THE TREE ON THE HILL • Eren Jaeger

iv. the fall.

2855.

"STRING THE ARROW, then let it fly."

Holding a nocked bow in your hands, you let go of the arrow. It ledges into the bullseye of Sasha's archery practice target. A dog beside you barks, tail wagging, showing his assent. You don't jump up and down like he does, but you are satisfied.

When Abraham surprised you with a dog, of all creatures, telling you that he would serve as your guide if you ever got lost in the woods again, you were initially apprehensive. Dogs are sociable creatures and your taciturn disposition makes them seem like a bad fit. But the dog was a hunting dog, born to enter the moors. He picks up another arrow from the pile like it's a play stick and places it by your feet.

"Sit," you say, and he does.

"You're a natural at hunting," Sasha tells you. "City folks say there's no use with hunting anymore and that it's old-fashioned, but it's tradition."

"The architecture in Shiganshina District does that," you say, thinking back to your last descent down to the city. "They've barely rebuilt entire neighborhoods."

Sasha scrunched her nose. "Really? Everything was torn down after the Rumbling destroyed things two thousand years ago. I should teach you the country's history sometime and put you into a real school."

Your mouth presses into a line. It is one of your greatest oppositions to be caged with other people your age. You cannot stand it—the uncomfortable looks on your classmates' faces every time you drew near, the pursed lips of cruel and egotistical professors, the endless stacks of work you had to fulfill just to receive a flimsy passing grade. All you remember of school is that it is a miserable and dreary building permeated with gray tones.

"My siblings tutoring me at home is enough, I like being a hunter," you say carefully. "And I do know Paradis history. Today is the anniversary of Wall Maria's fall."

"That's not wrong, but you can't settle for only that," she admonishes. "At least not forever. One day, you have to leave the orphanage like your siblings and find something to do with your life."

You say it before you think twice: "Assuming I don't die."

At this, Sasha goes quiet. She seems to have forgotten about your illness, and it makes you feel guilty. She genuinely saw you as her sibling, and all you have been is reluctant to indulge in her hospitality as though you are ungrateful.

You say sorry and you are sorry —a sense of guilt does weigh on you for how ruthlessly you had been saying such taboo — but a covert part of you is annoyed at the irony that you are the one comforting Sasha when you are the one expecting to die. You're sure she must be envisioning herself standing at your grave, placing flowers and regretting that she hadn't tried harder to bring you out of your shell more as if being an introvert was an unlucky curse that befell poor children with lifelong misery.

You'd feel much more sorry for the dog, who has no responsibility to maintain moral humanity and would actually mourn you greatly once you were buried underground.

"Don't apologize," says Sasha, wiping her cheek. You stand awkwardly to the side, not knowing what to do. Your mother never hugged you or kissed you or patted your tears away when you were sad. "I just feel awful about how unfair the world has been to you. But soon, you'll get better and the illness will go away, I just know it."

"I hope so," you say. You don't mean it in an unkind way.

"I s'pose you aren't up for archery anymore," she says. "Let's do something simple and fun. Something the dog would like too. What about gathering firewood?"