneasy since it was announced,” he continued, waving off her dismissal.  “They're certainly planning something. Even your uncle felt that way, and his people are handling the wedding preparation. We also insisted on you keeping close to the castle, for your damn safety. Now, all of a sudden, we have chickenpox cases, and you’re requested to come there, while everyone’s on the other side of the city.” He stared at her as she matched his intensity. “We can’t even call for military help, nor request security. It will just be you and Councillor Pixis.” 

The point wasn’t to convince her it was a trap—she already knew that—but to persuade her not to engage. She wanted to know why they laid a trap, and in the end, curiosity always won. 

“They won’t reach us in time,” she nodded, for a second, he thought maybe she’d act rationally. But then the glint in her eyes returned, and all hope was lost. The inky hand prints were left all over her desk— another mess to clean up later.

“I haven't heard of any outbreak in Stohess, and the timing is too uncanny. I feel like deliberate cases were brought here and strategically revealed now. Your tendency to run towards danger is quite infamous. So, if someone wanted to isolate you, then this would be the best way to do it,” he still tried, but the battle was already lost. 

“Why go through the trouble of bringing cases here, and then use it like this?” Mikasa asked, certainly not to him. “Me ignoring it won't quell the issue; it’ll just prolong it.” She wanted to uncover Councillor Pixie's intentions.

He sighed with lost conviction. “I’ll be accompanying you.”

“Armin, unlike you,” she frowned, “I’ve had chickenpox before, it won’t affect me.”

“Don’t waste your breath,” he waved her off and held her gaze. Now he was going to match her stubbornness. She muttered something but eventually gave in. They had done this dance too many times. 

The course was set. She went around the room trying to locate her coat. Then she recalled its disappearance and instead wore the commander’s jacket. The badges displayed on it tended to bother her, but her status called for such formality. The sword was strapped to her belt, and the knife sheath was loaded with small blades. He was concerned— blades weren’t called unless she felt uneasy. The dust in the room started suffocating him. 

“How are the letters coming along?” She tried to lighten the mood. “I bet you're ecstatic to communicate with dear Annie.” Her smirk was all-knowing. 

“The Crown Princess of Stohess,” Armin corrected instinctively She noted the colour filling his face. 

“I’m sure you were on a first-name basis,” she taunted. 

“I’ve sent those.” He completely ignored her and cleared his throat. “We won’t get an answer until weeks later. But, if there were an outbreak, then the news would’ve reached us by now.” 

“It’s all a trap,” she shrugged, too casual for his liking. “I suppose we must fall in one to acquire knowledge.” 

“Your life is important,” Armin said flatly. 

“I appreciate your concern,” she smiled, “But my life isn't worth it.”

“Mikasa, can you not—”

“Come along,” she waved off his protests. “My partner in disruption, we have much to uncover.” 

Chapter Text

The harbour was uncharacteristically quiet. The salt stuck to his skin as the soft breeze played with his hair. Several ships were silently docked. The remaining crew finished their work, preparing to depart for the Willow Tree. They were surprised to see the Queen, who knew most of them by their family initials. Many of them had attended exhaustive meetings where they tried to broaden their food imports, but all efforts bore no results. The Emperor ensured Shiganshina’s main weakness remained; over the years, only the Capital could supply surplus food. Winter was almost upon them, and it proved to be the Queen’s biggest headache. At least during the last Winter, they had war deals, but now their survival was in the monster’s hands. 

Mikasa had spent many sleepless nights over that issue. Yet they remained helpless to the Emperor’s whims. The War Council was his favourite toy. For Shiganshina’s safety, they were prepared to sacrifice everything. 

The ten cases of chickenpox were effectively isolated in an abandoned workshop. They were from Stohess, but their identities couldn’t be proven. Apparently, in the chaos, most of their belongings were burned to prevent contagion. The masked doctors treated them; still, the ease of things made Armin incredibly uneasy. Where was the direness? Pixis didn't even bother covering up his lies. He tried to make her leave, but she insisted on investigating further.

It took them four hours to go through the inciting incident, and the conclusion was perplexing— who were these men? They were like ghosts of a nonexistent voyage. She ordered their detention and complete treatment. Places of their impact were thoroughly disinfected, and the ship they arrived on was cordoned off. 

Armin stayed away from the contaminated area and made her wear protective clothing. She surveyed the victims, but confusion became her primary expression. Yes, highly contagious viruses came through their docks, but they weren't this precise. A single ship had all the patients? Then they were kept somewhere. Who kept them around? The infected seemed too compliant. Once the observations were done, old clothes were burned, and she wore a different pair. Even though she was immune, they couldn't risk carrying anything around. A grand festival was taking place. 

Armin’s head began spinning. Nothing facilitated outbreaks like a festival, and the entire city was headed into one. Obviously, she couldn't trust anyone else in such a delicate situation. 

She was reckless and needlessly endangered herself, but what choice did she have? No one had her back. Even he couldn't do much in these situations. Sasha? She purposely kept her away. Her ailing mother and wounded veteran Uncle couldn't offer much beyond consolation. The War Council was only left— a similar fate was bestowed on her mother. Hated and self-imposed isolation backed her into a corner.

He finally understood why she insisted on coming there. Trap or not, the situation was alarming. A single question bothered him: if the last shipment came one week ago, where were they kept? There weren't any other reports, but a week was long enough to impact any densely populated pockets.

The dread was choking him: a wedding, cases of chickenpox. Sometimes, he hated just how active his imagination got. He tried to calm down his frantic heart. 

Everything went so smoothly— he couldn't shake the unease off. It was suffocating him. Something was off, but he struggled to pinpoint the cause. She noticed it too, as her sword was on standby. 

It was nearly sunset; a wedding awaited her presence, yet she wasn't satisfied. The Councillor came to them and invited them over to his mansion. It was a secluded building without any security and extensive gardens. Most of his people had gone to the Willow Tree. He was also expected there but chose to stay behind. The dread worsened with every step; Armin helplessly followed along. What choice did he have? She'd made it her life's purpose to see everything through. He started wondering if this was her way to purposely avoid the wedding. 

They were in the dining room, lavishly lit by candlelight, and food was already served. The Councillor insisted on preparing the Queen for her wedding, and she readily agreed. Armin was about to explode from the unease. Councillor Pixis looked like a frail old man but had the sharpest eyes in the entire nation. He sipped on his favourite wine. The Advisor stood behind him— a woman with brunette hair in her early thirties. She was called Anka and was loyal to the Councillor’s clan. She watched them, arms folded back, as they tried eating. It was so uncomfortable.

Mikasa was seated in front of Armin, as she idly played with her food. She kept her face emotionless— something ingrained into her— but he could spot the turmoil festering on the edges. 

She was being forced into a wedding she never wanted, bound to a man who loathed her. Most desired her dead, others hated her beyond reason. There was no one left who valued her unconditionally. And now, even the wedding they demanded was interrupted, as they laid traps in silence. Such a predicament would shatter anyone; even that was a luxury she wasn't granted. So she sat, poised like a Queen, indulging the Councillor who plotted against her and led them here with lies. Armin felt sick with unbridled anxiety—he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Councillor, we were told this was a dire situation,” Armin fumed, trembling hands gripping the dining table. 

“It certainly is, my boy,” Pixis reinstated, not even bothering to cover up his lies. “Can you imagine the cases multiplying? The last outbreak took over half the city.” He added a soft chuckle as another sip was taken. 

“You clearly have everything under control,” Armin spat, forcing himself to calm down. 

“I try, even at my old age,” Pixis nodded, waving an arm around them. It was irritating how he shamelessly deflected. 

The maids carried over more plated dishes, as one leaned over Mikasa and filled her wine glass. He noticed the way Mikasa went eerily still, but his anger with the Councillor took precedence over the demeanour change. She’d been too quiet the whole time, and he assumed exhaustion was finally getting to her. 

“What was the real purpose of calling the Queen here?” Armin snapped, incapable of holding back his irritation. 

“The cases,” Pixis tutted, purposely flaring up his rage. “I must apologise for my poor timing,” he wiped under his eyes. The fake sympathy made his ears bleed. The old drunken man continued. “The grand wedding is upon us, yet the world never stops spinning.”

This was how the War Council toyed with the Queen. They desired her death, but never initiated it themselves. They just prayed upon misfortune, and usually, it came to the Queen. They certainly acted maliciously, hoping to disrupt her daily activities. They often had her arrested or blocked from entering important buildings. They used every law in their arsenal to make her submit. Even now, it was a play from their handbook. Make her have a wedding, then call upon her and ensure she misses it. The aim was always to humiliate her and irrevocably damage her reputation. He was so utterly furious. 

Then there was Mikasa— incompletely unresponsive, staring off into the distance— made to withstand everything. The poor girl never caught a break. Even back home, the Rebels were after her, and Eren stole her peace. No matter what, she was everyone’s favourite scapegoat. 

“How terribly convenient,” Armin muttered, stabbing the poor bread. 

“As the old saying goes, there are no coincidences,” Pixis said, but his voice came out all wrong. 

For a horrible second, his heart halted — what if he read the situation wrong? His brows knitted together as he studied the Councillor’s face. He was trying to look aloof, while the Advisor’s eyes were focused on the corridor. That made no sense. He spotted cold sweat trickling down the Councillor's face. Alarm bells went off in Armin’s head; they needed to leave now. His gaze flickered onto Mikasa, who was merely staring at her lap and kept her arms loosely folded. Something was utterly wrong. Leave, now, his mind screamed. He had always trusted his instincts, and today wouldn't be the exception. He’d drag her out if it came to it. 

“Well,” Armin nervously cleared his throat, “If there isn’t much more to discuss, then we should head out…” he noticed a shadowy figure in the corner. Before he could speak, a crossbow bolt flew toward them.

“Get down.” Her voice rang through the room, sharp and commanding. The table jolted upright with a violent kick. “Get the fuck down.” Armin was shoved to the floor as a panic attack tore through him. The dishes were flung to the side, sharp sounds encapsulated, and food littered around them. Then the world collapsed into an uneasy silence; only the frantic pounding of his heart sounded. His mind spiralled, flipping through fragments of the war he experienced. Each memory was laced with terror; each flashback was blinding and suffocating. He clutched his head, trembling, knees on the cold floor. Then came the sound of an impact. An arrow was buried in the wall behind him. Pixis seemed equally shaken, but there was anticipation in his distress. He took cover, and his Anka shrieked despite the makeshift shield covering them. Another arrow was shot, and he screamed for Mikasa’s safety. 

The assassin had crept along the barren hallways, made his way to the dining room and aimed the crossbow at Mikasa. The bolt was fired— she moved, shocking the man clothed in shadows. Her feline-like reflexes moved her body instantaneously. First, the table was kicked to shield the helpless. Then, she twisted to the side, avoiding the other projectile. The wall and the table’s oak were punctured. The assassin tried to escape, but she flung tiny blades his way. In an instant, his shoulder was struck, and his cries echoed through the room. He attempted to reload the crossbow, but the Ackerman's wrath was upon him. 

She slowly stalked her prey. He was bleeding as he tried to move backwards, crawling on all fours. Her precise steps exhumed all the malice she had suppressed. And now, it was spilling out, as unfathomable anger wracked her body. The man was quiet, bleeding out, as she stared down at him. Her sword was unsheathed, and his tendons were slashed. His blood-curdling wails echoed through the room. He was entirely incapacitated, squirming on the floor, as her bloodlust blossomed. The desire to ruin him further prospered— a body could take more slashes. She was tempted to test it out. 

Armin finally gained some semblance of composure. He scrambled to his feet and met her halfway. His trembling hands held her sword-equipped arm. Her eyes were locked on the prey, bleeding and weak. Her breath came heavy, thick with the urge to inflict violence.

They needed the assassin alive. She understood that, but violence was the best remedy for her frustrations. Her tendencies frightened Armin, especially when she teetered on the edge of losing control. “We’re fine,” he reassured, gently urging her to stop. 

There was a distant noise of a window breaking. It finally struck him— the Councillor was being watched. He noticed the paper clutched in her free hand. 

She growled, sheathed her sword, turned towards the Councillor— who emerged from behind the table— and held up a piece of paper. “You better fucking start talking.” 

The maid— who had slipped the note— came running with ropes, and they tied the assassin to the pillar. Armin pulled off his mask, and a foreign man stared at him. He didn't seem to be from around here. Silver hair, piercing pale eyes that had nothing but disgust in them. He was a trained professional and intended to kill the Queen. Who sent him? From the looks of it, the Councillor was another hostage. He pulled the assassin's shirt and exposed his chest— no cross. He wasn't part of the Rebels, but his weaponry had their symbol. His heart beat frantically; Eren wouldn't allow such a thing, or had they underestimated their hatred? So many possibilities ran through his mind. 

Another thing took precedence over everything. “Mikasa, you’re bleeding.” He got up and took hold of her jacket. It came off with ease as she winced. There was blood staining her pristine button-down shirt. 

“It’s just a scratch,” she dismissed his concerns with a frown. “We have more pressing matters at hand,” she jabbed her free hand at the Councillor. He looked equally perplexed, and Armin was certain this man wasn't faking it. 

Anka arrived with medical supplies, hoping to treat Mikasa, but she stopped her. “We need to interrogate him…” The scream silenced everything. 

All heads turned back to the assassin. He’d freed himself and stabbed the poor maid’s hand. A guttural sound erupted from Mikasa’s throat as she aimed her sword, but all attempts were futile. The man pulled out a pill. Mikasa froze, as panic flooded in. “No, stop,” she shouted, but he swallowed it. 

Chapter Text

Everything happened too fast, and Armin couldn't even follow. It took him a moment to react; his first instinct was to rush over to the whimpering maid. Anka was already on top of things, bandaging the impaled hand. Pixis was right behind them, but he rushed over to the assassin. Mikasa was too frustrated to move as she cursed under her breath. Their only source of information died, and the other one likely escaped. 

It was an absolute disaster. Blood everywhere, and her hands were stained again. She stared at them, thoroughly disturbed. 

They gathered around the assassin. He vomited, his body convulsed, and soon he was dead. A death pill worked fast. A spare blade was hidden in his sleeves. He used it to free himself and then decided to die. 

It was a while before things calmed down. Unfortunately, Pixis had no security detail. They were the only people inside the mansion. They moved to a safer room after bandages were administered and evidence was collected. Mikasa was thankfully fine— the arrow only scraped her side, and a few stitches corded off her wound. They were too shaken to speak, but the Queen was restless. Once things had settled, she grabbed the Councillor's collar and held him accountable. 

She was done playing nice and proper. It was terrifying to witness the colour drain from her eyes. They said Ackerman had a killer’s gaze— truly, there was darkness in those orbs. 

“Your Highness,” Pixis held his hands up in surrender. “I am a victim, too.” 

Mikasa stared daggers at him but soon loosened her grip. She only had hatred for the War Councillors; they were her mother’s tormentors. There would be no forgiveness— but now, as their Queen, she begrudgingly considered their safety. Pixis wasn't the main culprit, but the silence made him an accomplice. He looked away as they tore through Asami.

They were in the Councillor’s fashionably designed bedroom, lounging around the space, and some settled on the bed. Armin tried to make sense of the events. This was unusual. Even at the height of their defiance, the War Council didn't assassinate Asami. 

His blood ran cold— if it wasn't the War Council, it meant another entity entered the playing field. Unlike them, this entity wasn't above killing. Maybe Pixis was just acting. His brain was overwhelmed. Maybe it was the Rebels trying to take out the Queen. They were ruthless, after all, and their entire purpose was killing Royalty. Everywhere he looked, only enemies stared back at him. 

He sighed and tried to salvage his composure. Above everything, Mikasa needed him to remain strong. She was falling apart, barely held together by a thread. 

Someone wanted her dead— she hadn't anticipated that. All the possible scenarios ran through her mind, each one heavier than the last, and all of them brought her immense grief. Somehow, despite Asami’s efforts, her fate turned out worse. She didn’t care about her life, but the thought of her mother’s sacrifices being in vain was worse than death. 

“The arrows don’t seem poisoned,” Anka studied their tips. “However, they’re clearly marked in the Rebel’s cross.” The two maids scurried behind her, still terrified. 

“Maybe the intent was to wound her?” Armin suggested bile rose up his throat, “I mean, even if you hadn't warned her, at best, he would've wounded her back.” An unsettling thought filled his mind. “Maybe the killer underestimated her? Not many know her other side.” It was strategic; the Queen’s image seldom revealed her ruthlessness or near-invincible reflexes.

“That’s what I thought,” Pixis smoothed down his creased shirt. “The perpetrator hired an assassin, presented her as an easy target, and hoped to blame it on the Rebels.” He got hold of the crossbow and pointed it at the symbol. “Their mark is not left-aligned.” 

“Councillor Pixis, just explain yourself,” Mikasa demanded, not bothering to be polite. 

“A week ago, a strange ship arrived without warning,” Pixis revealed, “We intercepted it, but four hours later, we discovered the infection on board. They handed me a letter, expecting my silence and compliance. I tried to resist… until a head was sent to me.”

“Like a head?” Mikasa whispered, eyes widened with horror, “Human head?”

“My butler was killed,” Pixis admitted, and silence crept into the room. “May he rest in peace; his head, my dear.” 

Armin blenched, unable to keep the image out of his mind. Pixis motioned to the maid, who pulled the letter from his drawer. It was unmarked and contained clear instructions. As with the assassin, no symbol was linked to the preparator. 

“So, naturally,” Pixis shrugged, “I agreed to their demand. I didn’t want more people dying. The letter told me to summon you here on your wedding day, then wait for further instructions.” He rubbed his forehead, clearly unsettled by the incident. “I didn’t know about the assassin, but my gut feeling is never wrong. Just in case, I had Fiona slip you a warning, and as it turned out, I was right. They wanted to assassinate the Queen.” 

Armin couldn't find his bearings. An unparalleled security breach occurred right under their noses. They did not know about it and were ineffective in handling the situation. It didn't matter if Pixis was lying; they were completely blindsided. She went still with instability. Her arms wrapped around her body, hoping to hold herself together. 

She likely saw herself as a failed queen; it wounded her pride. He wanted to lessen her suffering, but words weren't enough. 

The perpetrator wanted to instigate internal chaos with the Queen’s death. The Rebels were the perfect scapegoat, and the military would've persecuted them. All the turmoil would've resulted in another war. That's when it hit him. “Another war,” he muttered, catching everyone's attention. “That's the whole point.” Mikasa withdrew further away with that revelation. 

“Unfortunately,” Pixis nodded, “The very legacy of our city is built upon war. It’s the perfect threat that keeps us internally united. Without it, many lose their purpose, and they seek to rekindle it.” 

He was outing his fellow Councillor for treason. It was hard to trust the drunken old man, but his admission made sense. The War Council collectively hated the Queen, but individual Councillors were motivated by different things. If they were working separately, then their threat was hard to quantify. As a collective, they were, at best, ruthlessly petty. He lacked the time to investigate it thoroughly. Thankfully, the ten cases were detained. But a part of him knew they likely sought death, just like the assassin. 

“Why warn me?” Mikasa asked, still unconvinced. 

“Shiganshina’s safety matters to me,” Pixis simply said. “Your death would compromise it; we can't have that.” He went through his coat and pulled out a flask of wine. It was promptly consumed, unconcerned by his words’ impact. 

It was a cold revelation. Her life had no value beyond the role she served. Everything and everyone reminded her about it. Armin crossed over to her side and unfurled her clenched fists. Her nails had dug deep enough to draw blood. She didn't deserve any of this; it drove him mad, but there wasn’t anything he could do. 

“Your Highness, forces beyond our control are after you,” Pixis warned solemnly. “I played my part, but in the future, I imagine others won’t.”  

The perpetrator had surface-level knowledge about the Queen, her habits, and their political structure. It could be a Councillor going rogue, or the Rebels making moves. Truthfully, it could've been the Emperor, but he wasn't discreet about his actions. So many possibilities presented themselves; far too many people considered her their natural enemy. 

It was impossible to find their magnificent perpetrator—a more pressing matter made him sweat, and he was certain Mikasa was thinking about it, too. Four hours later, Pixis intercepted the infected; they were completely unaccounted for before that. A lot could be accomplished in four hours. She stared at him, drenched in inexplicable distress. 

“We must cancel the wedding,” she declared, the relief in her voice inexpressible. All life was drained from the room. "We have an unidentified enemy and an infected rogue. A large gathering puts our people at risk.” 

Armin’s heart hammered against his ribcage, dread coiling around his throat. “It’s rather late,” he whispered, pointing at the window. The wedding was set to start at sunset— it was pitch-black outside. They were too late. All the colour drained from Mikasa's face. 

The wedding would go on, unconcerned by death and despair. It certainly didn't care about the Queen’s miserable plight. 

“I’ll collect my belongings, and we’ll head out. It’s likely safer there than at my compromised abode,” Pixis concluded, wiping wine stains from his moustache. “We’ll regroup with the military, and all that fancy stuff— right now, we must be with the people.” He gave Mikasa a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry, Your Highness. Chickenpox symptoms start showing in a day or two; if there is an outbreak, we would see it by now. A week has passed, and there hasn't been anything.” He was reassuring, but she wasn't entirely convinced. 

She could still end the wedding, but the people’s ire would haunt her regime. Nothing backed an outbreak possibility, and the cases were effectively neutralised. Her paranoia wouldn’t be appreciated. What could they possibly do? Things moved without their intervention. The Councillor and his people began preparing for departure. But Mikasa stood by the wall, left to lick her wounds in silence. She wanted to remain unfazed, and yet her walls were punctured. 

Her hand curled around the stitches— her strength was her pride, and it was repeatedly shattered. She was only human, easily bruised and broken. 

“Will you be okay?” It wasn't a question, but a necessary requirement. 

He stood close enough but gave her ample space. She preferred losing herself in solitude. The world wasn't meant to witness her shame. The grip around her wound tightened. No matter how much she downplayed it, the pain was inevitable. 

“Armin, it’s happening again,” her voice was barely audible, “I saw my mother go through it.” 

She was cracking into pieces. Her gaze was fixated on the ghosts he couldn't witness; they called her name, and she readily answered. The past never stopped haunting her. He barely breathed; too frightened by the darkness lurking around. 

“They're not bold enough to assassinate,” she was trembling, hands knotted in her hair, “Even with my mother— they weren’t bold enough to oppose her— until it happened. Then her authority was undermined, and they used her. I remember the shadow growing around us; so cold, so fucking cold.” She was whispering incoherent words. He was too stunned to speak; what part of her life he hadn't seen? She refused to let the restless darkness besmirch his light— It made him feel so utterly guilty. “I thought maybe I had more time,” her voice was gentle, “But it looks like I'll end up like my mother. Even death can’t wash away my sins.”

Underneath her armour was a traumatised girl who couldn't save her mother. It wounded her soul beyond repair. 

“Mikasa, please stop it,” Armin’s voice echoed through the room. It was sharp enough to snap her out of the unnerving trance. 

She inhaled deeply, rubbing slow circles on her forehead. “Sorry,” she offered, facing him with a weary smile, “I should’ve listened to you.” Those words rang hollow; he knew that if given the chance, she wouldn't change anything. “I just didn't think assassination was on the plate.” 

She knew it was her fault. Still, there wasn't any point in reprimanding her. She mentally punished herself and had been doing so relentlessly. Once the necessary emotions were processed, her mask returned. She rolled her shoulders back, and a neutral expression covered her face. Even after an attempt on her life, she was expected to function. 

The Queen never stopped. The night had only just begun, and a wedding called her wretched name.

“I know, your attributes are both admirable and troubling.” Armin gave her a necessary nudge. “I’m always here to correct your path.” 

“Correct it then.” She took off the bloody jacket and changed into Anka’s coat. Thankfully, most of the blood came off easily. 

“We’ll investigate,” Armin reaffirmed, “But for now, the Willow Tree is a safe location.” He noticed her silent whines. Stitches were always nasty. “I’m sorry, that fuss must be dealt with. And you mustn't leave the poor groom waiting; he’d chew my head off.” The point was to lighten her mood, but Eren’s mention only worsened it. He bit his tongue and haphazardly tried to salvage it. “Maybe we should get your wound looked at?” She typically waved him off.

“I’m fine,” she said, refusing to acknowledge the pain. 

“Riding your horse will be tough,” Armin tried again. 

“I've survived worse.” 

“You don't have to punish yourself like this,” he tried again, but to no avail. 

It was rather pointless to try to elevate her stress. There was a literal dead body in Pixis's dining room and the possibility of internal espionage. The second accomplice of the assassin had escaped. Such an opportunity was desirable to the War Council; they flew around her like hungry vultures. The military would be involved, and soon enough, her control would be chipped at.

He never wanted to be in her position. It was a miracle she was still standing strong, despite the attempt on her life, and a brutal aftermath awaited her. 

Chapter Text

The streets of Shiganshina were busy. There was a wedding upon them, as people scurried across to make preparations. Between the sea of people, the Commander walked amongst them, in plain clothes, as none paid attention to the limping man. He supported his weight on the elegant crane and vigilantly looked around. It was his habit to watch the people while they least suspected it. Over the years, he found working in the disguise of a commoner more fruitful than wielding his title. The title was the greatest burden of his life. 

He was promised the throne. Then their mother died before her time, and Asami had to take responsibility. She gave up everything to keep him safe and away from the wretched throne. It was another burden on his life. He tried to make up for it, but Asami had long since lost her spark. She was barely recognisable, kept away in the peaceful meadow, while the world moved on without her. He tried to repent by looking out for her daughter, but that child only knew how to play with fire.

The guilt worsened every time he saw her face. A child forsaken with the world's burden before she even felt her mother's warmth. The throne was his burden, and yet again, another child had to embrace it. Asami wanted her daughter to live a beautiful life, but the treacherous world had different plans. He was made to witness another descent, as the niece he knew slowly adopted her father's traits— the man he hated. After all, Albert was distinctly responsible for much of Asami’s pain. Fate was just cruel, as that bastard died before receiving his punishment. He was only ever grieved by the family he left behind. What a fucking joke. Levi wanted to skin that man alive. 

Nifa was following behind him. A small woman with bright hair, who wore her cloak with pride. Her family had served the royal family for generations, and she promptly carried on that legacy. He always resonated with her, knowing another soul understood his plight. Above all else, she was a charming companion who helped with his mobility. 

The last war had taken a hefty toll on his body. It was another guilt wrapped around his throat— his niece took his place in another war. His demise was made certain, but she had prevented it. Far too many people he loved sacrificed themselves for him. It made him fucking sick. 

Keeping her safe was the least he could do. Identifying the Rebel’s leader was a rather difficult task. He was a mysterious man who twisted the world in silence. It took months of following the Rebels to pinpoint the man in the centre of it all. Tch— what a fucking joke. Half his people didn't even believe him, but Levi was certain. There was something incredibly intriguing about that man.

It was a struggle to walk for a prolonged time. His bad leg ached with every step, but he was determined to reach the destination. Nifa roamed next to him, prepared to offer him a shoulder if needed. He never imagined living long enough to see his body decline. Each war took a piece of him— first his eye, then his fingers, and soon enough his mobility. He'd given up enough, but all those sacrifices were in vain. The wars never ended, and now his niece was on the front line. 

“What is my niece up to?” He asked, dreading the possible answer. 

They had given her instructions about remaining in her castle, but she refused to listen. The whole wedding felt like a nightmare, and he suspected Gross was up to something. The military was on alert, and closely monitored the situation. But, of course, his precious niece made their lives difficult. She simply insisted on going as usual. 

Did she even value her life? He often wondered and hated the likely answer. She was made to feel replaceable, and then she completely internalised it. Asami was the same— selfless to a fault. She valued her people and her land; yet, the feelings were never mutual. His sister was merely used and abused thoroughly. 

Nida hesitated before relying on the information. “Well, she should be picking a wedding dress.” 

“The blonde brat told you that?” Levi sighed, stopping to look at his compassion. 

“Yes, Commander,” Nifa nodded. 

His disastrous niece was up to no good. A good chunk of her life was spent in the military. Asami insisted on letting her learn the ropes, and she rose to the ranks on her own accord. Albert had opposed that decision, but ultimately, their daughter proved to be a handful. She even earned the title of Commander, a position that was historically just handed over. Her strength and dedication invoked fondness in many hearts. The soldiers discreetly support her endeavours. Even now, Nifa was giving the Queen the necessary leeway. He could reprimand his subordinates, but something as persistent as fondness couldn't be removed. Nifa should’ve reported to him, and yet she purposefully delayed giving the Queen the necessary time. 

“If I visit her now would she be there?” Levi raised his eyebrow. 

“I’m told she is not taking visitors,” Nifa simply shrugged. 

They were locked in a stalemate. He could comfort Nifa About her choices, or she could confront him about his inquiries. After all, he was the Commander and possessed no right to track the Queen, even for her safety. They had been following her around since the wedding was announced, and she complied without resistance. But, from the looks of it, her tendencies finally came back. 

“She is off somewhere,” Levi pinched the bridge of his nose. “Give me a briefing, Nifa,” he ordered. 

“You shouldn't tail your niece, Commander,” Nifa countered. 

This shit was going to backfire one day; he felt it in his guts. The Queen’s advisor was compromised, barely able to curtail her dangerous whims. The people meant to protect her were largely asked to step aside. They trusted her ability to handle everything, and she reinforced that trust through her actions. However, he was afraid of a day when her capabilities wouldn't be enough. Who would save the Queen then? Especially, when she vehemently refused to rely on anyone. It was a perplexing predicament plaguing his sanity. 

“A wedding in the most violent Councillor’s land? What the fuck is she thinking?” He said, mostly to himself. 

The War Council, since its inception, made a mockery of the crown. They wanted power; even when it was Ackerman's birthright. They were particularly devious with Asami, who was a child when the throne consumed her. A little girl who hadn't even grieved her mother fully was forced to rule. They made her trust them and then took advantage of her kindness. That’s why she raised her daughter differently— distrusting to a fault, even when it came to her uncle. And yet, what blame laid on the poor child’s shoulder? The benevolent Uncle carried out the War Council’s bidding, as he couldn't lose their favour. The army’s biggest benefactors were the Councillors, and they ensured their endeavours were rewarded. He couldn't oppose the War Council, without the threat of his soldiers being starved and persecuted. He had to handcuff his niece and put her behind bars, as many times as they required it. Unfortunately, wealth was intrinsically tied with bloodthirsty beasts. 

Levi understood why Mikasa never sought his help, but it never stopped aching his heart. The same child he had carried in his arms, hoping she’d only know happiness — ultimately, got tangled in the curse responsible for ruining her mother. Once again, he was made to watch. Yet he was rather sick of having to wait around while Mikasa chose her poison. Asami lost her soul for his sake— this was the least he could do. The burden of her sacrifice got worse with each passing day. 

Nothing about the wedding seemed sensible to him. He kept suspecting the Rebels, who moved around in divided forces. According to his spies, the Rebels had segregated into groups of those who supported the alleged leader and those who opposed him. The brat— alleged Rebel’s leader— Eren Yeager, was a strange paradox. He was simple to comprehend, straightforward to a disastrous degree, and yet his past conflicted with his beliefs. Mikasa saved him because of their shared history. 

Levi hadn’t thought much of it, but over the months, he began to see how deeply Eren was entangled in that history.

The name Yeager brought back uncanny familiarity. After months of investigating the itch, he finally came across the source. Shiganshina’s darkest day— the slaughter of their people for the Emperor. Upon his request, two hundred men implicated in the charge of rebellion were hanged. The execution was carried out by the Queen’s consort and Commander, Albert Ackerman, who defied direct orders and carried out the slaughter. 

Unfortunately, the War Council pinned the blame on Asami and called her a coward who gave up their sovereignty. She never truly recovered from that incident. 

A name roamed like a legend in making— Grisha Yeager— the infamous Rebel who brought the Emperor to his knees. There was no proper confirmation, but Levi felt those flames ignited in Eren. That brat was old enough to be that man’s son, even if the physical appearance didn’t fully line up. If his suspicions were correct then his family was in danger. He knew how deep vengeance ran; an unsupervised loose end like Eren was a festering liability. 

Despite everything, his niece, who was deeply distrusting and ferociously guarded about her family, sided with that brat. It made no fucking sense. Tch. It was another headache that couldn't be resolved. 

“We have secured the perimeters,” Nifa tried to reassure him, but he simply held up his hand. “The details, Nifa.” 

They stood still amidst the crowd, which walked past them, unconcerned. Levi lingered closer to the shops, hoping to support his body against the wall. His leg wasn't getting better, and it deeply hampered his ability to conduct surveillance in silence. 

Nifa dropped any colloquialism and nodded. “She hasn't been up to much beyond royal duties and visits around the city. Lastly, five days ago, she was at the Belin Orphanage with the Consort,” she hesitated before continuing, “We noticed a lot of letters were exchanged with Stohess.” Her lips formed a thin line. “Today we received word about the chickenpox development in the harbour. The Queen got a letter from Councillor Pixis.” That made fucking sense. Obviously, something happened, and she got dragged into it. Levi rubbed circles on his forehead, unable to contain his annoyance. Nifa didn't need to confirm, as he already knew where she was headed. Or, reached? Goddess knew when her plans changed, and today was reshaped. 

“Nifa, tell me the content of those letters,” he asked, with a prolonged sigh. 

“We didn’t intercept them.” 

“Wonderful, just what I wanted to hear,” Levi grumbled, hands flipped through his hair. 

“The Queen can take care of her matters, Commander,” Nifa chimed, but her blind trust felt like a death sentence. Yes, the Queen handled her matters, but what Goddess-forsaken military allowed the Queen to investigate a sudden disease? Shiganshina, apparently. It was her need to handle everything alone that edged a wall between her and those designated to protect her. His subordinates even encouraged her behaviour— what a fucking disaster. Yet her antics were nothing new, and he simply felt unfathomably lethargic. 

The army was personally involved in the wedding, and even if he wanted to, taking a handful of them to the harbour wasn’t applicable. It would take a day or two for his orders to be fully realised. He simply couldn't bring soldiers into a Councillor’s area without explicit permission. But, of course, no such restrictions stopped the Queen, and she took full advantage of it. 

“I’m aware,” Levi reclined, pressing his knee. The metallic structure embedded in his leg dulled with time. He likely needed another replacement, but it would require travelling to Stohess. He couldn't risk leaving when Shiganshina was indirectly threatened. “That brat always runs towards danger.” He admitted, feeling Nifa’s sympathy. 

“Well, that runs in the family,” she offered with a slight smile. In his youth, he’d gotten quite a reputation for violence and retribution. 

He’d chosen solitude as the world needed his watchful eyes, but somewhere along the way, loneliness crept into his life. The new mission, courtesy of his niece, gave him something to fiddle with. She didn't make many requests of him, and at least fulfilling this one felt like a moral obligation. 

Was he any different from the subordinates who trusted her? The Rebel had secretly infiltrated their outskirts and likely brought weaponry with them. She allowed them to own land, and it was likely used to store their weaponry. They were openly in opposition to the Queen, who merely ignored them until the Scholars forced a wedding. He wanted to trust her instincts, but there wasn't any sense in her actions. Perhaps, just like Asami, her kindness was meant to be exploited.

“Speaking of, do you want to tail that man again?” Nifa asked, very aware of the way Levi’s eyes lit up. “I must say, Commander, you really enjoy following that man around.” Levi just ignored the cheeky undertones. 

“I’m just keeping my family safe.” 

That’s all his life had been; looking after his family, his subordinates, and anyone who depended on him. Solitude was his greatest companion, but over the years, it became his silent oppressor. His sister couldn't look at him, his niece wouldn’t look at him, and even his subordinates transpired in different directions. 

He wanted a purpose again, and tormenting the supposed leader was a good substitute. He’d been pursuing the real leader, and after months of silent observations and conversations, he finally narrowed down the man.  

In the Jarien clan’s side of the city—riddled with substance abuse and the poor hemmed in alleyways—his search finally ended. Unlike the six dominant Councillors, the others lived in relative poverty, with their clans barely scraping by. They survived mainly through alliances with the well-off Councillors, hoping to retain some stability. The Queen’s reforms were usually ignored; the people only followed their representative. In the heart of this overlooked clan, he found the man he had been looking for.

He was a mystery: a tall, blond man with vibrant eyes that stirred every raw emotion. One arm was missing, and his skin bore the remnants of a violent past. He posed as a homeless flute player, but the brilliance in his gaze showed something far greater. One glance into those striking blue eyes and he was trapped. It had been a month and a half since he started trailing the man, watching him with a begrudging fascination. Sometimes he spoke to the beautiful enigma; other times, he tried to confront him. It never made a difference. There was an undeniable allure in simply talking with him.

He would learn his Goddess-damned name— tch, to have him arrested for being the secret leader. That was the mission, right? Surely, that was the reason. He wasn’t trying to unravel the man behind the mystery. The man just happened to pique his interest in all the right ways.

Levi found that man again. He was seated on the dusty pavement, a mat sprawled around him, as loose coins were thrown in the box. The flute was delicately perched against his lips, as soft lullabies were played. There was something deeply melancholic about the melody. It reminded him of a long summer night spent waiting for his mother, who never returned. He was clutching onto his sister’s hand, terrified of letting go. He couldn’t remember his mother's face now. It was just her scent of Bellflowers that still lingered. The same flowers his sister started obsessing over. For him, that scent was intrinsically linked with death and decay.

Nifa surveyed the surroundings and eventually left him. The streets were empty around this part, and the air was ruminant cold, as particles of dust circulated him. The upheaval bothered him. He ignored his insistent mind and walked over to the blonde man. He wore a dirty cloak that concealed his identity. However, the sound of a metallic cane alerted him, and those brilliant eyes found the intruder. The intensity of his gaze startled Levi. The sun was starting to set, and the shadows wandered around them. He leaned against the pillar, aware of the dirt besmirching his clothes. 

He was tempted to settle on the pavement but found the task troublesome without a helpful arm. He still lingered close enough to spot any concealed weapons or intentions. After all, his niece wasn't the only royalty the Rebels despised. He was, all things considered, still the Crown Prince. He rubbed his gloved hands together, hoping to shave off the dirt. 

“What do we call a man who spends all his time bothering a helpless beggar?” the man asked, fiddling with the intricately designed flute. The patterns showed no existing family crest. The jagged lines were beautiful in their imperfections. It resembled the man's face; sharp edges contorted into something alluring.

Levi’s lip turned up from the side. “I see no beggar. Just a cunning piece of shit who thinks he can fool me.” 

The man simply shrugged. “I won’t entertain your delusions.” A curious glint flashed in his eyes. “You seem like a nobleman, and yet here you are acting beneath your status.”

They both played the game. The man acted as if he weren't fully aware of who Levi was and the kind of threat he posed. Concealment was an offence gravely punished, and the War Council’s ire would only add to it. Levi could reasonably imprison this man, but he merely prolonged the inevitable. He'd only informed Mikasa about his search and left most of his subordinates in the dark. Petra suspected but wasn't the kind to pry into his business. 

Was he any different from his niece? Enthralled with the enemy; ramifications be damned. 

“What gave it away?” His brows arched. Putting on a disguise was his fortitude. The man saw through it from the start.

“The crest you wish to hide, but can't part with.” 

How sloppy, tch — Levi felt around the breast pocket and noticed the embodied handkerchief poking out. He expected the real leader to be observant, but this man teetered on the edge of insanity. A dangerous mind lurked behind his calm demeanour. He was done playing around for the day. The bastard was responsible for using his niece, trespassing into their land, and for the general unrest brewing in Shiganshina’s heart. The Councillors were predictable, which rendered them mostly harmless. But an enigma like him was capable of literally anything. Levi wasn't going to risk anything. The nightmare of a wedding needed every precaution.

“Here’s how today’s going to go,” Levi spoke firmly, as he grabbed onto the man’s cloak. The pressure was enough to make the man look at him. Those cold eyes were set on him, unwavering in their fixation. Thankfully, that man remained seated. Otherwise, his height would’ve been an obstacle. “There’s a wedding, and it’s very important to my niece. You’ve got two choices: confess who you really are, or get used to having me stuck to you like a newborn.” He didn’t attempt to conceal the sharp edges of his threats. “Your fucking call.” His face gave away nothing, as he stared into the calm void. The idea was to intimidate the enemy, but from the looks of it, the enemy had a different plan.  

Scarred fingers touched Levi's gloved hand. There was a precise gentleness in the touch, as the man peeled his fingers away. The delicateness caught Levi off guard as he watched the action unfold. His grip was undone and the man brushed his cloak back into position. Then he raised his arm and nudged his elbow towards Levi. His usually unreadable face had a soft edge to it; a rather strange development. Levi had seen this man enough to know he possessed nothing but unhinged detachment, but now there was an unmissable warmth in his conduct. How fucking odd.  

He wanted Levi to take his arm and settle down on the pavement. What a ridiculous— he simply obliged before the better part of his mind functioned. He gripped the man’s strong arm, settled the cane against the wall, and sat down on the pavement. There was deliberate distance between them, and he intended to keep it that way. The man was still dangerous, despite the tenderness in his forlorn gaze. He was watching the crowd of people walk past him, some paid attention, while the others ignored them.

The man fiddled through his cloak, while Levi’s hand gripped a hidden dagger. But, all unease washed away when he noticed the vibrant deck of cards. It had strange symbols engraved on it, as the decoration spoke of luxury. The man wasn't even playing up his disguise anymore. “Pick a card,” he offered, flipping the cards around with practised ease. 

“What?” Levi said, startled by the sudden change. He blinked, drawn in by the man’s little game. The cards flipped through his fingers, folding and forming perfect shapes. The silent performance, albeit silly, was strangely captivating; he was seeing a side not meant for his eyes. 

“If you're going to be here all day then at least humour me a little,” the man mused, nudging him to play along. Levi could've sworn there was a slight smile on the man’s face. The cards were spread out in front of him. He plucked one, raised it, and met the man's eyes. 

“Interesting choice.” The man took the card and studied it. He then turned it around for Levi to witness; it just showed a skeleton reaping souls. “Death follows you around, doesn’t it? But it’s not always the end. Sometimes, it means rebirth,” the man’s face lit up, "So tell me if you could be reborn, what would you choose?” He asked, looking genuinely interested in learning. 

Levi was frowning, but then the genuineness caught his attention. He sighed, mumbled his complaints, but once again obliged despite his reservations. The answer was quite simple; a particular memory haunted him with its sweetness. 

“It was spring,” he recalled, staring off into the distance. “We were on the field, drinking tea with our mother. The sun was shining with a care in the world. My sister had a bright smile, and my mother kept complaining about the farmer’s raised prices,” he tried to remember their faces, but the visage was lost to time. It irritated him, and he caressed his forehead. “I want to be reborn there.” 

“Is it the peace you desire?” The man asked, hoping to unearth pieces of him. 

Levi was about to answer but held his treacherous tongue. Letting his guard down would only spell his doom. “Tch, got me pouring my heart. You’re a funny man,” he huffed, giving him a nasty glare. “Were you once a magician?” He couldn't help but ask; he couldn't help but be intrigued. 

“A lifetime ago,” the man whispered, the softness tugged at Levi’s heart. 

“Would you wish to be reborn as one?” Levi asked, fists clenched as he tried to ground himself. 

“A sinner isn’t allowed such respite.” The rueful repentance in his voice was unmissable. The sad smile pronounced a lifetime of regrets and burdens. That's when Levi noticed the weariness on the man’s face. 

He desperately wanted to learn this man’s name. 

***

Eren was left waiting on the altar. Countless moons had passed, yet nothing changed. Once again, she was gone and he was left to carry on without her. Those broken pieces of his soul never mended and he could never be whole again. 

She was the light, without her only darkness was left to consume him. 

The celebrations continued in absolute ignorance. People drank and sang, unconcerned with the man drowning in misery. The dazzling lights blinded him, and then the laughter and delight filled his ears. They were having the time of their lives, while he struggled to compose his agitated body. People wore their masks and danced to the flute’s tune, as food was served and the festivities persisted. The moon, in its full glory, was upon them as they crossed into midnight.

There was no sign of Mikasa, and besides a handful of people, none were concerned about it. He was losing his fucking mind. Not again —cold sweat went down his spine. Not fucking again. The last time she left him, the greatest sorrow of his life followed and he barely survived. He couldn't go through that again. His sanity was on the verge of collapsing. He tried asking all the relevant fuckers but none answered him. They looked equally confused, unable to pinpoint anything concrete. The real frustration came when no one wanted to find her. They simply refused to intervene— what the actual fuck. He almost strangled two soldiers before Connie stepped between them, and brought him back to the altar. 

The Queen was missing, and no one seemed to care. He wanted to scream at the excess and delight smothering him. He felt like a sacrificial lamb propped up on the altar. 

Then a thought crossed his mind— why was he panicking? He hated her and everything she stood for. So, there was no point in losing his mind over her antics. From the looks of it, she still had the habit of going off on her own, and the precious Advisor tagged along. He was made a fool, waiting on the altar for the wedding she wanted. A fucking fool who agreed to this nonsense. He wanted to forget about her, but his treacherous heart couldn't stop worrying. What if something happened? This wedding seemed important to her political standing, and not something she’d abandon. His fingers ran through his hair as he leaned over his knees, hoping to settle the brewing headache. It was so fucking frustrating. 

He couldn't realistically do anything even if he wanted to. The place was infested with soldiers, who lingered close to any Rebel who decided to attend. The Commander was with Erwin, following him around like a fucking hawk. The army wasn't taking any chance, and from the looks of it, they expected the Rebels to ignite disorder. Petra ensured he knew any wrong move would result in utter devastation for them. 

The entire circus boiled his blood. Rebels shadowed his every move, waiting to witness his betrayal. Soldiers trailed behind, hoping to catch him in an act of aggression. And then there were the Councillors, who watched him with unfiltered disgust as if he were filth who dared to stand amongst them. His undoing was desired for a variety of reasons. He was nearing the edge of endurance, ready to cut his losses and be done with it all. Rage ran hot under his skin, and the urge to unleash it was impossible to contain. He was starting to see red. 

The Goddess-damned woman, for whom he was going through all this, couldn't even bother to show up. Once again, he tasted her absence and it was fucking vile. 

A particular spectator left him utterly restless. There was a woman in a wheelchair, heavily guarded, kept far away from the altar but her presence was unmissable. There was something familiar about her, and the way she carried herself; as if the world’s entire burden rested on her shoulders. She looked frail and grey in every aspect, but her eyes were brilliant, showing the kind of woman she once was. Despite the distance, it was clear her sight was set on him. It took him a moment to fully comprehend her presence and then it hit him like a fucking rock. It was the former Queen: Asami Ackerman. She looked nothing like the fierce woman in his faded memories. Time hadn’t been kind to her.

The plethora of emotions wrecked his body. Instantly, there was murderous rage that he couldn't contain. She was responsible for the hanging of two hundred Rebels, including her father. So much of his life was spent seeking vengeance for this cruel act. He couldn't blame Mikasa, as she was just a helpless child, but her mother was fully involved. She was a monster he couldn’t forgive; he was shaking from the rage coursing through his veins. But vengeance lost its lustre with time. Over the years, he imagined killing every monster plaguing his nightmares, but such relief never came to him. 

He gritted his teeth, fists clenched so tight that his nails tore the skin. He was bleeding, unable to curtail the madness. 

What the fuck was he supposed to do now? The vengeful rage burned him up, but there wasn't any satisfactory release. As time passed, the black and white monster, aged and took the shape of a frail woman who looked broken beyond years. He wanted to scream into the void; for his fate was inexplicably cruel. He couldn't do anything, nor did he want to, as the poor woman looked touched by death itself. Fuck, his head was spinning— the weight of it all, killing him from the inside. 

Beyond his staggering morality, he couldn't hurt someone she loved. It would break her, and he’d never live through it. He was moments away from bashing his head on the altar. All these years later, he still couldn't untether from her, and it was making him bleed again. 

Thinking about her again, as if she wasn't the tragedy of his life; as if she hadn't already traumatised him enough. 

He was the son of the Rebel who brought the Emperor to his knees. His life was devoted to the cause, and he wanted his vengeance. But the instant she showed up again, everything accomplished in his life was compromised. He couldn't regurgitate those ideals when the very thing he hated had her face. She ruined him again; all these years later nothing had changed. 

What a fucking joke. He was playing house with the woman whose family was responsible for his descent. People for whom he sacrificed so much turned against him because he couldn't set his priorities straight. He had failed his father. 

He bit hard on his hand, and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. 

The instantaneous pain grounded him. It was a habit he’d long forgotten, but now every vice was coming back into his life. 

He didn't realise just how fast he’d been breathing until Jean touched his shoulder. He was turned away from the crowd, and made to face the dimly lit Willow Tree, a few miles ahead. Once the former Queen was out of sight, his nerves finally calmed down. Just the sight of her had twisted his guts into knots. Jean touched the cold glass to his warm face and gave him a deeply sympathetic smile. He knew what was going through Eren’s head, and that fact devastated him. He offered him wine, hoping to extinguish his murderous rage before it imploded and ruined everything. He noticed the blood on Eren’s hand, and his entire face fell. Jean coaxed his companion into sitting down on the altar and made him drink. Eren had developed a strong tolerance over the years; alcohol had a way of lessening his sorrows, even if momentarily. 

Jean settled down next to Eren, hoping to keep an eye on him. He was dressed up like the actual groom awaiting his wedding; a dashing black contrasting with the colourful night. His hair was combed back, fiery and free at the ends. He carried the buzz of the night, joy softening the lines of his face. It had been long since they last enjoyed a night of festivities. Eren would’ve taken part, along with the Rebels who still favoured him, but the thought of Mikasa coiled around his neck and killed any semblance of joy. He gulped down the wine, feeling the cold nip his throat. The soft lullabies surrounded them, as the crowd harmoniously hummed. High above, the moon was like another Goddess witnessing their plight. 

Jean was staring at the night sky, uncensored with the world around him. “I'm starting to think she stood you up,” he mused, hoping to redirect Eren’s attention. After all, nothing pulled him away like the thought of her. “Well, there are worse things in life,” he offered another smug— albeit sympathetic— smile. 

It took Eren a while to compose himself. “I bet you're enjoying this,” he grumbled, wanting to wipe the smugness of Jean’s face. The devastation aside, they had a silent agreement when it came to her. 

“I thought I would be,” Jean trailed off, voice drenched in sincerity, “But seeing your face like this isn't fun anymore.” The raw sentiments caught him off guard. He didn't want anyone to witness the wreckage her disappearance caused. 

“I really don't care,” he said flatly. 

“How believable.” 

Weddings in Shiganshina were typically open affairs held beneath the night sky, where the Goddess blessed their union. But this was a royal wedding, and so the sacred tree was chosen for their ascension. Around him, the festival carried on without a care, despite the ceremony never commencing. The bride was missing, but no one wanted to waste the night. Only he remained, waiting alone on the altar built from satin and oak, feeling more like an outsider than a groom, burdened with sins that weren't his to bear. Then again, there was no love in this union, and if that earned the Goddess’s wrath, then he could hardly blame her. 

They were only using each other, and yet, even then, he was the one left waiting. The frustration came back with a vengeance. 

“What is your problem?” He snapped, anger curling in his guts, “Do you still have a thing for her?” The question left his mouth, and it stunned him too. Even Jean looked at him in bewilderment. 

Jean wasn't the real recipient but became a decent substitute for his anguish. Why was he even asking that? So many emotions were gnawing at his sanity, and this came out on top. Maybe he just wanted a confirmation. It was fucking stupid, but that part of him never disappeared. He had known Jean since birth and saw where his gaze lingered. So much of his childhood was spent battling their mutual fascination. 

“Wouldn't you want to know?” Jean teased, slowly draining his wine glass. The gleam in his eyes managed to throw Eren off. This was stupid; he was showing his true colours. He wasn't supposed to care about her. 

“No I don't,” he was rambling, hoping to save his wounded pride, “It doesn't matter. She means nothing to me. We are nothing to each other. I hate her—” 

“Then why do you look like a mess?” Jean interjected, a satisfactory grin on his face. He leaned into Eren’s space, cornering him effectively. 

Eren was stumped for a moment, but then his trusty frown emerged, and he growled his alleged indifference. “Shut the fuck up.” There was no bite in his words; just a man trying to show how much he didn't care. Eren was terrible at hiding his feelings, and Jean knew how to read him thoroughly. 

“You're concerned about her,” Jean observed, putting the obvious out in the open. 

“Just please, shut up,” Eren’s voice broke. He was so fucking conflicted. 

Eren was concerned beyond measure. The discovery of missing weapons had him on the edge, and the Rebels' distrust left him without the necessary information. Then there were the Councillors who definitely hated her, and the general nonchalance when it came to her safety. She was out there looking into chickenpox, and no one bothered to follow her. He was sick of waiting; praying to the Goddess he had long since abandoned. 

He felt like that forsaken child again; praying for her return every winter, but it never happened. Jean had seen him go through it, and his utmost care was focused on him. To keep him bantering, before thoughts became rotten. 

“Well, I am and so is Connie,” Jean admitted, fiddling with his glass, “Our survival depends on her, and she was once a friend.” The past continued to haunt them. 

“Just being around her is so difficult,” he whispered, eyes focused on his lap. He hadn't voiced it to anyone. It wasn't easy meeting the ghost of his past, interacting with her, pretending like he wasn't truly destroyed once. He began drinking again, hoping it washed away the pain. 

“I know,” Jean’s lips formed a thin line, “Do you still love her?” 

Eren spat out his drink and coughed. “What the actual fuck?” The words struck his nerves instantly. 

Jean was pleased with that reaction. “You used to hit me because of that,” he chimed, fingers resting on his chin, “I fancied her black hair and whatnot. So, do you?” He asked, refusing to back down. 

“We were just children,” Eren frowned, refusing to look at those memories. 

Those beautiful childhood memories. His feelings for her had always been intense, and Jean’s afflictions often had him throwing punches. He used to bring flowers because his mother said girls liked them, and she’d eat them because her mother said they were a good remedy. He’d ask her to play games with him, but she always brought Armin along. Then he’d punch Jean who’d compliment her hair, while she was blissfully oblivious. She was never good with emotions; even something as simple as friendship confused her. He never really voiced any of it, but once again, Jean saw right through him. 

“You haven't answered my question,” Jean’s eyebrows arched. 

His emotions had died long ago. “I can't love a stranger who opposes everything I stand for,” he reaffirmed. Their childhood often felt like a curse on his life. 

“I suppose,” Jean nodded, but he wasn't done. “You wouldn't mind if I made a move on her?” He asked in a high-pitched tone. It was the ace still up his sleeves. “I mean this wedding is all a sham, and you have no feelings for her.” He noticed the abrupt tension on Eren’s face and continued to push further. “My lady turned out quite pretty.” He hit every single nerve on purpose. 

Something snapped inside of Eren. Before he knew it, his hands were gripping the front of Jean’s suit. “Do you have—” He growled, but then realised how easily Jean had played him. The attempts to undo his actions weren't easy. He loosened the grip, but Jean’s all-knowing smile was deeply irritating. “Jean must you—” 

“Be honest with yourself,” Jean said, taking Eren’s hands off his suit. Eren simply refused to answer. “You're hopeless,” Jean sighed, “Well, be careful with your affection. I don't want you getting hurt again.” He patted Eren’s shoulders.

The air shifted suddenly. Jean turned, catching the change as the chanting crowd became loud and aggressive. He nudged Eren, who followed his gaze toward the road, now lit up in the distance. A procession of horses slowly moved, surrounded by cheers and wild exhilaration. The royal horses were carrying the Councillor and his entourage. Behind them, on a brown horse, was a familiar blonde man. Eren couldn't read Armin’s expression from a distance but noticed his strange body language. Unlike the rest, adorned in beauty and luxury, he looked dishevelled and barely sat up straight. Lanterns were swayed by the night breeze, and the flickering light accentuated the celebrations. The procession pushed through the sea of people and made its way to the centre. 

He finally saw Mikasa, and nothing else mattered in his world. The relief he felt was unimaginably sweet. He audibly sighed as if the weight of the world was finally off his shoulders. She was here; she was fine. That was all he needed to know. 

Her white horse paused beside the former Queen. A few words were exchanged, and then a brunette woman handed her a flower. Then the course was set towards the altar. Eren was already on his feet, moving toward her as if in a daze. The noise, the people, and the world itself, effectively faded out; her return simply overshadowed everything else. Slowly, the distance between them vanished, as she dismounted and met him halfway. It felt so long since he last saw her. His emotions spiralled, but happiness—raw and exhilarating— rose above everything else. 

Then the illusion shattered instantly. Something was fucking wrong. She had a hand curled around her waist, and her body was on alert. Her eyes darted around the crowd, while her other hand remained close to the sword. She was deeply provoked, even if her expressions gave nothing away. The mask was thick, refusing to show any ounce of emotions. It didn’t matter, he could tell when she was troubled. The refusal to meet his gaze was a dead giveaway; she didn’t want him to see her like this. 

Eren shortened the space between them, and all his senses were filled with her presence. She was wearing an ill-fitted shirt with dusty pants. It looked nothing like the attire she often wore, and even the Commander’s jacket hugged her body tightly. Then he saw faded bloodstains on her neck, and his eyes widened in horror. 

He gently touched her chin and made her look at him. She wanted to resist, but exhaustion made her relinquish control. Only she mattered in the moment, as everything else was effectively drowned out. His delicate touch chipped at her composure, making it impossible to conceal the pain. The numbness in her grey eyes broke his fucking heart. 

“Who did this to you?” He whispered.

Chapter Text

Even when Mikasa was young, she had a habit of concealing everything. They were playing around the riverbed, where she slipped and broke her arm. But, being the girl woven from steel, she brushed it off and continued as if nothing had happened. Unfortunately, unlike her willpower, her skin was easily bruised, and he saw mismatched colours. He had tears in his eyes while he watched his father mend her arm. He was helpless as she endured all alone. 

Once again, he was made to witness her pain, unable to lessen it. And he hated every second of it. 

Erosive emotions threatened to coil around his neck. He stood eerily still, teeth clenched and breathless, scrutinising every bit of her. She was shaken, but still refused to yield. Concern flooded his body, threatening to undo his composure. The hand clutching her waist caught his attention, and it filled his mind with troublesome assumptions. Was she hurt? His heart was in unmanageable pieces. 

He couldn't do this anymore. Even when he thought the worst of her and wished for her family's descent, he still hoped for her safety. She was the Queen; obviously, that meant her life was important. How fucking wrong he'd been. She valued it so little that the realisation left him irrevocably sick. At least when she wasn't close, he imagined all these soothing scenarios of her easy life and happiness. But the truth simply left him distraught. 

He tried so hard to ignore her silent plight. To kill that part of him; alas, her name was engraved on his heart.. At times, he wondered if this was punishment; to have her, but everything between them festered like an open wound. 

He'd long since given up praying for her return. There was only unadulterated hatred left in his vacant body. He wanted to loathe her for the abandonment, for her choices, for her betrayal, but seeing her again— all battered and bloodied— it brought out every ounce of care. It was impossible to deny his emotions for her. Even now, he teetered on the edge of simple destruction. Her pain became his, and then his very soul felt the ache of it. The fucking anguish was capable of convulsing his body. 

“Who was it?” He demanded, unable to stop the fury from enveloping his voice. He stared into her bleak eyes, refusing to relent. His frustration oozed from the seams. 

Weariness was carved into the lines of her face. She looked so exhausted that it made him want to hold her close. Her mouth opened twice, but each time no words came out. The weariness morphed into an ache, and then she hid everything behind a mask. If it weren't for her numb eyes, it would've been impossible to read her expressions. The concern drove up his frustration. 

“What the fuck happened?” He repeated, voice uneasily low. He was breathing hard, on the verge of desperation. 

His raw emotions made it impossible to care about anything else. The grip on her chin tightened, and then he leaned into her space. Her face was relatively unharmed, except for the bags under her eyes; nothing else stood out. Her brows drew closer;  his sudden action only perplexed her. Her lips formed a thin line as she hoped to understand his conflicting emotions. He didn't bother upholding their mutual discretion. In that moment, nothing else mattered. 

He tipped her chin upwards and exposed the blood stains. The sight of them gnawed at his sanity. And the scent of blood deeply entrenched in her clothes only added to his apprehension. She had gone through an altercation, which was rough enough to draw blood. He prayed it wasn't her blood. Overall, she didn't exhibit any physical symptoms. Whatever happened likely messed with her head, given the abundance of dread and paranoia attached to her being. She looked so fucking fragile; fuck, his heart couldn't take it. 

Her refusal to speak made his head spin. So many possibilities went through his head, and they left him devastatingly overwhelmed.

“Say something, dammit,” he pleaded, voice utterly broken and bruised. 

It was a rather futile plea. She was very aware of his brutal reactions, and rarely did she indulge them. Instead, she gripped his wounded hand, took it away from her face, and studied the bite mark. Her touch was innately hesitant, as if she feared his vitriolic anger. She caressed the jagged skin, making him lose his breath. Eventually, she looked at him, and somehow, the pain increased. For a fleeting moment, he allowed self-indulgent thoughts to fill his mind. Maybe she cared for him? He desperately wanted to believe that, but the truth always reared its ugly head. She was just kind, and they continued to exploit that sentiment. 

They were both creatures of habit. He played with violence while she sought deafening silence. The first time his mother fell ill, he prayed to the Goddess and chomped on his hand. And then it became a ritual, where he offered pain for his mother's respite. Mikasa was the only one who noticed these marks. At first, she reprimanded him, and then repeated his actions when he refused to stop. She'd seen him go through all of it, as the winters passed and she couldn't get him to stop. She was caressing that hand again, irrevocably taken back by the bleak memories. They were convinced that it was all sunshine and heavenly. They reminisced, even when their childhood was stained scarlet. It was just easier that way. 

Her feather-light touch encapsulated his hand, made him believe—just for a second—that he was worth a damn.

She held his gaze, face woven in misery, as her desperate concealment failed. He noticed the way her bottom lip quivered and how deeply his antics bothered her. That sentiment went both ways; her silence just added to the brewing rage. 

His hand was dropped; the mask was back on. She refused to show anything, blankly staring back at him. She took a few steps back, making him ache and crave. He wanted her, and then loathed that part of him. A snarl left his chest, desperate and deeply frustrated. 

Before he could attempt anything, she simply held up her hand and concluded his descent. “You'll know soon enough,” she revealed, struggling to hold his pain-laden gaze. “For now, stop showing concern for me.” She briefly glanced over to the world, witnessing their torment. They had silently agreed to hide their history and familiarity, for the sake of his protection and reputation. He just didn't fucking care anymore. 

“Are you okay?” He choked out, unable to curtail that part of him. He tried to hold her hand again, but she pulled it away. The ache in his chest was instant; his entire face fell. She wrapped her arms around her body, unable to look at him. She desperately wanted to move past the inflicted pain. Maybe in silence it was easier to build back those walls, but his incessant need to torch the perpetrator kept spurring him forward. He’d never let it fucking go. 

He noticed the way her fingers dug into her body. Being the Queen took precedence over everything, even when she was plagued with instability. “Let’s get on with the wedding,” she commanded with a broken voice. 

She was in no condition to entertain her atrocious subjects. What she needed was a fucking shoulder to rest upon. But her rejection of his touch stabbed that thought away. The refusal of his touch bruised, as she stood out of his reach— tense and guarded— unwilling to trust anyone. She didn't want his comfort. There was nothing between them, and he was a fool who, for a brief moment, thought otherwise. The silence was deliberate, to leave him oblivious while she waged her perilous wars. 

The murmurs around flared, people entrapping them in a circle, enthralled with the Queen’s unravelling. They were spectators who smelled water in blood and gathered, jubilant as ever. She looked so fucking uncomfortable; he wanted to conceal her from the prying eyes. “I won't move an inch,” his gruff voice became so utterly delicate, “Please, it hurts to see you like this.” His heart was in his throat. 

The sincerity of his words cracked her facade apart. She blinked, holding back, but her hand reached out for him. His heart fluttered, but then it crumpled away into nothingness. She grabbed her treacherous hand and crushed it against her chest. Looking at him with eyes wide with dread. The realisation was swift— Fuck, he was part of the pain.

“Stop it,” she snapped, weaponising her crumbling resolve. “I am fine.” 

“Liar,” he whispered, refusing to let go. She could fool the entire fucking world, but not him. Never him.  

He always saw right through every wall she hid behind. But then he realised his part in her unravelling, and cursed the persistence. He pushed to remedy her pain, and yet that very thing chipped at her fragile composure. She wasn't the girl he knew, but a Queen whose weakness was sought by far too many. He continued whispering incoherently, so fucking frustrated by the complicated lines that ebbed between them. The uncomfortable silence stretched between them, while the crowd buzzed to the flute's tune. They were chanting for the wedding, her eyes fixated on them. She smiled, rupturing her face in the process. He couldn't stand seeing her like this; anger was vitriolic, but he could only avert his gaze. 

She stepped closer to the crowd and gave them a dignified wave. The cheers echoed through the night, taking away every semblance of her pain. She was pretending again, the kind of play taught to her since birth. The War Councillors gathered around the Queen, faces filled with disparity, waiting for the wedding to commence. Masks were pulled on faces, hues of indigo filled the night’s darkness, just like that, they were in the Winter Festival. He was flooded with conflicted emotions, his face painted with every shade of resentment. 

Her attention was on him, but every bit of familiarity was dropped. “I want to be done with the wedding,” she ordered, voice sharp as a dagger. That was it, nothing between them except the longing in his chest, and the anger knotted in his stomach. He felt so utterly betrayed, yet was aware of her fragile state. That was what she needed to function. He fucking hated it. 

Without him, she walked to the altar and took her spot on it. The lanterns left a beautiful glow on her ethereal face, and as she faced the sky, she embraced herself. 

She looked like death, even that didn't impede their atrocious wedding. 

Under the moonlight, touched with anguish, she beckoned him to follow through. Despite everything, he followed her footsteps and ascended the altar. In pain and misery, he refused to leave her alone. 

Hating her was easier than whatever the fuck he was feeling right now. Looking at the woman he’d once dreamt about, so real and within his grasp, but there was nothing but a tragedy smeared between them. She would pick her role over his, and he was a fool for hoping otherwise. Even that truth couldn't crush his desire to have her touch. Sometimes it felt like an addiction, calling him, despite the inherent pain, ready to devour. 

“After leaving me on the altar for hours,” his voice was bitterly low, refusing to look at her. “You do enjoy making me wait for you.” His jaw was clenched, holding back words, but the decade-long hostility simmered under his skin. The jab was at her constant disappearances, and they struck where it ached the most. She’d gone eerily still next to him, making him feel guilty. 

Before he could lessen the previous remark, she faced him; numb to the point of no return, emotionless, except for a ghastly smile carved on her face. The bleakness in her eyes tightened his chest. The girl was no more, only the Queen stared back at him. 

“I apologise, but I'm here now,” she said, the contorted sincerity made him nauseous. He couldn't tell where her emotions began and where the pretence ended. 

The masked people made their way to the altar, humming the Goddess scared chant, with flutes going off in every direction. Two nameless and faceless women, wearing antler crowns, began their sacred dance. They were awaiting the procession to commence. He couldn't help but think about the festivals of his childhood, sickly sweet and filled to the brim with ecstasy. Now those memories only stabbed his wounded heart. There was a time they’d been happy. It only made him irrevocably sick. He couldn't stand it anymore; looking around, as the ghosts of the past merged. He wanted to burn everything down. 

He was left paralysed, made to perform, when she grabbed his sleeve and tugged him along. They slowly walked towards the Willow Tree, guiding the people on the Goddess’s path. The noises around them became incoherent, making his head throb with piercing aches. They were meant to be conjoined hands, but from the looks of it, his touch was detested by her. Even the grip on his sleeve vanished. 

“What even is the fucking point?” He barked out, knowing the noise would cancel out his anguish. 

The realisation left him raw and aching, for a fleeting second, he thought of the coat she’d given him. And of the glimpses of the girl he’d seen; maybe it was all just an illusion, crafted to mess with his head. It was so hard to believe, everything with her felt so fucking real. Even when she refused to show, whatever happened at the port left her scarred. He just wanted to hold her— a fucking joke. The urge to strangle himself was never this overwhelming. 

“We have an agreement,” She reminded, not bothering to entertain any other reasoning. They were merely playing a part in an elaborate scheme. He was nothing more than a useful puppet, made to move when she deemed it worthwhile. His blood ran cold, knowing how little he mattered to her. 

She had saved him. Perhaps being her greatest mistake. He was better when the world was desolate but purposeful; when her presence alone didn’t devastate him; when his father’s fight rejuvenated his empty soul. 

But could he go back now? To lose her again, just the thought of it rose bile up his throat. He was so fucking doomed. 

The Willow Tree took over the night’s darkness, and lanterns were hung on the extensive branches; names of the dead curved into each. The leaves bristled, awaiting the Goddess’s return. There was serenity in the world crafted around them. But internally, it was a violent mess. They stood under the trees, awaiting eternal vows. It was mockery in its highest form. She faced him, but kept her gaze away. He couldn't help but stare, mesmerised by the beautiful lines of her face. He never thought about marriage; it was a forlorn concept that had no place in his life. 

To wed the woman who never left his mind, while she looked so fucking miserable, and his heart bled from vile hatred. He was left ruptured, unable to let go while his sanity screamed at him. How could he? He could never stop caring about her. 

He would always care. She haunted him, now and forever. 

The two dancers came to a crescendo. He noticed the way she looked at her mother, away in the crowd, surrounded by the Councillors. The sound of hymns echoed the vow meant to seal their union. The Goddess was made to witness, surrounded by joy and brilliance; all a lie, as they stood, wounded and broken, made to perform while the world crafts their tale of woe. The hollowness consumed his body, making it impossible for him to remain there. He was consumed by grief, restless and senseless. Why did it hurt him to wed her like this? They meant nothing to each other. It was all a fucking agreement. But being made to witness her unravelling left him profoundly distraught. Her bleak eyes, incapable of facing him, and a contorted face reserved for the onlookers. 

“That's all there is between us,” he solemnly said, gaze piercing past her facade. “Agreements and broken promises.” He ruefully admitted, utterly exhausted from the charades forced between them. 

“Don't act like it matters,” she whispered, looking at the forlorn horizon, her voice noticeably breaking. She regurgitated the curse laid upon their souls. “We are nothing to each other, and I hope it stays that way. Especially now…” 

There was so much he could've said, but words died on his tongue. “I won't have to see you again,” he reaffirmed, knowing their end was written. His fingers curled into fists, once again, nails threatening to tear his skin. 

“I really am that terrible,” She whispered. 

He wanted to object, but she refused to relent. 

The wedding procession was rehearsed. They had made him memorise the intricate steps, most of which were abandoned with her disappearance. Now they simply walked down the Goddess’s path, reached the tree, while the festival reached its ultimate ascension. They were meant to speak their vows, but he lost his voice, and she stood lifelessly, pain and dread hollowed her out. 

There was no glorious reunion. Just desperation wrapped up as duty. He hated every second of it, vaguely remembering the way he once yearned for her. The thought of her consumed so much of his childhood, relentless in their pursuit. To have her now in the bleakest way possible, a mockery of his fate. 

To have every misery and every delight. 

Goddess be my witness. 

The people chanted, expecting them to seal the union. The moon was at its height, awaiting their imminent descent. Eren didn’t want to go through it, but there was no escaping their fate. He searched her face for an answer. There wasn’t any except a subtle nod. He cursed under his breath, losing the last bits of his sanity. They were meant to kiss. A joyous expression of love now loomed over them like an impending doom. There was only deception and anguish laced into every action. Her detesting his touch made the matter worse. It ruined him, his plight entirely ignored. She just avoided his tormented gaze, desperately trying to hold herself together. 

He touched her cheek, warm against his palm. The people around them sang louder, ecstatic to witness their divine union. She froze, biting her lip too hard. This was no good. He couldn't do it. Instead, he angled his hand to obscure their vision and placed his thumb on her bruised lip. She stared at him, eyes wide from bewilderment. Her breath tingled his skin, making him wish for a different outcome. 

“Just bear this with me,” He swallowed, cursed his fucking fate, and leaned in for the mirthless kiss. It didn’t touch her lips, fleeting from conception, as he merely kissed the thumb placed over them. His heart throbbed in his chest. I’m sorry. 

While he didn't kiss her truly, just her presence alone left him undone. Her scent was familiar, the kind he wanted to find again. It was nostalgic enough to make his poor heart bleed. Then there was her skin, delicate to touch, and life pulsed under his palm. She was real, next to him, finally looking at him with an expression he didn't want to understand. Her head tilted to the side, and his thumb felt every movement of her lips. His nerves burned, making him forget how to breathe. He was half a mind away from caressing her bruised lips. The way she looked at him, faint pink garnished her cheeks, left him irrevocably damaged beyond repair. 

He could lie to himself; he could scream into the void; he could do every fucking thing, but a single fact never changed— she impacted him innately. 

Overwhelming emotions consumed him; drowned him; clawed at him. And then he pulled away before the treacherous heart had its way. He couldn't stop staring at her, left in a daze, as her frantic face found his. What were they doing to each other?

The world ruptured into bliss, incoherently melodious, as the festivity crescendoed. 

Maybe in memories he refused to recall, he had thought about kissing her once. Back then, the action held no special benevolence. It was just an act born from seeing adults around them expressing love. This wasn't how he imagined it.

Truly, there was no respite in their descent.

Chapter Text

Sasha never liked being left behind. 

Too many times, her lady would go away and come back tattered. The gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach left her on the edge. 

The wedding happened, but her mission wasn't to attend it. She heard the festival roar, capturing the entire city. People lost in delirium as danger didn’t exist for them. Unlike them, she was always on the edge. Living in the forest, where her clan prospered and withered, she’d learned to watch. So she followed the Rebel around, who hid his face, and carried weapons cloaked in darkness. 

It surprised her—not fully—when Eren found her and revealed concerning information. Apparently, there were missing weapons, and he suspected an attack. 

She had doubted his allegiances, purposefully filled his environment, and kept him on his toes. But she never doubted her lady’s judgment. Mikasa brought home this man, so filled with hatred and vengeance that for a moment, she thought her lady had officially lost it. Armin likely had something to do with it, knowing his soft smiles concealed a dangerous mind. Regardless, the bit her mother had divulged painted a picture of her lady’s choices being compromised. So she made it her mission to learn about this man, whose words were vile, but whose actions betrayed. He was confused, especially when he tried to deny his sincerity. 

“What ye’ up to?” She muttered, observing the target. 

The Rebel, who had hair clipped at the hairline, kept venturing through different buildings. She trailed him down the alleyway and saw him whisper to other cloaked men. They were likely the hidden Rebels. It presented another issue— just how expansive was their number? It was a cover-up, and that was perplexing enough. Sasha swallowed, focusing again on the Rebel. Eren called him Daz, someone he had a terrible altercation with, and suspected despite their brotherhood. 

The night gave her enough space to move. It was her preferred hunting time, when the moon blessed her endeavours. The faint flutes filled the vacant streets, all life pulsating at the heart of the Willow Tree. The lanterns glowed, taking every warmth with them. She heard the hymn, often a vow, and knew her lady came back. 

The gnawing feeling in her stomach worsened. 

Something just didn't feel right. 

Armin had said their trip would only take half a day.  Meanwhile, she was supposed to watch over the Councillors' movement. The entire plan fell apart when the sun began to set, and her lady never returned. Sasha was gripped with her, Eren's words rang in her ears, and they made her improvise a new hunt. 

In the forest, she had learned to spot their enemies, but out here, on the dissolute concrete, enemies were hidden in plain sight. There were the Councillors, who sought her lady’s pain, the Rebels who plotted her demise, and then forces she still couldn't see. Even the army left her feeling cornered. While Uncle Levi was on the queen’s side, and many of his soldiers favoured her, it didn’t diminish the uncertainty. 

The sudden call to the port, and chickenpox brought up— in the forest, they’d call it an ambush. And her lady willingly entertained these occurrences. 

The Rebel called Daz headed towards the castle. It was left empty, and a guard of two patrolled on the outside. She observed him from the tree as he fiddled around the sparse grass. Sweat filled her forehead, knowing what he was looking for. The castle had many tunnels running underneath, between hollow walls, and in the cellar haunted by violence. Outsiders, especially not these Rebels, shouldn't have known about it. 

“This is bad,” she rubbed her creased forehead. Her lady’s safety was always compromised, and from the looks of it, the Rebels had an insider helping them. 

What if she wasn't following him? The dread was enough to wound her agitated body. 

***

Sasha often wondered what kind of man her father was. He had passed before she learned how to speak, and by the time she was old enough to remember, she was taken away from the forest. Her mother, who belonged to her father’s clan, left when their hunger became unbearable. She joined the army, came back tormented, and without an arm. She vividly remembered those days, silently sitting in the sterile room, filled with the scent of death and decay, as she watched her mother scream. Still, for the most part, she was blissfully unaware. 

Everything changed when she met the princess, who looked like a thin doll and spoke like a practical wanderer. She was much older, had an emotionless face, and those woefully dead eyes. Then she learned it was merely an act. The princess was vibrant, full of so much life that Sasha never stopped seeking it. 

It was the life of an outsider, always made to watch, as her presence wasn't needed. She was loved, but that love came with restrictions. She saw her lady as a sibling, but being the Queen made her an open target. 

To make matters worse, her lady tended to conceal everything. For her sake, as Sasha was often told.

The arrow felt rough against her palm. She had pricked her skin far too many times to be bothered by it anymore. The bow was clutched close to her body as she watched the celebrations take place. The wedding had ended, and the remaining people were brought back to the castle, now buzzing with life and joy. The feast continued, while the soldiers and the city folks mingled within the walls. She was perched on the opposite wall, hidden behind the circular chandelier, overlooking the entire ballroom. The castle gates were never closed to the people; they could venture, even with ill in their hearts. Today was no different; life was brought into the vacant halls as the wedding night followed. 

She hadn't followed the Rebel named Daz into the hidden passageway. It was too narrow, leaving barely any room for manoeuvring. She knew it led up to the library, that's where she went first and found nothing. The man likely disappeared within the concert structures, likely waiting for the queen’s return. He was even familiar with their wedding rituals, despite being an obvious outsider. She could’ve informed the army, especially her lady/s uncle, but a part of her felt uneasy. 

Everything felt too planned. The terrible feeling in her stomach worsened with each second. 

She surveyed the room, which was filled to the brim, but thinned out where the queen was situated. Only the soldiers whom she trusted lingered close, as her lady drank herself to oblivion. Something clearly happened; even from afar, she noticed the way her lady kept a sword close. She was on edge, and her drinking habit blossomed. Armin wasn't any better; he sat quietly with the Councillors, who laughed boisterously on their grand table. The Councillors, all twenty of them, were present, but unlike the rest, Councillor Pixis looked off. They returned from the port with him, and from the looks of it, they were hiding an incident. She noticed an apparent lack of Uncle Levi, and the thought added to her unease. 

The Rebels sprawled all over the room, with Eren situated close to the queen’s table. There were many whom she knew by name and had identified during her planned intervention. Many were disguised as city folks, moving between the lines of concern. It felt like another ambush. She couldn't help but wonder if Eren had purposefully misled her. She couldn't bring herself to trust any of them. Her instinct, always on edge, was blaring every kind of alarm. She was moments away from dropping from the ledge, taking her lady, and closing the entire festivity off. 

The queen was an open target, seated at the elevated table, under the Ackerman tapestry where many queens had sanctioned their wedding. The room was decorated with candlelight, chasing the darkness away. The scent of food and joy filled each corner, as they remained unaware of the dangers lurking around them.

She inhaled, listening to the slightest echo around her surroundings. It was hard to make out sounds when the conflicting noises encapsulated her. It made her hate crowds sometimes; so incoherent and deeply wicked. Unlike the forest, where everything fell into a rigid structure of harmony. What would her mother do? She often asked herself, knowing her mother had a way of fixing every situation. She couldn't spot Aunty Asami and her mother; maybe they went back? It was likely, knowing how fragile Aunty Asami had gotten over the years. Then a darker shade of thought filled her mind; her lady always made aunty Asami leave if things didn't feel right. There wasn't any apparent chaos, but the apprehension was thick enough to be sliced. 

She considered telling leader Petra, but knew her predictable actions; she would have the Rebels rounded up based on these suspicions. Maybe that was a good thing? There were enough reasons to doubt them, and her trust in Eren wasn't as strong as her lady’s. The army was deeply frustrated with the queen’s lack of control over the rebels, and they were ready to intervene. She raked her fingers through her hair, feeling overwhelmed by the mirage of choices. 

Her lady and Armin were the ones who planned in silence, while she just had to watch and carry out their plans. It was burdensome to consider these choices, knowing the slightest mistake would tip the balance. 

Truthfully, she didn't want the army to hold her new friends. She was wary of Eren, yet there was something comforting about his presence. He'd even taken the time to teach her how to pickpocket and steal like a seasoned thief. Then there were Connie and Jean; neither had liked her at first, but somehow, they turned out to be enjoyable idiots. Still, her loyalty belonged to the queen. And if it came to it, she was prepared to sever any tie. 

Her mother always said, When in doubt, think about the queen’s benefit. It was rather strange, knowing how much her mother emphasised their role. Since birth, Sasha knew not to cross the crown and accepted her role in their grand scheme. Little room was left to find life outside of it, even when the forest called her name, and her clan demanded their presence. A roof over her head, food to eat, and a bed to slumber within were all she ever needed. It came with the queen’s benefit, and thoughts like lacking usefulness whispered in the silence. As long as she proved to be useful, everything fell in place. 

An arrow was shot. 

She worked on pure instincts. Before her mind could even register, her bow came up and she shot an arrow. Her heart was pounding. 

The first arrow was aimed at the queen, but the projectile was forced to the side by Sasha’s arrow. It tore through the poor thing and landed above the Queen’s head. The impact made the entire room gasp, as silence fell and the soldiers sprang to their feet. The sounds of swords being unsheathed echoed through the room. Many cried out in fear, while the high-ranking soldiers formed a shield around their rulers. She was breathing hard, visibly shaken by the entire ordeal. The ringing in her ears worsened as she tried to calm down. She ran a shaky hand over her face, knowing an assassination attempt had just been thwarted. 

She caught a flickering shadow shifting in the opposite hallway. The ballroom, built for festivities and spectacle, was encircled by narrow corridors designed to keep servants unseen. Now, those hidden paths were used by the assilent. 

The shadow moved, likely wanting to shoot again, but this time she was prepared. Her aim was precise, as an arrow struck an arm and the shadow hissed. The panic in the room was like wildfire, unstoppable once it erupted. She knew the soldiers would find the assailant; before that, her swiftness was necessary. With a steady jump, she landed in the opposite window and ran down the passageway. She was familiar with these vacant walls, knowing where the assailant headed. She had to reach him before the army did. 

The dark stone corridors stretched on until she spotted droplets of blood, then noticed the small opening from which the queen was targeted. The assailant had known exactly where to stand. He was familiar with the castle’s layout and knew which opening to use. 

Her blood ran cold. No one had dared to kill her lady before. They maimed her or verbally abused her, but none ever came for her life. The thought was erosive enough to hurt her sanity. She had to find the assailant. With another steady breath, she ran towards the scent of blood. 

If she had been a second too late, then her lady would've been assassinated. She forced the possibilities away. Why would anyone want her lady dead? Then she remembered whose side the queen fought on, and every deliberation felt purposeful. 

She had stuck him; it meant poison entered the assailant's bloodstream. It wasn't deadly; instead, it left the victim drowsy. 

As expected, she caught up to the assailant, who was slumped against the wall. It was the Rebel named Daz. He had dared to strike her lady. There was prominent anger until she heard the thundering boots of the soldiers, and instincts took over her body. She lived to benefit the queen, and this Rebel’s arrest would've undone her work of assimilating and favouring them. If the army got their hands on him, they'd use him as the reason to arrest all of them. He had dared to attack her lady, and she suspected many others were involved in it. But it wasn't her decision, for now, she was going to do as her lady would've wanted. It made no sense to her.

She lunged at the Rebel and toppled him inside the small opening in the wall. It was dark enough to conceal this corner. The man muttered underneath her, hoping to throw her off, but he was too weak. His eyes struggled to focus; his strength depleting every second. She placed her palm over his wet mouth. 

“You're lucky it's me who found ye’ first,” she whispered, knowing the sort of wrath that came when the queen was threatened. “Now keep quiet, otherwise they'll have your head.” Her instructions were clear, but he was losing consciousness too fast. The thundering steps were too close for comfort. She had to act; otherwise, they'd be discovered in no time. 

She left the limp body on the floor and headed out into the hallways. Thinking fast, she chewed on her thumb enough to bleed and casually stepped into the pathway. Within seconds, the soldiers were upon her, and their swords were raised like an impending threat. She held her arms up and swallowed. Eren had warned her about the Rebel named Daz, and his warning turned out to be worthwhile. She wasn't sure about his intentions, but from the looks of it, his words possessed some reality. Even if the Rebels were just playing with her sentiments, there was a clear rift between them, and her lady was their sore spot. She wasn't going to let her plans drown. 

“Why are you here?” Petra asked, voice clipped as it left no room for negotiation. 

There were at least twenty soldiers behind her, swords aimed at the ghost they wished to conquer. It was strange knowing how the smallest thing could've landed her on their receiving end. She had the queen's grace, and that alone saved her from so much trouble. She looked like a suspect, but none could point their weapons at her. Being the handmaiden, her official role, ensured she was never suspected. In the worst case, which she never wanted to think about, they had her mother. 

“I was following a funny noise,” she responded, forcing a smile on her face. 

“Did you see who shot the arrow?” Petra asked, stepping closer. 

“It's a funny story,” she muttered. All eyes were on her, and they made her feel utterly uncomfortable. “I was practising my shot, but then the arrow went wrong.” She was terrible at lying and knew it didn't work on Petra. 

Petra’s frown was imminent. She stared at the girl who didn't dare to return the glance, avoiding her like her life depended upon it. Lying was the hardest endeavour, especially when her role was threatened. She forced her shoulders back, her bottom lip quivered, but words didn’t relent. To do what benefited the queen meant defying everything else. She had learned that lesson long ago. 

“Do you understand the graveness of hiding an assailant?" Petra spoke quietly. 

“There is none,” Sasha repeated, sweating profusely, “I messed up.” 

Petra firmly grabbed onto Sasha’s bleeding hand. “I imagine all that blood is yours, too?” The girl in question nodded, losing bits of composure. 

“Mistake or not,” Erd stepped forward, “Sasha, you can tell us.” He prompted gently. 

She had grown up under their guidance. During the days her lady spent under the army’s command, she accompanied her through everything and ended up forming a friendship. It was hard when faces she knew fell on the battlefield. Sometimes, when noises didn't fill the environment, she’d think about the war and lose sleep over it. It had been months since their return, but even now, she couldn't subdue the screams and the feeling of blood. These soldiers understood her, suffering similar fates. It pained her to lie, knowing their shared bonds weren't as deep as her allegiance to the queen. 

Petra sighed and rubbed her forehead. “Secure the parameters.” She completely ignored Sasha’s plight.  “Whoever it was couldn't have gone far.”

Once Sasha was left alone, she exhaled and leaned against the wall. Her heart was in her throat. A prayer to the Winter Goddess, where she hoped her choices weren't wrong. Something was wrong; her instincts warned her off the web being laid around them. If the soldiers had caught the Rebel named Daz, then they would've arrested the others for possible involvement. She had seen faces lurking around the city; the Rebels’ penetration was undocumented, and such an arrest would've sprung them to act. It was a bloodbath, disgustingly planned. Mother, what would you do? She kept wondering, unable to wrap her head around the possibilities. 

After a few minutes of piecing her mind together, she went back to the hidden corner and kneeled next to the Rebel. 

She was protecting the Rebel, even when he dared to harm her lady. The choice was loathed, but now it was too late. 

Eren’s warning had thrown the entire balance off. He was suspicious of his brother and had informed the queen’s handmaiden. The situation was strange, yet she felt a sincerity in his actions. There was abject hatred, but even that hadn’t stopped him. Even the queen’s conduct was strange, allowing Rebels to fester on her land and then hoping their hatred wouldn’t burn her. From the looks of it, her choices hadn’t won their heart. Instead, it divided them and propelled some to use violence. It was a mess.

She studied the matted face of the Rebel named Daz. His skin was cracked in places, and the corners of his eyes were darkened. Poison had mixed with his blood, leaving him mostly dazed. 

It was hard to understand his actions. “You get food every day, and she lets you live freely. What more do you want?” Sasha asked, noticing the blood-caked fingers. It was really meant to be answered, just that these Rebels didn't make sense to her. They hated her lady, even when her benevolence saved their lives. 

“Must be nice living in these walls,” Daz muttered, angling his arms towards the ceiling. His voice came out broken, making her keep the bow close, “All your whims answered, living under the pompous bitch’s shadow.” The laughter echoed in the darkness. He couldn't get up, but was lucid enough to taunt. 

“Don’t call her that,” Sasha hissed, jabbing the bow against his boot. 

“They’re all monsters,” he continued, lost in erosive thoughts. “You were with them, weren't you? When she slaughtered my people.” There were tears in his eyes. “I grew up with them; we only had each other… none of them came back…” The words left her mouth dry, the feeling she knew all too well. “To you monsters, they were nothing while you carried out the Emperor’s bidding,” he whispered. 

His voice pierced through her heart as she covered her ears. Her insides ached, hearing the forsaken tale. 

They hated her, and she gave them enough reasons to do so. Sasha was there when the choice was made; when the queen was forced to aid the Emperor's conquest—Goddess forsake her heart—Sasha agreed with that decision, as it secured Shiganshina’s future. But now, looking back, it felt like they had given up on the world. These people, wounded from war and oppression, had risen and lost, and their defeat, to a certain extent, was aided by her lady. It made her sick. Once again, she saw all the blood they’d spilt. 

She always felt sorry for her lady. The burden on her shoulders was relentless, wrapped up in guilt and profound helplessness. 

“What good will killing her do?” Sasha asked, arms wrapped around herself. “She didn’t want this…” she trailed off, fully aware of how pointless everything was now. “Without her, they’ll come for your head.” 

“I would rather fucking die,” he simply said. 

She remained quiet. 

There was another pair of footsteps heading their way. She tensed at first, but their pattern was different from the soldiers. Then she heard a familiar sound and realised it was Connie. She sighed in relief, but it was short-lived. The hatred for the queen ran deep; it wasn't something any Rebel had placed aside. 

Precariously, she exposed their location and beckoned a confused Connie inside the darkness. It took him a moment to understand the situation, and then he was against his brother, with cold eyes demanding answers from her. It was painful being doubted like this. He felt around his neck and then noticed the bruised arm, a swift spark of anger followed, and then came the prominent guilt. 

“He is just poisoned.” She bit her tongue when Connie flinched. “It just makes him sleep, ya’ know, those cliff flowers got that effect.” She explained, unsettled by the entire situation. 

“So, Eren was right,” Connie swore under his breath, and his hands rubbed over his face. “You fucking idiot.” He faced his brother, who didn't seem unfazed by the reaction. 

“He tried to kill my lady,” Sasha said plainly, holding her bow close. 

She didn't trust any of them. 

“You still hid him?” Connie asked, his brows drew closer. He looked equally confused by the situation. 

“Do ye’ want your people killed?’ Sasha sighed, irritation pricking her skin. 

It was frustrating—none of them seemed to grasp the fragile balance keeping them alive. Everyone wanted the Rebels gone; everyone but the queen. Her interventions were the only reason they still breathed. But then she remembered what that Rebel, Daz, had said; those words were like a punch to her gut.

“I thought Eren was just being paranoid,” Connie muttered, mostly to himself, “But then the weapons went missing, and he actually—” Connie touched the bow situated next to his brother's body. It had their symbol, and arrows were drenched in black poison. “We didn’t plan this.” He finally faced Sasha, filled with panic. “I swear, we didn't plan this.” 

Sasha remained against the wall, taken by the unease and possible lies. “I’ll let my lady decide.” With a wave of her hand, the matter was concluded. It was never her place to judge them, and she was grateful for it. 

Connie nodded with understanding. “I’m so fucking relieved.” He was clutching the front of his dress. “She is fine too.” Sasha swallowed, feeling her throat tighten. He dared to say this while his brother persecuted her lady. 

Sasha suspected, with little confirmation, that these three— Eren, Jean and Connie— knew her lady before their arrival. Her mother spoke of Eren as someone she had met once, long ago, in the past none dared to remember. It was strange, despite the deep resentment toward the choices her lady made, they couldn’t let go. Maybe her lady used it to her advantage? It must’ve been hard, seeing the queen as their enemy, while her true intentions remained concealed.

Connie grabbed onto his brother’s collar and drew him up. “Why would you do this?” He erupted, hands shaking, as he jolted him up. “Do you even understand the…” He gave Sasha a side glance and effectively muted his next words. The distrust was mutual. “We need the queen alive.” There were far too many emotions etched in his statement. 

“We don’t have to play her little games,” Daz mused, gripping onto his brother’s sleeves. Connie blinked, taken aback by the declaration. “I found another who’d protect us.” It made sense; so much fucking sense. 

“Who is that?” Connie prodded, holding his breath. 

“He promised us protection,” Daz continued, losing his lucidity, “He said… her death would bring forth our control…” His lips hung open. “May the queen die for our new beginning…”

“Dammit, tell me who promised that,” Connie urged, gripping tightly around his brother's limp body. He kept trying, but every attempt was futile. 

The dread choked out every other sound. Sasha longed for the forest, where things were as they seemed, with no shadows lurking in the darkness, pulling strings. Someone had promised this Rebel control in exchange for the queen’s life. But who would do such a thing? They hated royalty, which ruled out the Ackermans’ involvement. That left only one other authority, one that unofficially ruled Shiganshina without a drop of royal blood: the War Councillors. Her veins throbbed beneath her skin. 

The War Councillors were never this aggressive. Who wanted her lady dead? Desperately enough to align with the Rebels. Questions drowned out everything. 

Just like that, any peace she’d known was wiped away. It was all a set-up, wasn't it? 

***

Eren wanted to fucking scream. 

They held him back, arms looped around his body, as he tried to resist their captivity. Four soldiers were holding him back, hoping to curb his resistance, but he proved to be a handful. Nails dug into a soldier's skin as he broke another's nose. More bodies collided into him until his hands were cuffed. The iron tore into his skin, making his attempt futile. 

A single second could flip every fucking thing. 

One moment, he was seated with his fellow Rebels.

After the dreadful ritual under the tree, they moved back to the castle, where the festivities continued throughout the night. Many tables were set up in the ballroom, where the people and soldiers mingled alike. Only the queen had her seat assigned, at the very heart of the celebration. She looked so fucking miserable, staring at the darkness, unable to find any kind of respite. Music filled the chaos, words slurred into disharmony, as food and drinks graced every corner. Eren was pulled towards the Rebels, who had many thoughts on his little stunt. And yet, across the maddening joy and sea of bodies, he kept looking at her. Something was fucking wrong. And she refused to tell him; maybe that was the real dagger wedged in his heart. 

It didn't fucking matter. He had done his role, and anything beyond that wasn't his responsibility. He hated everything she stood for, and from the looks of it, she couldn't stand his presence either. They merely used each other when it was convenient. He was discarded once again. He didn't care; so, why did it hurt? He ached for the poison with her name on it; loathed it, but couldn't help but consume it. 

On the Rebel’s table, Jean was being a pain in the ass, but his remarks drifted with every drink. Most of them couldn't believe their eyes; he had kissed the queen— not quite— and it ruined what little remained of his reputation. It was such a painful moment that scarred him deeply, but to them,  it was merely his unravelling. The Rebel who fell for the queen; it angered many and wholly entertained the rest. He used her to their advantage, and from the looks of it, had left her rather sickly with love. He hated every moment of it.

There was no love. Just emptiness, etched on his bones. A heart that could only hate, and a body that convulsed with malice.

His attention kept flickering onto her, who was deeply engrossed in consuming an unprecedented amount of wine. The soldiers around her— he could only recognise Petra— didn't seem bothered by her intoxication ritual. What a fucking joke. She was drowning, while the people around her laughed joyfully. It had been a long time since a festival graced Shiganshina’s soil, and from the looks of it, her misery was the price of its return. He couldn't stop the concern. She came back wounded, and somehow their act under the tree left her in a worse state. He couldn't stand it. Couldn't they see her pain? It was hard holding back the desire to intervene. 

Then the next moment, an arrow was aimed at the queen’s head, and another diverted it. 

Chaos came in folds of screams and clattering of swords. Glass shattered, tables were flipped aside, and everything spilt onto the floor. The panicked stampede and shouts rose above the music. Confusion and fear took over the people, as they cried out and sought the soldiers. Bottles rolled across the floor, spilling wine and staining the carpet like blood. The celebration dissolved into a frenzy. Eren jerked backwards, arm stretched out towards her, but then bodies swarmed him into submission. He screamed her name, but leathered gloves shoved his mouth close. They held him down like an animal, orders were carried out, as scrambling bodies were forced to settle. 

The perpetrators were decided without much resistance. Without wasting a second, all the attending Rebels were gathered, and their alleged leader was cuffed. Time slowed down as scornful eyes surrounded them. It didn't matter; the outsiders were chosen as the disruptors. Eren gazed at her, but the shields obscured his vision. He roughly threw his weight around, but enough hands were holding him back. It didn't even matter who launched that arrow— after much deliberation, there was finally a reason to capture them. 

They were always the foreign enemy. It was merely her interventions that made them worth human decency. 

A thought pierced through his guts. What if he’d been right about Daz? 

After what felt like an eternity, where panic was frozen in time, Petra returned with her soldiers, and her grave expressions hid nothing. 

“We couldn't find the assailant, but found the handmaiden, who claims to have been practising her archery and missed a shot,” Petra reported, as incoherent whispers ricocheted through the room.

Eren’s entire being came to a halt. It was fucking Daz. 

When he learned about the weapon’s disappearance, his entire being convulsed upon deciding to inform Sasha. 

He betrayed the very essence of his being, but seeing how it turned out, what if he hadn't acted? Then Mikasa would’ve been— He couldn't even finish that thought. His eyes went vacant, staring past everything, as if his mind slipped into the gruesome possibilities. Sweat gathered on his brow, despite the breeze that swayed past their bodies. His stomach twisted from the sickness. 

He didn't want to lose her again. 

He wanted to look at her again, but they held his face. 

Heated shouts circled them, fingers jabbing like daggers, each one accusing his people. It was a while until words started making sense again. The War Councillors had seized the moment, weaving their narrative, and painted themselves as victims of these ungrateful outsiders. They spoke with fire, but to him, the words blurred into noise, disjointed and senseless. He couldn’t bring himself to listen. According to them, the Rebels had manipulated the queen and her handmaiden, twisting their will, softening them up like little ducklings, and then attempted to assassinate them. 

“That girl learned how to use a bow before she learned how to walk,” Olou reasoned, his worrisome gaze flickering onto their captives. “So that doesn't make any sense.” 

Petra ventured to the point of impact, picked up the broken arrow and pulled out the one stuck in the wall. She inspected them; one had the Ackerman symbol, and the other was too broken. Sasha was skilled, and her capabilities were known within the army. She held up the evidence, causing another round of vehement discourse. 

“It's obvious,” Councillor Gross thundered, his spit landing on Eren’s clothes. “She is working with the enemy. We should have her arrested at once.” 

A knife was pulled out, making the crowd gasp. Gross hoped to demonstrate his resilience, but Petra held his wrist and made him drop it. He struggled to form words, as his jaw moved unnaturally. There was untold fury buried in his bleak eyes. 

“With all due respect,” Petra’s words were clipped, grip tightened until he pulled back. “He is still the consort."

“We shouldn't jump to conclusions,” Councillor Nile cleared his throat, hoping to step in between the tension. Petra situated herself permanently between the captured rebels and her superiors. 

“I should’ve ended their blasphemy long ago.” Councillor Gross’s words were laced with venom, while his face betrayed nothing. Cold eyes observed Eren, awaiting any kind of spark. “We let you use our land, gave you food and shelter, and this is how you repay us? You try to kill our queen?” He screamed, riling up the people, enabling them to chant for the unholy violence. The unease ripped through the room, and many tasted blood, as the soldiers struggled to hold the crowd back. Their captivity suddenly became the source of their protection. 

Fear was replaced with an ache for destruction. He had seen this before, when the people chanted for his father’s death. The joy they felt when life left his father’s eyes, the celebrations they held without burying the dead. His breaths came out shallow, control slipping past his fingers. 

He was frozen, lost in memories carved into his soul. 

The queen’s laughter crept through the room. It was a mirthless laugh, with nothing behind its solemn sound. She emerged from the shield meant to protect her, with unsteady steps, vacant eyes, as she took the final sip of her drink. It was slammed on the table, as she stumbled closer to the chaos, with bated breaths, people watched her undoing. She was intoxicated beyond the point of control. 

“Mr Gross, don't act like my life has any meaning to you,” She mused, turning the Councillor into every shade of fury. 

Petra kept a supportive hand on the queen’s back. “My lady, I must point out a glaring issue. The handmaiden's arrow diverted another, and then she took the entire blame.” The clarification didn't get any reaction from the queen. Instead, she just wrapped an arm around her torso and held it tightly. 

“If my handmaiden says she messed up, then that's it,” Mikasa shrugged, leaving the room in rambunctious whispers. 

“Your Highness—” Armin cleared his throat, diverting the attention onto himself, and stopped Petra’s reasoning. 

Armin finally found his voice and stepped into the centre. “There's no need to hold any of them captive.” He waved his arm towards the rebels being held captive. “I think we should end the festivities now.” His gaze, effortlessly gentle, lingered on Eren. He nodded to the soldiers who were holding him back. In an instant, the restraints were taken off. 

“There is a matter I want to discuss with the Councillors, and in general, I believe we've incurred enough of the Goddess’s blessing.” He didn't hide the grimness in his tone. His elusive words left the room paralysed with speculation. He was better at hiding the weariness, but there was no way to conceal the apprehension. He was visibly shaken, frantically searching for something. 

“Let us retire for the night.” Armin continued, losing pieces of his composure. “Mr Yeager, why don't you accompany her?” He added, noticing the visible disdain thrown his way. 

Eren rubbed his wounded wrists and held back the urge to punch his captors. It took him a moment to find his voice; memories unfurled their grip on him. It was an unnerving growl that left his dry throat. Armin’s words didn't register; another mess burrowed him deeply. 

They were right.

He used their queen, and his brother attempted to kill her. 

It was deliberate ignorance, coming to her land and hoping her death didn't necessitate their cause. He agreed, purposefully ignoring the parts where their confrontation was inevitable. The rebels had invaded Shiganshina, hoping to make it their next stronghold. He naively looked away, refusing to confront what that meant for the queen. They wanted her dead, and he refused to let go. Even if their leader didn’t openly call for her persecution, he had lost too much favour and caused the rebels to fracture. The wedding was the onset of his demise; little by little, he lost the world he’d crafted so meticulously. It was betrayal, letting Sasha know, and allowing her to intervene. He didn’t fucking regret it. 

Just the thought crippled his insides beyond repair. Sickness swept away any solace. 

Anger was beginning to poison him. “I fucking hate it when you call me that,” Eren snapped, voice low enough to unease the people around him. It was Jean’s hand on his shoulder that restrained his sanity. 

Anger left him shaken, unable to determine any outlet. His head was a mess. Nothing made sense anymore. 

“Eren, go with her,” Armin softly prodded. 

“That sounds highly risky,” Erd interjected, sincerely concerned about the queen’s safety. “We suspect their involvement, given the circumstances. I believe it's best to keep them separated.” 

Mikasa’s hand held the coat close to her body, bleak eyes set on the War Councillors, who never hid their scorn. “Who isn't after my life?” She asked, letting the words simmer until they broke the apprehension apart. 

It was obvious what happened at the port. 

“Little queen, maybe we should—” 

Mikasa held up her hand, effectively neutering any opinion. Permanent exhaustion and rage left her struggling to compose. Even her endurance had a limit, and from the looks of it, she was past her breaking point. 

“The celebrations end here,” she commanded, loud enough to silence the room. “Escort them back.” She didn’t hide the smugness accompanying her next declaration. “Keep the War Councillors within these walls, and let the rebels go.” There were deafening objections, as the Councillors didn’t conceal their hatred. 

She left them without another word. “You.” Her finger pointed at Eren, who seemed lost and miserable. “Come with me.” 

Someone was trying to frame the rebels— It finally struck him; he was correct about Daz. He followed, taken by the numbness, with no resistance left in him. 

The walk in the dark corridor didn't last long. Her steps slowed till she had to lean against the wall, panting, with arms crisscrossed around her abdomen. 

He noticed the blood. 

Chapter Text

Eren was left stunned. The candlelight licked their wounds, displaying every secret for the eyes to see. He noticed the damp patches on her jacket. They were bloody spots; he was too accustomed to the sight and smell. Her hand was flat against the wall, body pressed against it, as she tried to control her breathing. Every thought in his mind evaporated. She was hurt. 

His body moved by itself, and within seconds, he stood close to her. His concerned gaze scrutinised her wholly. She tried to hide her pain away, but it was impossible. Her face morphed into unprompted humiliation and evident distress. She refused to look at him, and it broke his heart. 

“Mikasa, you're bleeding,” he declared, making her wrap further in. 

“Oh, I didn't notice.” She straightened up, involuntarily, her hand covered around the bloody spots. 

“Where are you hurt?” He asked, voice drenched in grimness. 

“It doesn't hurt,” she reassured, trying to put some distance between them. The intensity of his gaze unravelled her thoroughly. He saw right through her, and that unnerved her crumbling restraints. 

Eren grabbed her wrist, making her flinch like a cornered cat. His grip was gentle, despite the abruptness, ensuring it was her choice to stay. And she did, his grip grounded when the floor swayed like ocean waves. She was too drunk for the sheer emotions he stirred up. 

He felt the tremor in her hand. Her crestfallen face, flushed a dull pink from too much alcohol, was framed by strands plastered on her forehead. Even in the cold hallway, sweat gathered along her skin. She bit her lower lip, refusing to meet his gaze. The shadows concealed half of her face, but even then, he saw enough to know how deep her wounds went. She had a habit of hiding her expressions; it was ingrained in her, and he remembered tirelessly trying to work around it. Instead, he learned the subtle ways her face contorted, and all these years later, she hadn't changed a bit. The girl he once knew continued to haunt him in ways that daggered his heart. She was afraid of letting him know, and reacted terribly when he got near. Instantly, he pulled away his hand. He had lost the right to cherish her. 

Anger sparked, enveloping him in its everlasting sparks. The wedding was cursed from its inception, unwilling hearts conjoined for mutual benefits. There wasn't any affection in their declarations, and her presence alone poisoned his soul. She brought out ruthless memories of the time so sweet that it roped around his neck. They could never go back. It was pointless to hold on to the fragments of the girl he once knew. And yet, despite every ounce of guilt, he couldn't let go. 

He betrayed his brothers and betrayed pieces of himself that he spent so long constructing. The guilt overwhelmed him. Fury burned his tongue like acid. 

He couldn't retain the growl forming in his throat. The nerves in his neck pulsed as vitriol coursed through him. He had failed his people, his father’s legacy, and besmirched whatever remained of his name. His brothers attempted to harm her, and that thought alone ruptured something inside of him. “Mikasa, why aren't you—” He bit his tongue, holding back the fury. 

She was in pain, and it wrecked and overwhelmed him. What the fuck was he supposed to do? He couldn't leave his people, and he couldn't compromise her life. He inhaled, forcing back the erosive emotions, as his body ached to rip itself apart. 

Just looking at her scraped his chest raw. “Please,” he whispered, voice quivering. “Tell me.” He was begging, incapable of holding back anymore. His jaw locked, holding back the festering rot that enveloped his body. Breath came out in short bursts, his shoulders tightened as his grief-riddled gaze found her face again. 

She withdrew further, arms tight around herself. Her shoulder pressed into the wall, and her eyes remained shut, effectively drowning everything out. The bleeding wound, likely on her waist, gave her immense discomfort. But even then, she refused to let him in. An entire wedding was spent, and then the aftermath, with an unattended injury. Eventually, alcohol numbed away the rest. She didn't want prying eyes to witness her pain. Not even him. It was a different kind of blade that lunged at him. She saw him like the rest, vultures awaiting her descent. The thought left a dull throb in his chest. 

“It's nothing worth your consideration,” she repeated, rejecting his convoluted care. “I'm quite fine.” 

“Yes,” he scoffed, “You're definitely not bleeding all over the wall.” He pointed to the fading bloody handprint smeared on the surface.

“Really,” she just shrugged, placing her back against the wall. “It's just a cut. I think riding the horse must’ve opened a stitch or two.” The handprint was promptly covered up. 

He got a good look at her struggling composure. Just a cut didn't require fucking stitches. He wanted to scream into the void, completely bewildered by the way she compartmentalised her struggles. Then again, was this really something he didn't know? Her childhood habits only worsened with time. 

He noticed her white shirt was stained dark on the side. If it weren’t for the jacket, he’d be able to ascertain the degree of her wound. Even though that shirt didn’t fit her properly, the buttons were done hastily. He was dressed for the wedding, cuffed and proper, with the top buttons loose enough to expose the patterns hidden underneath. He had taken off the overcoat, sleeves folded up. The gold rings in his ear glistened every time candlelight flickered. While she looked like a soldier returning, the scent of blood clung to her skin, from the unspoken battles he couldn't reach. Their worlds truly never collided. 

Somehow, she was beautiful enough to elude his senses. Her soft lips, the ones he’d almost kissed. The prominent scar under her eye captured his curiosity. The way her black hair framed her face reminded him of the night sky, and in her bleak eyes he found his starlight. He couldn't do this anymore. 

It was hard to care. Made to watch her unravelling, incapable of intervening. Goddess be damned, he fucking hated it. 

“You are the queen,” he snapped, bothered by the way she got treated. “There wasn't any carriage available to carry you?” His words were sharp, but underneath the sparks was his clamouring heart. He couldn't believe how her well-being was never considered. It almost felt self-inflicted. “Why a horse? Can’t you—” he rubbed his furrowed brows, exhaling loud enough to echo in the hallway. She refused to engage; her lips formed a thin line. 

“Right, that's a completely normal thing that happens,” he laughed, the hollow sound echoing through the darkness. He roughly placed his palm opposite her head, staring at her unflinchingly. They were too close for comfort. “Look at me,” he demanded, coming apart at the seams. 

She was breathing fast, and he was close enough to taste it. Alcohol mixed with the sweetness that only she possessed. Her gaze finally found his face; there was only emptiness there. 

Words were starting to fail him. “Do you even care about your life?” He dreaded the answer. 

“Don't pretend like it matters to you,” she retorted, brimming with subdued grief. 

He caged her against the wall, refusing to part with the emotions coiled around his neck. “It matters, dammit.” His tone splintered from the truth. It shocked him as she witnessed his concealed emotions. Underneath everything, he simply couldn't let go. The wounds she had inflicted on him just ran too deep. 

Her eyes widened, but her resolve reigned supreme. “Do yourself a favour and stop,” she erupted, ruthless in her finality. They were at it again, tugging until the strings snapped. 

“I don't know how to stop,” he spat out, incapable of sealing his heart again. 

He was spilling, and her face morphed into every shade of misery. He matched her furious gaze, breath fanning his face. The veins in her neck throbbed, and he held the urge to caress her restraints away. She smelled so familiar, it was distracting. 

“There's nothing good left between us,” her voice came out rough, scraping away his sincerity. She cut the air between them with a sharp wave of her hand. Her face was flushed, body rigid, and shoulders squared. She looked ready for a fight. And he, for the first time in his life, wanted to surrender. “The wedding is done, and I pray no situation arises where we need to see each other again.” Her voice sounded like a sob held back. “Please, don't make it worse.” She grabbed her jacket, ensuring it wrapped tightly around her body. 

His emotions were laced with hypocrisy. The words were his, thrown at him with crippled conviction, but there was sense in them. He wanted nothing to do with her, and yet, he couldn't stop staring at her like his world began and ended with her. He lied to himself, hoping that with enough time, it would become the truth. Selfishness gnawed at his sanity, doing away with his restraints. The marriage began his descent. He could blame her, even if the wounds they inflicted on each other predated it. Memories came back like shards of glass, cutting through the layers concealing his rotten soul.

“It's so easy for you,” he snickered, trembling at the edges, “Abandoning me, and having me when it's convenient.” His palm slid down, lying close enough to the curve of her neck. He tilted his head, loose strands falling across his face, and it made her swallow ever so slightly. 

She shook her head, on the verge of panicking. “I don't—” 

“I waited for you, long ago.” He allowed his soul to see the light. There was no relief, just dread and exhaustion. “You never came back. I think I still wait, even though there's nothing left.” 

She was bleeding, and he drowned her in his disdain. He hated himself, but words couldn't be taken back. The heart was laid bare, even if she refused to engage with it. He wanted to aid her plight, but she ultimately refused; once again, he had no right to be concerned. His people did this, and he was part of the problem. 

Maybe it was the alcohol that loosened his lip, making him confront the past they refused to acknowledge. Her stillness was unnerving, eyes left in disbelief, but then regret coloured her face. She bit her lower lip, and the grief in her gaze prolonged his remorse. He wanted to wrap her up in an embrace, even if there wasn't any comfort left in it. 

“There wasn't anything I could do. And then I saw your father… I couldn't stop it… It was hard to see you again, knowing I didn't save him…” Tears formed in her sullen eyes. “I wanted to come see you, but all this— all these things happened, and then it was too late.” She gestured around the hallway, hoping he’d understand. “I never wanted to leave you and that happiness.” He was left numb. 

“I'm sorry, I couldn't save Mr Grisha. I was powerless.” She was laughing, completely hollowed out and broken. “And I am still powerless. Nothing changed.” Her fingers dug through her hair, grabbing hard enough to worry him. The whisper lingered, as honesty was always their undoing. 

A part of him still blamed her, and she scarred herself with guilt. She had failed his father, and that guilt propelled her to save him. Like repentance, which never came. Would she have saved his people? He didn't know, but from the looks of it, life was still precious to her. His entire body became rigid. Even back then, a part of her knew the abandonment wasn't in her control, but it didn't lessen the pain. She didn’t have a choice. She didn't have—

The ruling of Shiganshina was truly vile to him. She called herself powerless, but the woman he once idolised was never that. Regardless of her reasons, he could not forgive her for siding with the Emperor and for killing his people. It was a choice she made, and circumstances never justified it. She tried to repent, but it was far too late. She had the Rebels’ disdain, and no measure was capable of fixing it. Even if she saved them, it was all planned out of necessity. 

Who was he to judge? He went along even when they planned her eventual end—only stopped when the consequences got too real. His choices ruined his reputation, fractured the Rebels, and propelled his brother to take her life. He held onto the idea of her, even if his palms bled. He was exhausted. There was no light ahead, only the weight of his forsaken choices.

The throbbing in his head worsened, making him lean against the wall. They were close enough, but never touching. 

Who would he choose: her or the rebellion? His choices were clear, until she showed up again, and conflicted with everything he stood for. 

Little did he know, his heart was already chosen.

They remained silent, soaking in the sorrows and tenderness of simple existence. A single tear traced down her cheek, and he held back the urge to kiss it away. Everything came out wrong and sharp. The tightness in his chest only worsened. 

“Let me get you to your room,” he sighed, focusing on the wound she refused to concede. Lethargy settled in his bones; it was a struggle to keep his body straight. She wanted to protest, but he continued. “Let me.” 

She pushed away from the wall, and her steps promptly stumbled. He offered her arm, and she begrudgingly grabbed it to stabilise. Her fingers rubbed her forehead, likely a headache threatening to take over. It became clear to him that she was terrible at holding her alcohol. 

“You can barely stand straight,” he noted. 

She waved him off, hoping to part with his arm. “I’ll manage.” 

“I have basic human decency, you're bleeding, drunk, and just got targeted—” It was frustrating to be denied, but once again, he couldn't blame her. 

Her head tilted to the side as she considered. “I don’t know if it's safe for you.” 

“You're the one who got shot,” he reminded her, taken aback by the sudden concern. 

At first, he thought she sought his company because he’d never hurt her. Perhaps she was merely exploiting their fragile dance. But now—he understood— maybe it was his life she wanted to save by tagging him along. He remembered the crowd, how ready they were with their barred teeth and violence. Unease unfurled in his guts. 

“Survived it twice,” she shrugged. “I believe I’m handling it quite well.” Her nonchalance made him recoil away. What the fuck was going on? He wanted to ask, but knew better. 

The revelation drained his blood. She was likely attacked at the port, survived it and returned for the wedding. While all of it unfolded, he spiralled, as if he’d been abandoned again. Shame mixed with inexplicable fear. She was attacked twice in one day, and she refused to show any weakness. He winced, feeling utterly helpless once again. It sounded like the aim was to have the Rebels arrested, or something much worse. No wonder she refused to tell him anything; only vague assumptions snapped him in half. 

“Both attempts were unsuccessful,” she reassured, noticing the horror on his face. “We have a lot to discuss, but my head…” she trailed off, putting more of her weight on his arm. “Just keep close.” Her words tugged at his heartstrings. He was supposed to stand there, pretend like she hadn't just shattered him. 

Maybe it was just her misplaced guilt, but in moments like these, he felt glimpses of her care. Even back in the Winter Town, she had an odd way of showing it. She’d name the best dolls after him, and then would never play with them. He’d ask about it, and her response would be a contemplative stare. “I don’t want them to break,” she once revealed, "Your name makes them precious.” He lost his ability to speak after that. He was thinking about the past again. 

When he saw her again, she became so cold and distant. Almost unrecognisable, making him spiral with anger. It was impossible to imagine any care aimed at him, yet in these quiet moments, he caught glimpses of it. But wasn’t this what he wanted? To keep his distance, to pretend nothing existed between them. She was always kind; someone he looked up to and idolised. Maybe that’s why it pained seeing the kind of queen she became. 

He needed to get this off his chest. “I told Sasha about—”

“Tomorrow,” she shook her head. “Tell me then.” 

He noticed the blood stains, darker now, spreading. What the fuck was he doing? He wasn’t going to side with the ones who wanted her dead. She was hurt, and that took precedence over everything. 

“Come here,” he urged, tugging her closer. 

“Huh?” She blinked. 

“All this movement is making those stitches fall apart,” he reasoned, “You should’ve just rested, instead of doing the wedding.”

“Unfortunately, being the queen was more important,” she said, nonchalant to a fault. Her declaration aggravated him to no end. 

He scratched the back of his neck. “Let me carry you there.” 

“There’s no need.” His offer stunned her for a second. “It's just around the corner.”

“Oh, right,” he scoffed, not bothering to hide his irritation. “Managing it so well. There's another day tomorrow, and if this is your state, how are you going to be the queen then?” He asked, playing with her sense of duty. It was strange seeing her fixations. To be the queen, even when those around her plotted her end.  “I know it makes you uncomfortable,” he continued, feeling his heart halt. “I'm not too thrilled about it either.” It was clear to him how she hated exposing her vulnerability, and accepting help was unnatural to her. 

She was lost in thought, and after the dreadful silence, finally gave in. Maybe the pain was getting to her? He could only wonder. His suggestion was only practical, but the moment he had her in his arms, a part of him knew it was selfish. 

She was so fucking cold, like the winter had its embodiment. And barely weighed anything, considering Sasha spoke of her skipping meals. Her hands gripped his shoulder, hard nails dug into his skin. She smelled sweet, like the delicate bellflower she handed him earlier. Her collarbones were quite defined, peeking out from the ill-fitted button-down. It was impossible not to gaze and feel. It felt wrong, but he couldn’t stop. 

“I missed you,” he murmured, tightening his grip. He knew those words would crush him. He had missed her, and that alone wrecked him. He never wanted to admit it, but his heart just wished to spill. For too long, he concealed everything, and it began to rot him from within. 

She was too dizzy to hear or make sense of his words. Instead, her mumblings guided him through the hallways and brought them to the infamous study. He entered her abode and found a mess that called him to untangle it. There were dresses made from lavish material strung up in the middle. There was a wedding dress, but his fate wasn't to witness it. 

He navigated through the disaster of scattered pages and books. Thankfully, the bed was close, and she was placed on it. He missed the closeness instantly. It took him a while to locate the candles, and he nearly toppled over the bellflower pots. Once light filled the room, he found it disorganised enough to bother him. The furniture didn't fit, and her desk was a mahogany of incomplete tasks. He sighed, trying to ignore the mess. Maybe he’ll deal with it later; why did he want to deal with it?  

He scanned the room for medical supplies. Sasha mentioned keeping them close because the queen was reckless when sleep-deprived. He thought about getting the handmaiden, but wasn't aware of her location. The medical supplies were hidden under the desk, between two uncapped wine bottles. 

Armin came to his mind, being the one who always knew what to do. She would’ve preferred Armin. The rumours were fresh, but he doubted their authenticity. Mikasa still looked at Armin the way she used to. But it didn’t matter. It couldn’t. They were nothing to each other. It was a lie. Even Jean saw right through him, and the most obvious bait riled him up. He threw his arms up and cursed the convoluted mess in his chest. He’d untangle it later; for now, she needed medical attention. Her injury presented another problem, making him uncharastically nervous. 

She was lying on her bed, entirely unguarded, arms sprawled to the side, as she breathed slowly. The alcohol finally got to her, leaving her mostly unconscious. The dark patch around her stomach only worsened. There would be undressing. Should he call someone? But she didn't want anyone to see her like this. The nerves were getting to him as he stared at the blood, and once again, he cursed under his breath. It shouldn't bother him. He had learned ways to treat wounds, and often helped the medics in treating scarred bodies. 

“Mikasa,” he swallowed, building up his endurance, “I need to see your stitches.” She wasn't really listening; her head fell to the side, and her hands clutched the satin bedsheet. 

“Which means I have to… your shirt…” Heat crept up his neck. She nodded, unconcerned with his unravelling. 

He kept his hands steady. She was just like another comrade he was tending to. A fellow brother in arms. That’s all this was. But it was another lie he told himself. When they were young, he saw her discard her clothes by the river, getting in, as they laughed under the occasional sun. Sickness often came from the cold; they’d regret it, but did it again. 

Now, she was on the bed, and everything felt so utterly different. There was no innocence, as his gaze desired to linger. The candle’s glow emphasised the curve of her breast, the delicate swell underneath the rough fabric. The smooth slope of her shoulders, slightly exposed by the unruly buttons. Strands of hair clung to her forehead, damp with sweat, and her cheeks were flushed from the alcohol. She took his breath away in ways he never wanted to admit. 

Heat coiled low in his stomach. And then came the sharp jab of shame. She was wounded. He was being fucking stupid. He tore his gaze away; his mother raised him better. 

He unbuttoned her shirt slowly, exposing her stomach and the injury on the side. The stitches were torn and bloody. It was a painful reminder of what she’d been enduring. Anger flared up inside him, aimless as there wasn't any outlet. With a deep breath, he steeled himself and began patching her up. Being part of the rebellion meant death and decay followed him, and he’d learned how to save lives. A craft his father once took up, and once again, he followed in his path. Still, unlike him, his skills were limited, and he struggled with complex procedures. 

She was too drunk to feel pain as he undid the broken stitches. But she hissed when he replaced them. He kept going, despite the utter pain in his heart. When he finally finished, he wiped his brow and wrapped the bandage. Her shirt was rolled back down. The fabric was soaked with dried blood, despite his attempts to clean it. He lacked the nerve to change her clothes. He made her uncomfortable, so he just decided against it. 

Delicately, he turned her body over to her unharmed side and placed a pillow against her back. It was all he could do. The sight of her, so utterly exhausted, was an ache he couldn't get rid of. He sat down next to her limp body and quietly moved her strands to the side. She was barely awake, but even then, her gaze found his face. 

“Don't look at me like that. Like you care, I might mistake it for something else…” She touched his face, he grasped her palm, and tilted towards the cold. Her fingers caressed the bite mark on his skin. A part of him snapped. 

Tears swell, falling with little resistance. Why was everything so wrong? She was always going to be the girl he waited for. Even now, when she was within his reach, he couldn't have her. She was never his to begin with. She was sold to the crown from birth, and wanting her for himself was just a fantasy. Her destiny was inked in gold. He didn’t belong in it. 

He placed her hand down. 

“Let's end it here.” 

He was part of the burden she bore, and he hated being that. It had to end, for her sake more than his. There was so much wrong in her life, and he didn't want to add to it. She grabbed the end of his coat before he got off the bed. Another fond memory ached his heart. She hated being alone when she couldn't rely on her strength. 

There was no end. Even if they bled each other every day, and broke each other apart. He couldn't imagine a life without her existence. He had a taste of it and never wanted to revisit it. 

“Don't hate me…” She murmured, being taken by slumber. 

“I could never,” he admitted, lips formed a thin line. He couldn't lie to himself anymore. “Mikasa, even if I wanted to, I can never hate you. I just fucking can't. There is a knife jabbed into me, and I pushed it in myself—” He clutched onto the front of his shirt.  “What are we doing? Stop getting hurt like this. I hate seeing you like this because you’re…” Important to me.  Those words died on his tongue. 

Goddess had damned him.

He wanted to take away her pain. Another memory from their childhood assaulted his senses, and he tried to work within hopelessness. Kisses were like magic. It was a system they made for swift recovery. Whenever he got sick, precisely three kisses ensured a quick recovery. He never believed her mystified discoveries, but never voiced his conterdictions. She likely remembered it, too. A while back, she placed three kisses on his wounded palms. 

He left a fleeting kiss on her forehead. It brought no comfort, only burned his chapped lips, and left him shivering from foreign contact. Still, foolishly taken by memories, he persisted and prayed to the Goddess long abandoned. Why couldn't everything be simple again? He planted another kiss on her nose and then on her chin. 

His fate was long sealed with her name on it. 

Chapter Text

Part 3: The Escape of the Damned 

(Flashback - 11 years ago)

Time never healed. It only managed to dull the ingrained throb. She never understood how to mourn the loss. How could she? The soul belonged to a brother she never understood. 

The sky was rusted like oxidised iron. The taste of vinegar and blood was still fresh on her tongue. She came back from the barracks, freshly bruised, for the pride she refused to yield. She threw hands and learned the difference between her and a trained soldier. Her incompetence boiled her insides, but the challenge thrilled her innately. After so long, she was given a domain to practice violence. The military was laced in structures she understood and thrived within. 

Despite her father's protest, she was handed to the army, and threw her tile away. She wanted to climb their ranks, and it often meant using her fists. She licked her bruised lip and recalled the terror in the soldier's face. He didn’t expect her to scrape away at him as if her life depended on it. She tasted power; so addicting; so fleeting. It made Mikasa understand the Councillors and their brazen need to control her mother. She was given power as birthright, but never wielded it with pride, and often hid it like a shortcoming. Then there was her father, born from nothing, incapable of withholding power. They were a match made for exploitation. Maybe it was worth the love they claimed to share. 

Mikasa never looked at her father’s face again. It was ruined by the sin committed in urgency, and even her all-forgiving mother lost her faith. He wilted like a flower left to decay. 

It came as a surprise when her mother got pregnant. Perhaps their confined misery came to an end. The birth of a son soaked the castle walls in happiness. Mikasa held his tiny fingers; they were fragile and pulsated with life. Every uncouth emotion ended right there. There was finally colour in her world, despite the wounds she buried deep. The nightmares made a mockery of her resolve, but at least during the day, she pretended to be functional. 

“You look worse than yesterday," Sasha noted, linking their arms. It had been a week since her brother was born, and it made Sasha strangely clingy. A slight smile filled Mikasa’s face. She already had a sibling, even if their blood didn't agree. Her fingers curled in Sasha’s mousy hair as she patted down the unease. 

“The little one shouldn't have your ire,” Mikasa remarked, making Sasha inhale sharply. The grip on her arm was finally loosened. 

“I like him,” Sasha mumbled, feeling oddly vulnerable. “He speaks funny.” 

“It’s noises, not speech,” Mikasa flicked Sasha’s forehead, and a profound noise echoed through the hallway. 

“No, he speaks, I’ve heard it,” Sasha protested, rubbing her forehead. 

“Again with the allegations,” Mikasa sighed, “He isn’t plotting with the castle ghosts. A tiny child makes incoherent noises.”

“The noises are battle cries of blue birds,” Sasha added, capable of backing her theories with evidence. She was raised in the forest before she served the queen. It resulted in mundane things being labelled a conspiracy. Just last month, she said their maid was a thief because a mouse circled her twice. Her actions were annoying, but then they became endearing. 

They stood outside the queen’s abode. The oak door, inked in gold, stood in their way. Something felt wrong. Far too many maids kept entering with worried expressions, and the scent of the healer's cigar filled every corner. It was a special stench he carried, akin to the likelihood of death. Sasha stood oblivious on Mikasa’s side, instinctively grabbing onto her hand. 

Mikasa’s heart lurked in dread. Please don’t take him. My mother already gave you everything. She developed a habit of speaking to the Goddess, who never answered. But the fate she bestowed upon them came noisily, and often without consideration. 

After years of war and bloodshed, of dirty political endeavours and attempts of dethronement, her mother remained the queen. Then life finally gave her happiness. Even the Councillors wanted the child to prosper, as he was a son destined for greatness; a soul they could pledge their allegiances to. 

Mikasa refused to acknowledge how it made her feel. The resentment she endured all her life existed because she was born wrong. Then her mother dared to name her the heir. Still, despite the pressure from every corner, her mother never yielded and refused to let her daughter drown. Son or no son, her mother announced, bloodied after giving birth, my daughter will succeed me. It brought down the festivities, but a son was always a joy, incapable of being contained. Mikasa didn't care, as the Goddess blessed her with a tiny soul to protect.

Mikasa promised to keep him safe, but it seemed like fate just wanted to mock her again. 

“I was looking for you,” Isabella announced, emerging from the room, her expression grim. She looked at Sasha with fondness and touched her palm. The relief on her face, even for a second, was a silent prayer she made for her child. “Your Highness, do you wish to see your mother?” Her crestfallen face focused on her. 

Mikasa wanted to laugh. She hated herself for believing that joy could seep through these walls. Hope was futile, and it abandoned them just like the Goddess. 

“Yes, so will you take her?” Mikasa asked, lethargy settled on her bones. Sasha was promptly handed to her mother. She protested, but Mikasa ensured to salvage at least this child’s innocence. 

It never got easier. Mikasa inhaled sharply and counted before stepping into despair. The room smelled like herbs and rot. In the grand abode littered with furnishing, bellflowers, and ornaments, stood frantic maids and stale healers. She never liked the sight of men clothed in white, long beards with lips marred with stains. They never brought good news, especially when it came to helpless infants. A blessing so tiny wasn't always given without consequences, and they deliberately chose to ignore it. 

Maybe his soul was too pure for their cursed bloodline. Only those rotten like her were destined to grieve and trudged forward without a heart. Somehow, logic didn't matter as she rushed towards the inevitable. Even if fate called his name, she still wanted her brother back. Even if the wish was selfish, it was worth everything. Please, take me in his place. But a truth long came to fruition; the Goddess wanted her to live, no matter what. It was, after all, her mother’s only answered prayer. 

It’s the Ackerman curse. The whispers tainted the space of unsaid words. 

The maids fretted with useless items, as the healers continued to speak monotonously. Sicknesses were controlled within their palms, as remedies were constructed for a better tomorrow. It was the liveliest she’d seen her father. He continued to prod the sleeping infant, and his face was still coloured in hope. He spared a glance at the one named his daughter. The cradle was decorated in silver, and around it were toys she crafted from wood. They were made before his birth, as she had spent countless nights planning their eventual  

After the incident in the Winter Town, her father couldn't look at her anymore. It was mutual and greatly appreciated. But now, with uncertainty looming over them, he was likely overtaken by fatherly instincts. He grasped Mikasa’s cold hand and muttered incoherently in her hair. There wasn't any warmth in his presence. If anything, it made her nauseous. 

She glanced at her mother, who remained still against the cradle. Unlike her disillusioned father, her mother was preparing herself. Her heart ached to console her, but how could she console the innately wounded? No words could lessen her pain. Their eyes finally met, and Mikasa knew something broke inside of her. 

“We’ll break his fever and then give him medication,” the healer reassured, putting a practised hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Your Highness, you mustn't worry.” The words rang hollow in their death-soaked chambers. 

“I pray you’re right,” Asami said, evenly. Even now, she refused to show the agony that mutilated her body. “My son will be healthy once again.” It was all a blatant lie, but a mother’s folly was always her forsaken children. 

Mikasa stepped out from her father’s feather-like embrace and refused to acknowledge how he deflated. He would always be her father, and no matter what, love for him was infinite. But the perception she had of him couldn't be mended. “Is there anything I can do for you?” She asked her mother, offering herself, and prayed it was enough. 

“Yes, my dear,” Asami softly smiled, “Just accompany me.” She never left her mother’s side. It was a simple request, but soon it became a desperate plea. 

The Ackerman curse was a legend born from grief. Mikasa never believed the stories, but fate had a way of enforcing its restraints. The last time Shiganshina had a king was when Ignar united the twenty clans and took up the esteemed title. He named his son as his heir, but soon an unfortunate plague took him. That became the history of male heirs, who often died or were tragically misplaced before succession. Some called it a curse from the Goddess who doomed the bloodlines, while some called it a blessing to rule in the Goddess's image. It didn’t matter, as every succession was always a Queen. It frustrated the Councillors to no end, and left mothers perpetually distraught. If a son was born, then death loomed over them like certainty. Either they were lucky like her uncle, or they succumbed like her brother. 

Mikasa never believed in the tales. Maybe divine intervention lessened the burden of grief, and it wasn't her place to dismiss it. She held her mother’s fragile hand as they laid her brother to rest. He fought until morning and quietly began his eternal slumber. Her mother didn’t even cry as they buried him under the tree outside their desolate castle. 

The gravestone marked his name: Kazuya.

How was she supposed to grieve him? He was rudely stolen, and she lacked the functionality to process it.  

Mikasa wanted to meet her brother properly. He was taken before she could memorise his face. The loss took on many shapes: her mother's perpetual silence, violent cries of her father who sat atop the fresh grave, and her abandonment of fate. 

The world was cruel. What if fate took him because he would eventually challenge her claim to the throne? Darkness often pulsed inside of her. Maybe it was her fault he never got to live. 

It always came back to her unfortunate birth. So, she blamed herself for every ill that transpired and brought ruin upon her family. They were all sacrificed for her. 

***

(Present day)

Mikasa started hating mornings. She couldn't recall the last time she felt fresh after a night of continuous thrashing. The war only worsened her nightmares. Each time, it was a battle with her pained body to recompose itself and begin another day. 

Today somehow tasted worse than usual. 

The pounding in her skull and the taste of begotten sorrows pulled her from sleep. The room seemed intangible, with tilted walls, light bleeding through, leaving her disoriented. Even the slightest movement made her groan. Her waist was the main culprit of her body’s pain. It throbbed as if a dagger was inserted there— It was close enough. She cursed when the acute memories pierced through her mind and made her miserable. Every breath scraped against the wound, and it left her immobilised. The air was stale with alcohol and sweat, and she couldn't tell what was worse: The ache in her body or the one in her chest. 

Mikasa remained there for a moment, teeth clenched, fury simmering in her withered body. But it was anger without any outlet. She only had herself to blame for every mistake. The world continued to spin, and she prayed for some semblance of stillness. Even her heartbeat irritated her. There was no peace, only the bitter aftertaste of yesterday. 

The cursed wedding, two assassinations, and the remorseless faces. There was so much to fix, and the sheer amount intimidated her wholly. But a queen wasn’t allowed to escape her mistakes, and consequences were her burden to withstand. 

A queen wasn't allowed to rest. 

Until life pulsed in her body, it was her duty to go through everything. But then her nightmares came back, and she tasted metal on her tongue. Tears wetted her face, hot and unwavering in their descent. She wasn't allowed to grieve, especially not when so much was sacrificed for her to be here. There were only sins without repentance, and its sullen eyes met her unflinchingly. Every part of her ached from dread and exhaustion, but even then, she forced herself up. 

Yesterday unfolded, and each event was catalogued with disdain. She blinked harshly and hissed when the pain in her waist worsened. At least for now, she was seated and managed to survey her surroundings. The clothes from last night, damp and stained, still clung to her body, and the stitches freshly stung. Perhaps it was an error to ride her horse, but such regrets were futile. She looked around her surroundings and found comfort in the disarray. At least, she was still safe in this corner of the maddening world. 

Mikasa wanted to get up, but her hand was tightly clenched. 

The very axis of her world tilted when she sharply turned to her side and found him. Their hands were knitted together, as he slept near her legs. His imposing figure was neatly curled into a ball, as he dared not touch her, except for their interlinked fingers. He was still dressed in the wedding suit, as memories splashed over her like cold water. 

Eren had stayed. 

Happiness swelled in her, incapable of being restrained. It was a fleeting emotion, as dread always superseded everything. 

Mikasa was being selfish, and fate had a way of punishing her for it. Still, it couldn’t be helped, as a forsaken smile cracked her face. The warmth engulfed her cold chest. He stayed, even when she didn't deserve it. Fondness crept through her broken body; he didn’t abandon her, even if he had every reason to. 

Back then, any time she fell sick, he never left her side. She hated being alone when strength wasn't at her aid. She never voiced her fear, but he somehow knew it. 

Eren still possessed a kind face. She embedded it in her memory, as these seconds of serenity were rare. His eyebrows thickened, jawline sharpened, but there was only familiarity in every corner. He resembled his mother, a woman she hoped met a peaceful end. But knowing how fate worked, such hope was pointless. His long hair sprawled on the satin bedsheet like a bronze halo. There was beauty in his features, perfectly refined with time. They caught her gaze too much, and compelled her to possess them. My dear, you should never pluck the prettiest flower. Her mother’s words filled her head, even if virtue never came naturally. 

She noticed the way he slept silently, barely moving, as his lips formed a thin line. What do you dream of? She couldn’t help but wonder, as her thumb caressed his palm. The skin thorn around his fingers only made her grimace. A part of her knew it was entirely her fault; it was another sin on the ledger of her sacrifice. It sickened her to know how much of his pain was tied to her existence. 

Despite being drunk, she had trained herself to retain everything. It was helpful when she celebrated with the soldiers and struggled to hold her wine. He wasn't aware and ended up professing words she wasn’t supposed to hear.

Mikasa, even if I wanted to, I can never hate you. I just fucking can't. The desperation in his gaze burned her intimately. 

The profound realisation made her giddy. Lack of hatred meant there was room to make amends. They could form a bond again, without blistering words and violence. She missed the boy who fearlessly defied his fate. Would it be so wrong to have him again? The need to protect and cherish never ended, despite the years of silence. It came roaring back the moment she saw him again, and from that point onwards, she struggled to curtail her treacherous heart. 

The crushing reality came with nausea. She needed to protect him, even if it was from herself. 

The darkness of her fate took everything precious and sacrificed it remorselessly. Mikasa didn’t want him to linger in her world, especially when unknown forces staked a claim on her life. Last night, as it came back in terrorising glimpses, was a classic example of how the War Councillors operated. They could've taken Eren away from her so easily. Little pretence and dramatic gestures turned the room violent. She took him away, knowing danger lurked in their bigoted silence. The closer she got to him, the more it compromised his safety. 

Mikasa wanted to be next to him, but such a selfish want only brought consequences. It was a price she never wanted to pay. 

Eren mumbled in his sleep when she pulled her hand from his grasp. The loss of his warmth made her shiver. It felt wrong to undo the labour of his care, but such a choice needed to be made. She should've kept her distance from the start, crushed the fondness before it festered again, and brought old wounds out in the open. She should've fought harder and never agreed to the wedding. They were better as strangers; at least then her world couldn't smother his light. 

Mikasa had wronged him in every way imaginable, and he still stayed. He bore no hatred and handled her with care. She didn’t deserve any of it, and his revelation was better left unsaid. Now her rotten heart wanted things she couldn't possess. She deluded herself and called it care, but every part of her knew it was misguided empathy. He was the embodiment of kindness and couldn't stop giving it to her. 

She wanted to scream, but her parched throat couldn't accommodate it. 

“Forgive me,” she whispered, scraping loose strands off his face. This was the only touch she allowed herself. 

The muffled noises on the other side couldn't be ignored any longer. She already anticipated the dreadful company, but a part of her had hoped for more seconds of peace. Hope was never on her side; always a treacherous mistress who smiled at her inconvenience. The stitches along her waist sent pain cascading through her body. Each step made her hiss involuntarily. She was sober enough to feel everything. A couple of breathing exercises, cold water on her face, equipped her with enough resolve. Then again, it was never a matter of choice. Despite the disadvantages, she needed to perform and face every adversity. The shirt caked in blood was left clinging to her body. A terrible idea formed in her head, and she asked for his forgiveness again. 

Eren, despite the sparks of anger, was gentle to a fault. It was better to conceal his attributes. The War Councillors couldn't know he cared, how easily he crumpled her resolve, and unravelled her emotions. It was deception in the name of protection. 

Her abode was a wreck, still flipped around for a showcase of wedding dresses she never wore. Even the curtains were torn apart, with bottles toppled over, likely containing important documents. It smelled like decayed bellflowers mixed with ink; it was all hers. There was familiarity in the chaos, while the outside threatened to end the comfort. She dreaded the outcome, but lacked the strength to prolong it. Still tattered from last night and barefoot, she slowly trudged towards the door. It would be better if she showed them the mess. 

When she pushed open the door, sounds hit her first. Voices raised, sharp with accusation and fear. The corridor beyond vibrated with movement: maids clutched sleeves and arms as they attempted to hold back the War Councillors. She stepped into a storm, feeling vulnerable in this state. They wanted to witness her broken and bleeding. A desire so harrowingly human. She could at least manoeuvre around it. Thankfully, Sasha wasn't around; it was one worry off her constrained chest.

Gross smelled blood in the water and came for her. He was dressed in a robe laced at the seams. His wicked eyes glistened. His jaw hung a little crooked; a reminder of the violence she had inflicted. Besides him stood Nile, tall and slender, with a face weathered by time. Unlike his companion, there was concern in his features. Other War Councillors accompanied them, but none spoke unless the two needed it. The chaos silenced upon her appearance. Just the sound of her breathing, ragged, filled the fragile quietude. The ache in her side bloomed with each step. Then the shouting surged again, and she walked forward into it, unsteady but unflinching, ready for the assault. 

“Treacherous whore,” Gross greeted her with too much vigour. “How dare you insult your kin and side with the outsiders?" The accusations never hesitated a moment to besmirch her loyalty. She could give up her body for the land, and they’d still mark her a traitor. It was a petty dance she long abandoned. The act of keeping them locked up ruffled every kind of feather. 

“Mr Gross,” Mikasa mused, letting the disrespect simmer between them, “Be more specific. You take offence at far too many things.” His look of irritation was worth any aftermath. Her mother would've reprimanded such disgrace, but she was beyond the point of caring. 

Someone wanted her dead, and her fingers naturally pointed at the War Councillors. But even they weren't so bold. Regardless, her patience faded, and restraints struggled to control her violence. 

Nile scrutinised her appearance and grimaced visibly. Still, decency prevented him from bringing it up, even when her onlookers were drenched in curiosity. It was a little gamble; the kind Armin always had up his sleeves. If Pixis told them the truth, then they’d attribute her disheveledness to the assassination, but if any aspect was concealed, then they’d blame Eren. Every rebel was a brute to them, maintaining that image benefited her. Showing her kindness was akin to a sentence of death. It was safer this way, but regret knotted in her guts. 

“The Rebels are taking over our city and you’re letting it happen,” Nile declared, after the shock wore off. She never allowed them to see her unravel, and the slightest visage of unruly left them gawking. "Your Highness, it saddens me to see you like this.” There was concern in his gaze, but he hid it away quickly. No one could care for the queen and remain unscarred.

How much information was divulged? While she slumbered, their fragile balance of peace was threatened. Two assassinations meant Shiganshina’s safety was compromised, and even a foreign disease reclaimed their land. Her people must've been terrified while she remained cosy in these walls. Far too many questions flared through her head; the ache behind her eyes only worsened. The situation could turn dire and make her the first unfortunate victim. 

Mikasa shouldn't have fanned the flames by keeping the War Councillors locked. But the look on their faces was worth it. She should’ve arrested the rebels as one of them did attempt to take her life, but the delight of seeing the War Councillors flutter around like headless chickens was worth it. Last night, she chose with her heart and learned why such a predicament was dangerous. Unlike her mother, only malice lurked within her veins. 

“You should be worried about a possible chickenpox outbreak," Mikasa snapped, willing the splitting headache away. It came back with vengeance. 

Many voices whispered around them with apprehension. Many moons ago, Shiganshina faced the disease, and many suffered and burned. It was worth consideration over petty disdain for the outsiders. 

“But, the Rebels—” Nile wanted to interject, but she simply held up her hand. It was marvellous how such a simple action prompted silence. 

“The rebels are being set up,” She informed, witnessing practised widening of eyes and gasps of shock.  “We will look into the matter and apprehend the perpetrators." Her gaze was fixated on the War Councillors. She never hid her accusations, and their desolate faces showed no remorse. 

But why would they want her dead? Killing the queen was the ultimate act of treason, and their bloodline would suffer. They never made gambles that threatened their comfort. Just like the rebels, the War Councillors were the obvious answer. She was missing something. Hopefully, Armin had better luck than she. 

They couldn't blame the rebels without brushing past the real issue. She noticed the glint in Gross’s eyes and knew he wanted to grab her jugular and make it personal. He walked closer, unable to match her defined height. He was going to step inside her abode, but she sharply blocked his path.

“Is that rebel filth worth the hassle?” Gross asked, amused by the sincerity of her reaction. She cursed internally. “Even when he leaves you like this?” He jagged a hand at her blotchy appearance. 

Her gamble was paying off, but there wasn't any satisfaction. It only made her feel terrible. With gentle hands, Eren had patched her up and remained at her side. She repaid his kindness by beginning a rumour of a vicious night together. She hated nothing more than falsehood; even when it became a part of her arsenal. Are you proud now? Her mother began and ended in lies; her truth lost in fragrant memories. 

“What’s mine will never be yours,” Mikasa asserted, making it about her pride. It was territory they were familiar with, and it concealed her care. 

Eren made her feel achingly human.

“Fucking that outsider has made you soft,” Gross noted, flinching his audience. He liked provoking her, and each reaction uncovered a weakness. She was too familiar, but even then, anger spilt from the seams. 

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” Mikasa countered, levelling her voice. “I will continue my bloodline now. Wasn’t that my only purpose? As you’ve told me so many times, and oh so eloquently.” Her tongue had a mind of its own, and the lingering alcohol made her unfurl. The throbbing behind her eyes flared like smugness on Gross’s face. 

“How low has our proud queen fallen?” Gross mused, deliberately jabbing, and her restraints screamed. 

Don’t let him know. He just wanted to reaffirm his assumptions. Gross, figuring out how innately her care for Eren ran, terrified her to no end. 

She needed to act, even if disgust churned in her stomach. For his sake, she needed to tell a lie, and it compelled forgiveness. Her blank face matched the Councillor’s gaze; her eyes were bleak like an obsidian night. He didn’t flinch, as the thrill of having her cornered was a sight he often sought. 

Do it for his sake and make your mother proud. She wanted to be like her mother, but now, the choices crisscrossed over her neck. 

“Quite the brute,” Mikasa agreed, keeping her voice uncharacteristically lithe. It made most of the maids shiver, and Nile turned away. “I wanted affection and it ended up being…” Words burned on her tongue. The delight on the Councillor’s face was abrupt. “Does that brighten your day, Mr Gross? I ended up with a man who left me bruised.” She continued, lies were like acid drenching her parched throat. 

Mikasa was too proud for them, and such a lie only fanned their desires to see her crumble. They couldn't touch her, but if someone else had his way with her— it was all the same in their eyes. Eren was going to hate it, and it was another conversation she dreaded. Once again, using him for the sake of protecting him. The contradiction was capable of breaking her fragile resolve. 

I can never hate you. A part of her wondered how long? She ruined every good thing that existed between them. Even now, she made everything worse and prolonged their descent. 

“What else do you expect from a—” Gross clamped his uneven jaw shut. He was going to insult her mother, but memories held him back. It was the only satisfaction she felt during this bleak morning. “Asami’s bastard,” He corrected himself, refusing to acknowledge the way his voice quivered. 

I could choke the life out of you. She needed to remain steady. 

Gross’s fascination with her mother never made sense. He needed to revisit all her failures and wield each mistake like a victory. Her mother was a lingering ghost who loved too fiercely and paid the price for it. So, why was he obsessed with her existence? She had seen the way he watched her mother with morbid fascination. He couldn’t understand her choices, and it must’ve frustrated him.

“Do you believe in love, Mr Gross?” Mikasa asked, diverting before her resolve crumbled. Unlike her mother, she was simple, and that made her an ideal target. She spoke his language of violence, and struggled to practice compassion. 

“I practice love in every part of my life, " Gross admitted, eyes glistening from the revelation. “It’s love to exist, to desire, and to want. And, no one knows it better than me.” His declaration was sincere, and it just sickened her. 

“It’s control, not love,” Mikasa sighed, unfazed by the wicked man’s confession. “That’s why my mother bothers you so much; so full of love and uncontrollable like wildfire." He wanted to destroy what he couldn't possess. The silence was enough confirmation. She saw through him, and he refused to give her the satisfaction. 

“You’ll never be her,” Gross whispered, filled with forlorn aggression. The smile on his face never broke, but the tension between them sought blood. 

“When my mother looked at cruelty, she offered it comfort,” Mikasa said, eerily calm, holding his cold gaze. “When I look at cruelty, I want to put it out of its misery.” She blatantly threatened him, without any regard for the consequences. 

Letting her heart decide was dangerously addictive.