𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈 : 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 *

You released that breath-bound arrow, and it flew right over the candle. The little, taunting flame went out no more than a second before the metal implanted itself in the tree bark.

The Ripper sent out a low whistle. "Better, kid, but we're aiming for the candlestick, not the flame. Try again."

Again and again, Kenny relit the candle, as you could only come close enough to blow out the wick. You never did hit the candle wax that night, but you were so close. Your little failures must have been enough for the Ripper because he invited you back the next night with the promise of going raccoon hunting.

When you returned home and met with your dearest to tell him of your progress, Jean concerned himself more greatly with treating your painted fingers than your eager retellings. Before he left in the morning, your Frenchman advised you to hide your hands from Niccolo during the day. Should your guardian question your wounds, you were to blame it on some slipped fingers while stitching or accidentally slicing the skin with fabric shears. Niccolo never did ask, nor did Sunny when she came to visit you with two new books. She read alongside you well into the evening while you stitched more black thread over your crimson dress' bust.

You took several breaks to nap, seeing as your nightly activities weighed heavily on your lids. You dreamt of blood on your younger fingers each time you drifted off, and Sunny gently awoke you every time you jolted with unpleasantness. She left both books on your nightstand, saying you could add them to your library, and wished for sweet dreams to find you in the night.

But that night, after you slipped Niccolo his nightly tonic, you met the Ripper with more confidence. Fear did not shake your fingers as it did the night prior, and determination rolled through your veins in steady ocean tides. You came across three raccoons during your hunt, thanks to Kenny's sneaky food-baiting, and although you lost two from misplaced arrows and one due to the sound of your feet crunching in the brush, you felt good as you rode home. Accomplished, even.

Because it's easy to make promises, but it is much harder to keep them. You promised to end all this misery–to free Jean and Eren from their self-imposed hunt for justice–and you were upholding that oath. Each release of your bowstring brought you closer.

So much closer.

You tried to impress this on Jean when you recounted how the raccoons darted away, but he concerned himself regarding the blisters painting your ankles from hunting's hiking. He bandaged them up, as he bandaged your fingers, and instructed you to wear winter socks until the wounds disappeared.

Niccolo never saw the wounds, nor did Carla when she stopped by with soup and sandwiches. She made some hushed comments regarding her lost pie tin and when she'd see the metal again, but you brushed the topic off casually with your written responses. The mother did ask if you had tried speaking yet, and you lied with a simple shake of your head. What she didn't know wouldn't kill her.

And the third night, you returned to the Ripper's roost for a second try. He greeted you by shoving your new weapon into stronger hands and leading you out into the darkness with the only lights coming from the speckled navy sky and the hanging moon. The deeper you followed Kenny through a maze of oaks and poison ivy ropes, you found yourself in awe of how such a large man could move so silently. He stepped with ghostly softness, and his vision for life rivaled any God. He could spot a squirrel from the highest branches and pick out a rabbit a hundred feet away.

But even with his sight, you lacked the skill necessitated to stick an arrowhead in anything other than dirt and bark.

It would be different with a man, you reasoned. Men were big targets, and the Sergeant was as wide as he was tall. Such large prey would be easy to locate and extinguish with whatever weapon was at your disposal.