So long to all my friends;
Every one of them met tragic ends.
With every passing day
I'd be lying if I didn't say
That I miss them all tonight.
If they only knew what I would say
If I could be with you tonight
I would sing you to sleep;
Never let them take the light behind your eyes.
One day I'll lose this fight
As we fade in the dark just remember
That you'll always burn as bright.
—My Chemical Romance
Prologue
Her beautiful face smiling at him as he leaped out of the saddle.
The thought of her as he questioned the thing, knowing that she could have been killed along with all the rest of them if Erwin's plan had failed.
The order to reload even though he wanted to return to his squad. He obeyed. Why did he obey?
Why did he send them away in the first place?
The roar echoing through the trees, his heart in his mouth, newfound urgency as he swung around and raced back.
No.
No.
No.
Something broke inside him when he saw the blood on her cheeks. Her big, beautiful amber eyes staring lifelessly into the sky, auburn hair blowing gently around her face in the breeze, the red stains on the trees, the ground, her hands, uniform, face. She was still beautiful.
He stared down at her, unable to understand. This couldn't happen, could it? No, it couldn't. She was a great soldier. She wouldn't let this happen. Never. She promised him she would stay alive.
He promised her he would protect her.
He wanted to cry, to scream his grief and pain and rage and brokenness to the world. He wanted to drop to the ground, pull her into his arms, rock back in forth, sob, order her to wake up even though he knew she never would again. There was so much turmoil, so much conflict, that he just stood there, staring down at her in disbelief, denial, unable to do anything but hurt.
He heard another roar and promised her he would return. He didn't want to leave her. There was no point in moping around with a dead body, but she needed someone with her.
He saved Eren, then Mikasa, injuring himself but not caring in the slightest. Physical pain was so much better than what he felt right now, this hollow emptiness, like a part of him, a big part, had just been brutally torn away, leaving a hole that he was slowly falling into, tumbling head over heels through the space she used to fill.
He rode back to where the rest of the Corps was gathered, recouping from the disastrous mission. He felt so…numb. The recovery squad was about to leave to collect their fallen comrades, and spurred his horse forward, insisting that they let him come. Confused, they agreed, and he raced back into the forest with them, heading to where he knew she was. When he got there, there was already a young man kneeling beside her, a ream of grayish white cloth in his hands.
Anger grew inside him, swelling into a rage that turned his vision red. He marched up to the soldier and seized him by the shirt, meeting his wide eyes with his own, shaking although he had no idea why. "Don't touch her," he snarled, and dropped the man, taking up the cloth and pulling her gently away from the tree. He cradled her in his lap, arms wrapped around her shoulders, and hugged her tightly, bending over her as if to shield her from the view of anyone but him. He had never cried before, but now he sobbed into her shoulder, not caring about the blood all over his hands and face. He just wanted her back. He gently closed her big glazed eyes, knowing that he would never look into those eyes again, never hope they didn't see through his bored façade to the nervousness and delight he felt every time she spoke to him, never see them droop tiredly at the end of a long day or light up at a joke one of the squad told. He cupped her cheeks and pressed his forehead against hers. "I'm so sorry," he sobbed. "I'm so, so, so sorry. Oh, god, Petra, I'm so sorry." He hugged her to his chest until finally the captain of the retrieval squad placed a hand on his shoulder, telling him they needed to return.
He never wanted this to happen.
"My daughter's in your squad. I'm Petra's father," the old man said. He kept his gaze trained carefully on the soldiers in front of him. He didn't want to tell the man. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. "I think she's still too young for marriage. Would you mind taking it slow with her? There's still so much for her to experience before settling down."
He said nothing, staring straight ahead. Fuck fuckfuck fuck fuck fuck.
"Where is she?" the man asked.
Nothing…then, "She's dead," he said.
He sits bolt upright in bed, breath coming in ragged gasps. The dream is already fading in his mind, but it was a bad one. He has a feeling it's the same one he's had so often, ever since he was a little kid. He feels his cheeks, and sure enough, they're wet. This time, though, it's different. Where most of the dream has faded, an image remains: a petite auburn-haired girl with big, honey-gold eyes and a beautiful smile, wearing a strange uniform, wings stretching from her back, one blue, white. It almost feels like she's standing there, right in front of him, smiling sadly with her hand extended toward him. Tentatively, he reaches a hand forward, looking up at her. She's so familiar. He doesn't even know her name, but…she knows him, and he knows her. "I'm sorry," he says, not knowing why. For a moment it feels like his hand grasps hers, but then hers vanishes, along with the rest of her, the sensation of lips on his cheek all that remains. "I'm still dreaming," he says after a pause, shaking his head and lying back down. But he can't shake the feeling that that was real, very real. "I'm sorry," he repeats.