the hilt | eren jaeger

f i f t e e n - E.J.

Hands are cold when they're lonely.

No matter how much energy is expedited into them, they can't seem to be warmed, even if it could save the world, for no fingers to precisely interlock with leave the palms reeling in discomfort and agony.

They shake, and they burn.

They feel nothing but regret, their counterparts far and long gone, wishing that they could've held on a second longer in their last moments.

It wasn't ever much, but holding a hand was often the greatest form of affection and reassurance. It could mean a plethora of things, but often it just meant that one person was there to support another, no matter the prerequisite events.

Support was essential in a world like this, where friends and loved ones were few and far between. Trust wasn't ever really trust, and heartfelt things in nature no longer held their bearings.

One could say we all wanted someone to be there, someone to watch over us, but it didn't make sense. We were born alone, and we'd all die alone. No matter how many people surrounded one at either time, there's always an insatiable loneliness that come with existence.

It echoes and chasms; it screams and dies.

To expect something to last forever was childish and foolish in nature, but I think we all believed that things genuinely would last forever sometimes. The world, the eons before and after-- they were all infinite, no doubt towards that, yet anything that meant something in our cruel time aboard this world would come to an end, time and time again.

Hands would let go of each other, warm embraces would surrender to the defying brace of bone-chilling loneliness, friends would walk away from one another and no longer even bear that same title.

I was so infinitely naïve to have believed that anything would last forever.

A soothing lull of sleep had washed over my body for the hours prior, yet as I awoke to the rattling of the cart, I could only feel deep, egregious anxiety filling my heart and seeping through the cracks in the wood in the places where the nails didn't quite get secured properly.

The harsh sunlight was blinding, yet I didn't care. I had someone to see, someone's safety to ensure.

There were hushed chatters from the other Scouts on their horses nearby, and their faces all reeked of sorrow and misfortune-- the day clearly taking a toll on them emotionally and physically.

Quick glances around the heads of the recruits were met with flying colors of blood, dirt, and tears, not a singular comrade looking unscathed. I could hear the sobs of someone behind me, farther into the crowd, and they sounded all too familiar.

There was a trill whisper coming from whoever was next to the person crying, trying to give them comfort and solace, but failing miserably. Their sobs were faltering into dry heaves, clearly too many tears had been shed for them to even feel enough to produce more.

The sounds would be muffled, as if they weren't trying to drown out their own cries for the sake of their comrades, but rather for their own ears. Maybe if they weren't crying, the pain wouldn't feel as real.

An increasingly heartbreaking grievance howled through the silence, and my head finally turned to see stark tears falling down from the face of Bertholdt Hoover, his hands shaking as he tried to latch them over his mouth to drown out his own noises, but the sounds escaped nevertheless. His shirt was blotchy from the amounts of snot and tears that had been rubbed off on it, and his eyes looked heavy in the sunlight.

He looked like he hadn't slept in months, not even years. Time was not kind to the guy, especially since his normally healthy build and stature was so easily being crumbled by the agonistic melancholy in his heart.

Reiner was on the horse to the right of him, with a hand on his back, patting and rubbing the tender muscles with reassurance, but it didn't seem to be doing much to benefit Bertholdt.

Jean was to the right of Braun, his face filled with shock and numbness, and he appeared to be sympathizing with whatever the crying man was feeling. His mouth lightly hung ajar, and his eye bags were darkened and droopy. His arms hung at his side, numbness creeping into his bones, as he tried to comprehend the loss he had just undergone.

I'd never seen Bertholdt cry before, excluding the night he told me about how Jo had to depend on others. Yet here he was, in the broad daylight, allowing himself to break in front of all these other people.

My brain didn't click with what this would mean, what this event would foretell.

My hand quickly relapsed in on itself instinctively, expecting find a certain someone's fingers entwined with my own; yet it found nothing to hold onto.

My breath hitched as I looked to my right, "Mikasa?"

Her face seemed more sorrowful and downturned than usual, her eyes ready to spill tears if she even gave the slightest thought to them. Her tone was remorseful and tired as she quickly wiped away a singular drop that had fallen from her eye, "Eren, don't get up yet. You just need to rest."

My brows carefully furrowed and knitted themselves, my vocal chords producing a smaller sound than I had intended to, "Did we... fail?"

She simply just nodded and looked back into the distance, focusing on the walls that were before us.

"Where's Armin?"

"He had to go speak with the Commander and Squad Leaders. I didn't ask why."

I hummed a bit in response, slowly nodding.

"Where's Jo?"

Mikasa's eyes widened momentarily, flashing with unclassed pain, before receding into the typical stoic look they always carried.

She took a deep breath before she uttered anything, carefully choosing her words.

"She's dead."

As I felt the first shock of pain run through my heart, my chest puffed out a sardonic chuckle, disbelief coursing through my veins. Tears started to dribble at my water line, and the hand that just wanted to be held started to tremble.

"Not the time to be joking around, Mikasa, now where is she?"

Her voice cracked a bit as she responded.

"She's gone."

I skeptically nodded my head as my chest started to dry heave and lose control of its own breaths, torment coursing through my veins across my body, and I could feel it across every inch of my skin.

"She's a stubborn bitch, she wouldn't die."

"Her body couldn't be found or identified. She's gone, Eren, for good."

"She's just missing."

She turned her head to me momentarily with a pitiful look, regret in her eyes. She choked on her words as they exited her chest.

"She went through the forest to where you were fighting the female titan, and wasn't seen again. That's all there is to it."

My throat constricted in on me as I tried to make another protest, but no words were able to come out.