It becomes too much to bear once night comes.
It hangs like an empty promise in his gut, forever suspended, too big to voice. Vast and dark, not unlike the sky above his head; but even that has stars. Even in that sprawling black, little dots of light show the way to the cage that is home. Like a map.
Prayer. Rivaille has never prayed in his life, and he sure as hell isn't starting now. Prayers never do anyone any good to begin with. Wit, skill, and self-discipline get shit done, not pitiful words whispered in the darkness of one's room, or out in the field when faced with imminent death.
Promises. He's never been one for promises either, and that was one vow he had never expected to keep. Not because he didn't want to, or because he didn't feel like it. They both very well knew the dangers of their profession, of their everyday life—the ugly constant of existing in this chaotic world.
She knew.
He knew.
In the soft glow of candlelight she had told him of a life outside the Walls: a wedding in some distant land, away from the bloodshed and the nightmares—away from the booming footsteps and the canon fire. She had spoken about life in a warm cottage beside a welcoming forest, where they could raise rabbits and plant their own food.
We'll never go hungry again.
He had only promised her safety.
What else is there to promise when one has nothing else to give? With only the clothes on his back, the blades by his sides, and a rank to go by. No past, barely a present… what could he promise her for a future?
She had smiled that day, tender and warm as she'd touched the back of his hand. There was no fear in her eyes, no second guesses—just blatant and aching adoration for a man with a cold soul. She was too warm, too smart, too caring. She was too much for him. And yet…
Holding a fist to his chest, he lets go of a sigh.
He had promised her the one thing he couldn't hold to.
Now here he stands, beneath a starry night, with nothing to his name.
At one point, he realizes, he was a rich man. He was a somebody because she had given him a reason outside the ruthless killing. But now, he's back to the start.
She's gone, and there's nothing he could have done. There's nothing he would have done.
Ruthless, cold, detached.
The throb on his ankle dulls next to the churning pain in his chest, the quiver of his jaw. He won't allow himself to break. He'll mourn, he'll face her father, but he'll never break. He'll kill them all; each, and every, one.
He clenches his fists, squeezes until his nails bite into his palms. He'll continue to fight. He won't let this happen again—but those are just more promises he can't keep.
What's the use of being humanity's best soldier when he can't even get his men out alive? The need of the many trumps the need of the few. But just once… just this once he wants to win. Not for the world, not for humanity, but for the little boy he once was. For the street thug turned corporal of the king's army. Just one small victory.
The thought doesn't disturb him, despite how selfish it is. It reassures him that he's still human despite the countless layers of thick skin. That he's alive. But how good is being alive when the one person who gave you hope is now gone?
He'll weather it come tomorrow. He'll let himself be lost to the grief tonight, and then he'll rise above it, tramp it down and move on. He'll learn to live with the fact that he'll never see her again. He'll learn. He'll live.
"Corporal?"
He turns to the voice, partially surprised to see a mop of brown hair and too-large eyes peeking into his bedroom. There's no brightness in them, no joy for partial safety. Only hatred and sorrow prevail.
"You should be resting," he says, because he doesn't need the company. Doesn't want it.
"I just came to—"
"Jaeger," he stops him, knowing what he's going to say.
I should have turned, followed my gut; this is all my fault.
"Corporal—"
"Enough." He straightens himself up, turns away from Eren and back towards the window. He hopes his silence is enough to send the kid away, but much to his annoyance, his boots tap against stone floors as he makes his way across the room.
Eren doesn't speak for the remainder of the while.
Rivaille does look at him, however briefly, and settles with the thought that the kid's intentions are to offer comfort whichever way he can. He reluctantly accepts with a hum, and ignores him until well after the sun begins to rise.
His ankle throbs again, and Eren is now leaning heavily against the window frame, but he's still standing by his side despite the obvious fatigue. "Eren," he says then, startling the young man. "Head to bed."
"Sir…"
"We'll convene with the Military Court this afternoon."
It's all needs to say, assuming Eren remembers the bargain done just last week. Their mission has failed, and now it's time to give him up to the court for either execution, or drafting into the military police for them to do as they please. And he does remember, judging by the wide-eyed shock on his face.
Most of the times, it's easy to forget that the new recruits are just children, despite the horrors that they've seen and experienced; the things they've had to do to survive. For all his bravado, for his strength and the violence in his hands, Eren Jaeger is still just a kid.
"Corporal," Eren says, subdued as he bows his head. He turns, hands clenched, and heads for the door.
He doesn't know why he says it, but he does, and all he can do is hope for the best circumstances. "They won't execute you," Rivaille says, still looking out at the red rooftops, where the sun slowly creeps up. "I won't allow it."
Eren wants to argue; he sees it in the way his jaw clenches, but instead he just nods, and leaves.
They won't execute him, he tells himself. He was entrusted with the shackles and chains that bind Eren to the military, and he'll die defending him. He'll die defending him…
Rivaille's smile is harsh, tormented.
Where has he heard that promise before?