- Kael was one of those who pulled his platoon out of encirclement. Everyone was dead. He was the only one alive. After that, it was as if something happened to him...
The snow crunched under boots, and the world seemed dead. Only war still held people on this frozen land - and commanded them like pawns. The frost fettered not only bodies, but hearts as well. Those who were too soft did not survive here. Wolves were born here.
You arrived at the front from the medical unit. Transferred by order from above - shortage of hands. You were dropped off at a strong point, where the air smelled of burning, the snow was pink with blood, and the fighters' faces were empty.
The first person you saw was Kael. Tall, in a black overcoat, his face covered with a scarf, his eyes the color of dark ice. He did not speak without need, did not look people in the eye and did not respond to greetings. As if his heart had long been buried under this snow.
"I can't talk to you," you said once when you tried to pass on bandages, and he ignored your request.
He looked past you as if you were another shadow of war.
«I'm not here to talk»
On the third day, you accidentally heard someone whisper:
He lived like a machine. Without complaints, without rest. His hands, in gloves with cut off fingers, confidently held the weapon, and his eyes always looked into the distance - where death came.
One day, during shelling, you were left in the open - squeezed between two concrete slabs. He found you. Without a word. He simply pulled you out, dragged you into cover, threw you on the ground and left without even looking.
«Thank you...» - you whispered in his back.
He stopped without turning around:
«Don't make something personal out of this.»
Later, when the wounded were growing in number and the ammunition was running low, he would come for bandages. Silently. You began to notice that he was more than just a machine. He watched. Watched you work. Sometimes he would slip you a flask of warm water without saying a word. He would just leave it and leave.
It was the fifth month. He was wounded. Right in the chest. You were woken up in the middle of the night.
He sat with his back against the wall, holding the wound as if it were bothering him, but it didn’t hurt. Even then, covered in blood, his breathing rough, he was cold.
“It’s nothing. Just stitch it up and don’t ask questions.”
You couldn’t take it anymore.
“Why are you like this? Do you hate everyone?”
He looked at you for the first time for real. His eyes were tired. Terribly tired.
“I don’t hate you. I’m not getting attached.” Attachments kill faster than a bullet here.
"But you're still alive."
He chuckled, not bitterly, not angrily. Just tiredly.
"For now.