🧠 Kaelen's POV
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He waited.
Still. Silent, one of the things he had beat into himself was to be collected, he has no need to worry, he's playing with gifts no one else has.
Aside from the ever-present echo of his mother's passive mind, there was no flicker of emotion around him. His empathy told him what his eyes couldn't. If he couldn't feel anyone… he was truly alone.
Well, aside from the goats, horses and other animals.
Kaelen let out a laugh.
Sharp. Wild. Unfiltered, just as humans cry to express stress, laughter was Kaelen's preferred way of releasing stress, it'd be bad if he screwed up his acting because of it.
It was too easy.
This world—its systems, its rigid beliefs, its blind traditions—it was all so brittle. So easy to bend.
He was practically writing the story himself at this point. Word by word. Step by step.[1]
His laughter died as he turned back to the bowl, crushing silver flower petals between his fingers. The pale purple mush turned quickly into dye, this was something he learned, through 'dreams' like memories in physical form, though he simply learned though dreams.
He dipped a cloth into the bowl and leaned over Carla's still form, gently wiping the solution through her hair.
The black strands lightened slowly, turning closer to the unnatural silver of his own.
"Just a little more," he whispered. "And no one will question it. A silver-haired boy with a silver-haired mother. No past. No record. Just a poor farmhand and his bedridden mother."
He smiled softly.
It was almost sweet.
Carla lay still. Unmoving. Unseeing.
But her breathing was steady.
Her eyes—blank, glassy, and sometimes flickered. The occasional twitch. The sound of her heartbeat.
She was alive.
Vegetative, yes. But alive.
Grisha's notes said that coma patients often retained hearing. Memory. Those words—gentle, consistent words—could anchor them to reality.
Kaelen pressed his forehead against hers.
"I still haven't let you go," he whispered.
After a few moments, her head shifted… just slightly. Enough to press back.
He exhaled.
"…Your perfect son is still here."
...
Morning light cut through the rafters.
Kaelen reapplied the dye, checking the color. Still holding.
He worked quickly. Precisely. Efficiency mattered—especially now that he was being watched.
Not by soldiers.
By a girl.
Kaelen worked the morning shift in the kitchens. The role of a waiter today. Plates, trays, bowls. Shuffle fast. Serve faster. Smile like he belonged.
He did it well.
Every second was measured.
Between tasks, he returned to Carla. He adjusted blankets, fed her water, cleaned her skin, and checked the bandages.
Then read.
One boring story for plausibility.
Then Krista.
Always Krista.
The days passed like that.
And each time, she was there.
...
She woke with a smile already on her face.
It was odd—unnatural, almost. But not unwelcome.
For the first time in… ever, really… she felt excited.
Her steps were lighter. Her hums louder. Her chores?
Done.
Well… at least the ones Kaelen was assigned.
She always just happened to volunteer near him.
At first, she thought he'd scowl. Insult her again.
But now?
Now he looked at her.
Spoke to her.
Still called her woman, of course. But that was just a Kaelen-thing. That's how friends talk, right?
She had never had many before, but this felt close enough.
She even got to help take care of his mother.
He let her refill water, adjust blankets, and sometimes even hold her hand.
That's when she learned the truth.
She wasn't just "ill."
She was... still. Silent.
And Kaelen had been protecting her from the world.
Everything made sense after that.
Why was he so cold? Why was he so distant? Why he'd bitten her head off that first day.
She couldn't even imagine her mother caring about her like that.
If her mother were sick… maybe they would've finally been close.
But she didn't dwell on that.
Not today.
Today was for Krista.
...
It was her idea.
Sort of.
She offered to help clean up. Feed his mother. Wipe her hands. Rewrap her bandages. All carefully and respectfully, of course.
Then she asked:
"Shouldn't you read her something? She might like that."
He grunted. Shrugged.
Then opened the book.
And Historia listened.
"Krista had survived three storms and one whirlpool," Kaelen read, tone even, eyes scanning the page. "Her arms ached. Her dress had been torn to shreds. She'd fished only once—and nearly poisoned herself doing it."
"But she had something now."
Historia leaned forward slightly.
"She'd heard rumors," Kaelen continued, "about a legendary navigator. An old woman who lived alone on a floating island of driftwood and sails. She never docked. She never slept on land. She simply… existed on the ocean, reading the winds like scripture."
Krista needed her.
Because Krista wasn't sailing.
She was drifting.
Kaelen's voice never wavered.
But Historia's heart quickened.
She imagined the wide ocean. The creaking of a wooden hull. The sunburn and sea salt, and freedom.
She imagined being Krista.
Alone. Brave. Free.
She'd never had anything like that.
She'd never had anyone like that.
The chapter ended with Krista setting her sails and whispering into the wind.
"Guide me."
Kaelen closed the book softly.
He glanced toward Carla.
Historia waited, holding her breath.
He stood, draped a fresh blanket over his mother, and quietly began folding clothes.
No goodbye. No parting word.
Just routine.
Historia didn't mind.
Her smile lingered.
Tomorrow, she thought, there'll be more.
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[Auther: Kaelen spends years here, btw. The time that Eren, Armin, and Mikasa are spending being refugees? He spent it here at the farm. It's only been a few days since the Wall got kicked in, but soon? He'll have spent years.]
[1] One of Kaelen's major personality traits is his natural arrogance.