Pein made many promises.
Many of them to himself, whispered mutters under his breath, encouragement for his own mind to carry on. Some, he made to her, the few times he deemed to speak his thoughts aloud. Most of them were empty words told to the wind, washed away by the rain as a child's oaths, thrown forth on a whim, with far too little backing. In the end, almost all of them crumbled under his heel and eroded down, out of sight, only to be replaced with new, more fervent ones. Like sand washed up on a beach, they piled atop each other in a grand webbing of latent intent.
In those days, they were still young. Foolish, if anything; blindsighted by the sweetness of motive. They were swept away by the intoxication of their cause, ignorant of failure, driven by bloodlust and agony and fear.
The sky was dark. Light illuminated them, but for only a second, before they were cast into darkness again. Still, through the rhythm of the rain on the room's single window, they sat together on the ground, adjacent with their knees pressed together and their backs bowed in as if they could create a stronghold using only their bodies as material. Konan sat in silence, waiting for him as she always did.
He took her hands in his, and looked her in the eye. "One day," he told her, "I will paint truth in the sky." He kissed her hands, absent and distant, yet she faced him in earnest, watching him with an intensity that was nigh unmatched. Oh, that everyone would see him with the same respect. Some day, he swore to himself, they would.
She leaned in closer, pulling herself along the wood of the floor, to whisper almost feverishly: "I believe you."
And he knew her words to be fact; promised himself to never fail her trust. Another layer was added to the evergrowing mountain of commitment. They grew younger as they sat together, murmuring of the time when they would find triumph at long last.
There were no promises of love, or marriage, or kingship or riches. Nothing would distract Pein from his cause, neither elopement, nor children, nor a life of tranquility. But there would be peace. Peace from the suffering scab, pulled open and purged by the hand of God himself. Despite her devotion, she never received the reassurance that sought so fervently the minds of infatuated young, never was promised the simple things desired by those tied within the bonds of normalcy.
But Pein offered that which he could, the only precious thing he had left to give. Konan understood, and from the shallow planes of her still-young smile, he drew confidence.
The gluttony of denial and delusion caused them to grow older, much faster than they had expected. Arrogance had misled them, and as the days grew less and less bright, their task seemed hardly as simple as it had when they were children.
His promises were getting harder to keep. In the thick of war, Konan did not smile anymore. Pein dipped into the well of his inner strength, continuing in the only way he knew how, and wondering if she did the same. He watched her become paper thin, sapped of her hope, and asked himself when she would stop believing in his promises.
A/N: I have a new game for you: Count how many times I used 'promise/s" in this five hundred and sixty word drabble. I have no idea where this came from. Mmm, KoPein.