Truehearted

By normal standards, she'd had a happy childhood.

Her parents weren't wealthy-she was born to a lowly shopkeeper and a servant to the respectable Svoboda family-but they were honest, hardworking people who doted on their only daughter. Her father adored her, always proudly telling his customers what a joy she was to him and his wife. She had vague memories of playing in his shop, crawling through a jungle of fresh cut flowers and getting her hands and knees and dress full of dirt. She might've smeared it on her face, too. And possibly in her hair. Maybe that's why patrons like pinching her grinning cheeks so much when she toddled out to say hi.

They called her a sweetheart, her parents' little angel.

She was five years old when her mother took her to the Svoboda Estate, telling her the Earl's youngest grandchild wanted someone like her to play with. Her auburn hair was pleated into two neat braids and she wore the nice, blue dress that was always saved for church on Sonntags. Her mother held her by the hand when they entered through the side door, moving through a narrow corridor, up a triangle staircase, and down another wider hallway. The Lady Svoboda was waiting for them in the front parlor, as was her only daughter.

Miss Zsófia, Petra quickly learned, was a shut-in child, a little frail and often sick, so it was rare for her to leave the house and call on others, and even more infrequent for her herself to have visitors. She was very excited to meet her, though, very eager to talk to and play with someone her own age. She had brothers she told her, but they were mean and pulled at her dark curls whenever Maminka wasn't looking. She asked her what her favorite games were, which stories she liked, did she sing, could she dance, and other things wealthy daughters apparently did. In the end, Lady Svoboda asked her daughter if she liked their housekeeper's girl.

She nodded.

In the years to come, they would hide from Governess Leclerc in that parlor, crouching behind the garish settee, giggling, and shushing each other while Leclerc strode about that particular wing of the manor, hands on her thin hips and shouting for them. She always found them, with the occasional assistance of the maids and the old butler, who would find them, press a neat, gloved finger to his lips, and assist them in their mischief. Despite all this, Leclerc was patient, even indulgent, with their games, shaking her head with a poorly hidden smile when she stumbled across them.

But lessons were lessons, and they were to be completed everyday, except Sunday, and any delays resulted in cuts to their free time. So, still giggling, they'd take their seats and listen diligently. Three tutors, each more peevish and prune-faced than the last, were tasked with educating them to be proper ladies, teaching them everything from dancing to diplomacy. Singing, letters, embroidery, linguistics, history, horsemanship, literature, arithmetic, music, social protocol of aristocracy and royalty, she learned everything the Earl Svoboda's granddaughter did. The tutors were not keen on the idea of mentoring a servant's girl along with the lady, but Petra was Miss Zsófia's beloved playmate, and Miss Zsófia wouldn't have it any other way.

When lessons were over, Leclerc sent them off to the courtyard to play in the garden beneath an apple tree as old as Karanes. The groundskeeper, along with the house staff and the men who maintained the stable, called him Hazael for the knothole in his trunk that looked remarkably like a human eye watching over the grounds. They claimed the first head of the Svoboda Family, sovereign of Karanes, had planted the core of an apple here to mark this land as his own. The story changed depending on the teller. Some claimed the tree sprouted then and there, others said the fruit it bore granted perpetual health, and still others swore on their very lives the tree even spoke in times of great tragedy.

But Petra knew how trees grew, thanks to an explanation from her father. Hazael's fruit, while it made delicious pies for New Year celebrations, only granted an upset stomach after one slice too many. As for him speaking, she never heard a peep.

To her and Miss Zsófia, he was just Mr. Bark, an ancient tree that was sacrilege to climb, a good source of shade for the hot summer months, and the provider of a delicious annual treat. They spent hours of their childhood in the shelter of his thick branches, Miss Zsófia practicing her embroidery, Petra practicing her letters by reading to her. They liked the adventure stories best with giants and dragons and all manner of foul beasts for the hero to fight. Petra hated the princesses with a passion, declaring them ridiculous, dependant ninnies. Why ask a prince to complete a task when it could easily be done by oneself? Miss Zsófia tried to explain it was proof of love….or something stupid like that.

Other days, they were permitted to visit the Sokol Manor across the city and play with the falcons. The handler was always pleased to see them and even taught them to hunt with and train the raptors. Petra knew all their names by heart, but her favorites were the two peregrines Streik and Flora, the merlin Velocity, and the arrogant golden eagle named Prince, who bit nearly everyone who tried to touch him. Only two handlers, his gentle owner Madame Sokol, and herself after she once disentangled him from a rabbit net were allowed the privilege. Her hands were covered in scratches and her hair full of feathers by the end of that ordeal, but in the end, Prince awarded her the heavy honor of using her shoulder for his favorite perch.

When it rained, they spent their free time in the music room. Miss Zsófia preferred to listen to Petra play the piano, lying on the floor, flat on her belly with her dainty shoes in the air, knocking her heels together. She hummed along with the slow tunes and perfected her dance lessons to the quicker ones, and they began leaving the door open after the time they caught two maids and a private MP guard listening in from the hallway.

But then, the lady of the house ventured into the room, curious at first, then scowling when she saw it was the housekeeper's brat playing, and not her cherished but lackluster daughter. Though no one ever, ever said it aloud, Miss Zsófia was a mediocre student and struggled with the harder subjects, like arithmetic and history. Eventually, the governess instructed Petra to downplay her skills in order to 'motivate' the young mistress and the tutors even began striking their switch into her palms as punishment for Miss Zsófia's mistakes. Her cheeks still burned at the injustice of it, but what could she could do? Miss Zsófia couldn't do a thing either, except study harder. No cared if the daughter of a servant's hands were so raw they bled. Lady Svoboda even encouraged it. She grew to despise her after the incident with the piano, and refused to let her go near it. Miss Zsófia did her best so she wouldn't suffer and even bandaged her hands and kissed her palms, weeping hopeless apologies.

Her joining the military started with a noble ideal.

While walking through Karanes' market, tailed by their MP guard Solberg, they happened upon the sign-up roster. The recruiter on duty had fallen asleep, snoring away with a flask of what they assumed wasn't water sitting in his lap. Solberg's eyes flashed as she smiled, then she liberated the flask from the unconscious man and took an ample swallow. "There's honor in serving in the Brigade, Ral. Among other things."

Her mother was overjoyed to learn of her ambition to join the Brigade. Any choice Petra made that ensured her a better life than her parents always made Matka happy. And her father….well, he allowed her to do whatever made her happy.

It would've been a secure life. Living as a confidant could protect Miss Zsófia.

But she remembered those years in training and realizing just how small the pond she'd been born into really was, and how ignorant she was about the world outside the walls of the Svoboda Estate. Out here were people who had also lofty goals like her, yes, but also others who only wanted security, food, and other necessities. Some had come hoping to support their families and better their lives. And still others had come for vengeance, children who'd lost relatives to the titans. Hearing stories like that made her feel rotten. Like a spoiled child.

She graduated seventh place.

And she threw it away.

She didn't want to be an MP tethered to the Svobodas, then later to the Sokols when her friend married into their family. After everything, she didn't want to bury herself in the sandbox she'd played in since she was born. She spent three years striving for this, so it was a last minute decision. One she made without telling her parents, her friends, not even Zsófia, and certainly not the Svoboda family. All that was on her mind then, as she stood among her comrades listening to morbid promises that half of them would be dead after the first expedition, was this-the Survey Corps-was her way out.

When those who wished to join the Military Police or the Garrison were dismissed, she lost herself in the crowd of retreating cadets, hiding from Morgenstern and the other top ten, her friends, until she stood with a small, sorry fraction of the daunting force that had stood there earlier. The few brave enough, or stupid enough, to see what was beyond the outer gates. No words were spoken to commend them. They were ordered to form an orderly line and sign the roster. And before she could change her mind, she scribbled her name. Commander Shadis had frowned at her, recognizing her as one of the elites but said nothing. If she wanted to throw away the status promised her as an interior soldier, that was her business.

Petra clenched her jaw, feeling her eyes water, but she made no move to dry them as she stared at the letter in her hands. She'd been irresponsible, behaving like a child and running off like that. They deserved better than that. An apology, a warning, at least a goddamned proper explanation. Her friends among the elites must've been so confused when they left and found she wasn't with them. Morgenstern was a nice boy; she ought to have done right by him and turned him down face to face instead of breaking his heart by fleeing him and sending a flippant note a month later. Her parents had been the most wonderful people she knew, and yet she'd abandoned them like an ungrateful daughter. And Zsófia was her best friend.

They'd all written her letters just like this one. Angry letters, frightened letters, desperate letters, ones that hurt so much she stopped reading and burned them, unopened, as soon as they arrived. She hid behind the walls of the former Headquarters when her parents came for her. She remembered watching Squad Leaders Trask and Montagna arguing with them, deaf to what was being said but all too aware of her mother's wildly gesturing hands and her father wringing his wrists. Trask eventually tracked her down, announcing her parents wished to see her, and nodded in understanding when she refused. "This happens more often than you'd think."

She used to be a good girl. A good, obedient girl who heeded her parents.

"Hey, Pet, you coming?" Herr Bozard shouted after her. The formation was assembling before West Gate. Captain Addario was shouting for his men to fall in.

Tucking her braid into her cloak where it wouldn't accidentally get caught in her gear, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve and quickly tucked her father's letter away in her saddlebag. She would read it later.

Or maybe it would find its way to the ashes of her fireplace like its predecessors.

-0-0-0-

Author's Notes: When I watch clips from Titans, I find myself noticing Petra's character seems to be a lot sweeter and more motherly than the way I've written her in Tavern Ventures. Where in the world did this sassy, no-nonsense person come from? Lately I've been thinking her character is a lot like Anya from the 1997 Anastasia movie. And what's weird is I haven't seen that movie in years. Whatever, it's more fun to write her this way.

Anyway, this one's a mystery to me. Some of the stuff I write has a pretty clear origin, but I don't know or remember how I thought of this. For some reason, the idea of Petra having a huge regret from her childhood that she continues to be ashamed of and/or afraid of owning up to really struck a chord with me. Then again, I think the Survey Corps is made up of people who have painful stories they don't like bringing up. As I've done previously with Gunther's chapter Contrition, Petra's Truehearted will be revisited in a later venture.

A note on the language: Matka and Tat'ka are pretty self explanatory, but they respectively mean Mother and Papa in Czech. Maminka is also a Czech word for Mama. Sokol is a common Czech surname that means 'falcon'. Svoboda is also Czech and it means 'freedom'. And the name of the Svoboda apple tree Hazael is 'God sees' in Hebrew.

Thank you for reading. See you next time.

….Damn, this is a long author's note. Shingeki no Kyojin/Attack on Titan is owned by Hajime Isayama.