Chapter Text
Tree leaves rustled in the light breeze, soaking up the warm afternoon sun. It was the point in the season when summer melted into early autumn, when the lingering warmth began to be offset by the cooler evenings, and winds of change started to brush the earth as it prepared to change colour from green to golden-orange, russet-brown, and grey. The harvest was almost ready to be gathered in, soon to leave the ground bare before winter’s frost arrived.
An aura of peace lay over the farmland as the post wagon plodded its way along the worn dirt road, kicking up clouds of dust as it went. It seemed so calm, so idyllic.
Just by looking at it, no outsider could guess that Wall Maria had fallen only a matter of days ago.
Petra watched the wagon’s progress from her vantage point, crouched high in the branches of the old apple tree. As it approached, she began to clamber down, the basket of apples hanging in the crook of her elbow.
The first news had come as a shock.
At first, she couldn’t believe it; everything had seemed so normal here. There had been no earthquake or rain of fire or anything that seemed to serve as proof of the upheaval. Besides, what could possibly bring the walls down? They had stood tall for a hundred years!
Then, as the reality began to sink in, she started noticing more. The neighbours would worry over some relative from Wall Maria, now lost, with no knowledge whether they were alive or dead. The farms were ordered to give up more food at harvest, in order for it to be distributed evenly among the starving refugees. On one of her rare trips into town, she had seen people who were desperate enough to fight over a loaf of bread, or else stared blankly at the world with eyes that had seen too much.
Once, she had returned home in the evening to find her father polishing the old shotgun, the kitchen’s homely scent overpowered by the smell of oil and metal. There had been reports of strangers in the area, of food being stolen, of doors and windows forced open in the dead of night.
No matter how hard anyone tried, it was becoming impossible to ignore the truth—that change was coming, and something had to give way.
Petra shuddered slightly, then pulled herself together. She ran a hand through her dishevelled hair, brushing her ginger braid back over her shoulder.
Dropping lightly to the ground, she set down the basket and dusted off her old, mud-stained clothes. Standing up, she gave her arms a quick stretch before jogging forward to meet the post wagon.
Maybe there would be some news about the wall. Maybe there was some kind of plan to take back the land that had been lost. After all, there was no way that Wall Rose could shelter all the refugees that had come to seek safety from the titans—there just weren’t enough resources.
A flicker of anxiety stirred in her stomach, but she pushed it down. Everything was going to be fine, she told herself. The higher-ups would find a way to fix the situation, and everything would go back to the way it was before. There was nothing she needed to worry about…
Right?
Snap.
The fire hissed as a log crackled in the fireplace, breaking the deafening silence that hung over the dinner table.
A single letter lay unfolded on the wooden surface, the paper crisp and unstained. Its pristine, sharp edges and neat printed letters looked completely out of place among the half-eaten plates of food and scattered cutlery that littered the table.
Petra looked up slowly at her father, sitting on the opposite side of the table. The newspaper lay untouched at his elbow as he rested his head on his hand, massaging his brow with his fingertips.
She couldn’t think of anything to say. Instead, she reached for the letter and let her gaze scan over the lines, as if reading it again could offer up some previously-unseen loophole.
In order to ensure the survival of humanity, each household is required to offer up at least one fit adult male to be conscripted…
…the expedition to take back Wall Maria…
There were no words to be said. This letter, no matter how high-quality the paper or how neat the writing, was nothing more or less than a death sentence.
Going beyond the walls was not simply dangerous, it was borderline lunacy. Even those brave enough to venture out into titan territory suffered terrible losses, many returning with haunted eyes and bloodstained clothes…
And that was if you were lucky enough to return at all.
And yet, with the loss of Wall Maria, the surviving remnants of humanity had been crammed into an even smaller cage than before—one which could not support them. This sacrifice was cruel, but it was better than simply allowing everyone to starve.
Petra looked up again.
She was an only child, and since her mother’s death some years ago, she and her father were the only two living in this farmhouse.
Which meant that there was only one person here who fit the description of a ‘fit adult male’.
Really, what was there to say?
Petra lowered her eyes back to the letter.
…must report to the following address for basic training before the following date…
“It’s in a week.” Petra said quietly. “Dad, the deadline’s in a week.”
Dad let out a slow, heavy sigh. “I know, Petra. I know.”
The pit in Petra’s stomach deepened. She stared at her plate.
It was ironic. Humanity may be on the brink of starvation, but now she didn’t even have the stomach to finish her food.
“You shouldn’t have to go.” Her mouth had gone dry, and just forcing the words out made her throat feel like sandpaper, but she had to say something, anything rather than accept the cruel reality—
“Petra.”
Petra shook her head. “You can’t go. We’re farmers, right? You need to stay and run the farm so people can have enough to eat… we should write to them, tell them that you need to stay here—”
“Petra.”
She was talking faster now, raising her voice in a fit of frantic energy. “They have to listen—”
“Petra.”
“You can’t go!” Petra shouted, overwhelmed by her own helpless anger. “I’m not going to just sit by and—”
She couldn’t finish her sentence. Her throat closed up, her own words choking her.
She heard the chair grate against the floor as her father stood up, crossing over to her side of the table and pulling her into a hug.
Petra felt her eyes prickle as Dad’s arms squeezed her gently. Her hands curled into fists, grasping his woollen jumper between her fingers and pressing her forehead against his shoulder.
“There, now.” His tone was low and soothing, his hand rubbing her back comfortingly. “It’s alright, sweetheart. It’ll all turn out fine, you’ll see…”
Petra buried her head further into him. “It’s not fair,” she mumbled, her voice muffled.
She felt him release a heavy sigh.
“I know, Petra,” he said quietly. “It isn’t fair. But there’s nothing we can do about it.”
His pained admission made something deep inside her wrench. She clenched her jaw, trying to hold back a sob, but she couldn’t stop the tears from spilling out onto her cheeks.
Was there really nothing that they could do? Was there no way around this?
Would she be forced to stand by and watch as her only family left—almost certainly to his death?
No. No way. There had to be some other option.
Petra opened her mouth, but her throat was so dry and tight that her voice only came out as a croak. “I could…” she tried.
“Hey.” Dad gently interrupted her, his voice shifting into a lighter tone. “Don’t be so quick to write me off, alright? After all, I’m fairly robust. Those titans won’t know what hit ’em! So have a little faith in your old father, hm?”
“…could go.”
“Mm?”
Petra raised her head slowly. “I could go.”
“Go where?” A bemused frown creased his brow.
Her eyes met his, still surprised by her own idea. “I could go instead of you,” she said softly.
He shook his head, a strange half-smile of confusion crossing his face. “Petra, what are you talking about?”
“I’m serious!” Petra’s thoughts were racing, her conviction growing with every moment. “I can do it. Everyone says I look like a boy anyway, and as long as they don’t find out, it’ll be fine—as long as I cut my hair short, and—”
Dad pulled away, placing his hands on her shoulders. The smile was gone now. “Petra. That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking!” Petra insisted. “I can do it, I really can—”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” His tone had turned sharp. “You’re not a soldier, Petra. You’re a young woman—”
“Well, as long as they don’t find out—”
“THIS ISN’T A GAME, PETRA!”
Petra jumped, taken aback by the force of his shout.
Dad took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. He let his shoulders sag as he turned back to sit down in his seat, one hand coming up to massage his brow.
Petra waited.
He lowered his hand, keeping his gaze composed. “Petra,” he said calmly. “I understand why you’d be upset by this. Believe me, I really do get it. But what you’re suggesting is…” he waved a hand in a wild gesture. “It’s insanity! No woman can become a soldier—and as your father, I refuse to allow you to go off to your death!”
Petra’s throat clenched, and she swallowed.
“But it’s fine for you?” Even exerting the full extent of her self-control, she was fighting to keep her voice steady. “It’s alright if you’re the one dying?”
“That’s enough, Petra.” Dad picked up the newspaper, unfolding the first page. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
Petra blinked, shocked.
“You… you’re just going to drop the subject?” She asked, eyes wide in disbelief. “Just like that?”
“I said, we’ll talk about it tomorrow.” Dad pointed a finger. “And no more of this nonsense about pretending to be a boy, alright?”
It wasn’t a question. His tone had a flat finality to it, indicating that the conversation was over.
Petra sat still in shock for a moment. Then, pushing her chair back, she stood from the table and darted away, pounding her way up the stairs and into her room.
She shut the door as quickly as she could without slamming it, and leaned her back against the smooth wood for a moment as she caught her breath.
Obviously, this wasn’t the first argument she had had with her father. But compared to this, all of their disagreements had been trivial—petty conflicts of no consequence, in which little more than pride was at stake. But this —
This might become the last argument they would ever have.
As that final thought crossed her mind, the veneer of her self-control broke down and she slumped to the floor, burying her face in her knees as she finally let out the sobs she had been holding back.
This wasn’t fair. It would never be fair. And what was more (the thought prompting another muffled cry into her clothes), she was completely and utterly powerless to change
anything.
There was a soft knock.
Petra stirred herself, sitting up on her bed and wiping the tears from her face as the door opened a crack.
“Can I come in?” Dad glanced through, before pushing the door open at her quiet nod.
Petra shuffled to the edge of her bed, untucking her legs from underneath her.
There was an awkward silence.
Dad cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about getting angry at you earlier,” he said quietly. “And I wanted to give you this.”
He held out a small, rectangular wooden box. Petra slowly reached out and took it, looking up with a questioning glance.
Dad scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “It’s a gift. I was going to give you this as a wedding present, but considering the circumstances… I think it’s right for you to have it now.”
Petra frowned slightly, but didn’t say anything. Instead, she carefully opened the box.
Inside, wrapped carefully within a cloth, lay a silver hairpin.
Smooth and lovingly polished, the metal gleamed in the light as Petra moved the cloth aside, eyes widening in wonder. It had been crafted to look like a tree branch, complete with a single bird standing perched on one end, its tail spread and wings outstretched as if it was about to take off into flight. It was a remarkable piece of craftsmanship; she could almost count the feathers painstakingly engraved into the metal, running her thumb over the tiny feet gripping the branch.
It was like nothing else she had ever seen in the house. She was no expert, but something with this level of detail was bound to be incredibly valuable—had they really had this at home for all this time?
“This was your mother’s.” Dad sat next to her on the bed, his face softening into a slight smile.
Petra blinked in surprise. She couldn’t remember ever seeing her mother wearing it—but then again, this wasn’t the kind of thing you’d wear while working on a farm. She picked the hairpin out of the box, turning it over in her fingers. As she did, she noticed something.
“What’s this hole for?” Petra pointed at the wider end of the hairpin, where a small hole had been bored into the silver.
“Ah. I can’t say for certain, but according to your grandmother, there’s a family legend that it was smuggled all the way from Wall Sina.” The corners of his eyes creased in amusement. “It’s quite a good story, actually. Apparently, it’s thanks to some troublemaker ancestor of yours who stole the hairpin and evaded the police for long enough to tie it around the neck of his dog, which arrived at his home a couple of days later… but that’s all just hearsay.”
“It’s beautiful.” Petra carefully placed it back in the box.
Her father watched, his smile fading to be replaced by a frown of concern. “Petra. Your mother loved you, and she only ever wanted the best for you. You understand that, don’t you?”
Petra nodded.
“Good.” Dad placed his hand on her shoulder, making her hold his eye contact. “I know I said we’d talk about it tomorrow, but I want you to promise me—right now—that you won’t say anything more about going in my place. No more talk about pretending to be a boy just so you can put yourself in danger. Can you do that for me?”
Petra sighed quietly, but seeing his expression, she couldn’t bring herself to start arguing again. “Ok.”
“You promise?”
“Yeah. I promise.”
Petra stared out through her window, gazing into the inky darkness of night that lay over the farm.
The box containing the silver hairpin lay closed on her bedside table. It had been a few days since her father had gifted it to her, and she had never tried to wear it, despite looking at it every day.
As promised, she hadn’t said another word about joining the army. Dad, clearly relieved by her compliance, had spent the last few evenings engrossed in preparation, making sure that she would have everything she needed in case their worst fears came true.
“Listen. The farm goes to you, but once you get married, it passes into your husband’s possession. In the meantime, the Kilburnes will help run the farm, and you’ll be staying with them — it isn’t safe for you to stay here by yourself…”
The Kilburne family owned the next farm along from the Rals’, making them each other’s closest neighbours. Petra had met them any number of times, and they were all friendly enough, but she wouldn’t describe herself as being close to any of them.
In fact, one of their sons—Michael, the oldest—was joining the expedition to take back Wall Maria. As far as she could tell, the family was optimistic, certain of his triumphant return, but it was probably little more than an act; putting on a brave face in front of their neighbours.
Petra pushed her curtain further aside, letting a stream of bright moonlight into her bedroom.
As agreed, she hadn’t tried to argue about the upcoming expedition. She hadn’t said anything more about going herself, and she hadn’t made any further objections to her father’s planned departure. To all appearances, she had resigned herself to the situation.
The reality, however, was the opposite.
Petra’s heart thumped nervously in her chest.
She had spent the past few days secretly making preparations of her own; even now, a packed bag lay hidden under her bed, complete with a change of clothes, some essentials, and her small savings that she had gathered over the past few years. Granted, she didn’t have much of a plan, but she didn’t exactly have the luxury of time either.
She was just going to have to wing it.
And now, she had arrived at the crossroads: do nothing and stay safely at home, or carry out her crazy idea and risk everything.
One thing was certain—if she was going to leave, she would have to leave tonight.
Which brought her to the final stage of her preparations.
The large scissors gleamed slightly in the dim light, winking at her as they lay on her bedside table. She had fished them out of her sewing kit earlier, and now she picked them up, feeling the solid weight of the cold metal between her fingers.
This was it. Her final chance to turn back.
Petra reached for her mirror. She didn’t dare light a candle, in case her father saw the glow; she’d have to do this by moonlight.
Placing the mirror on her windowsill, she held her hair away from her neck and raised the scissors.
Her stomach churned with nerves, and she shut her eyes.
Snip.
The first lock of hair fell from her head, and just like that, there was no turning back.
She was doing this.
Petra drew in a slow, deep breath, and fixed her eyes on the mirror with a determined glare. She picked out the next strand of hair, and raised the scissors again.
More locks of hair joined the first as she worked, cutting away one section after another and trimming the ends as neatly as she could. She picked up the mirror to examine herself, squinting through the corners of her eyes to check the sides of her head.
Finally satisfied, she set the scissors down next to her.
The figure in the mirror turned their head slowly this way and that, scrutinising their appearance. Their ginger hair was cropped short, save for a couple of bangs that framed their face. They rubbed the back of their head with a slim hand, trying to accustom themself to the unusual sensation of the trimmed ends. Their golden eyes gleamed with a mixture of apprehension and excitement as they quickly turned away, putting away the mirror and gathering up the discarded hair before slipping off the bed to change their clothes.
This was it.