For a brief moment it felt as if time itself had stopped. No one moved, all stood still as if their bodies were made of stone, as if their feet were glued to the ground. Jean's words echoed in their minds as they looked at each other with awe. Slowly, as if they were being woken up from trance, their posture softened and they became aware of their own breathing. Before they even knew it, they were in each other's arms, embracing each other and crying together. Rooms became filled with laughter and tears of joy. Men and women celebrated together for the first time in weeks. Not all was lost, the plan had worked, at least they will be saved.

A smile appeared on Commander Hange's face and Onyankopon saw an unusual light in her eye. Her gamble paid off.

On a ship full of people celebrating, full of sudden laughter and tears, only one person did not dare to say a word, did not dare to make a sound. Red-haired man laid on his couch, his eyes wide and mouth open. The voice of his friend still echoed in his mind, his words played over and over like a song that wouldn't end. So, Jean was truly loyal to the cause? Of course he was, he was a selfish bastard after all. Floch knew he understood him better than the rest, better knew the core of a man others saw as paragon of justice. Hange failed when she tried to convert him and fill his head with her ideas, he beat her again – Jean chose him and his worldview over humanity.

And yet, despite it all, Floch couldn't help but feel weird mixture of sadness and fear in his heart. Was his mind so easy to manipulate? Was he truly losing his grip on reality, his sanity slowly but surely drifting away? A feeling of immeasurable fear overwhelmed him. Everywhere around him was a loud noise, shouts of joy and celebration, child's cries, sounds of engine… but in his head, a deep, yet friendly voice played its song over and over again. Going through Jean's words time and time again, examining each and every word, he desperately tried to find a clue, any clue, no matter how small or insignificant it was, that would prove him right, that would reveal Jean was truly by his side at the moment when death should've had seized him. But there was none. Jean was truly on the island, far away from the hangar, far away from the ship, far away from him. The voice coming from the radio, occasionally interrupted by the electrical cracking, was addressing the Commander and the Captain of the ship. And yet, it was also the first time he has heard his friend's voice since the day Onyankopon and Yelena were supposed to be executed. Did the man who made the call even know what happened to him or did he just assume he was killed with the rest of his men? Did he even care about his fate? Sourness filled Floch's heart as he remembered the cold words Jean addressed him with once. "So, you lived." Perhaps a friendship strong enough to survive harsh times, outlive political differences and revolutionary actions was just a myth, just another part of the heroic legends he used to read about when he was a child. Floch closed his eyes. He was a grown man now; he should've outgrown such desires long ago. Yet still, a part of him mourned the loss of the idyllic fantasy. A selfish desire was born in Floch's heart and for a moment he wished Jean had truly betrayed the cause, betrayed his motherland and people, betrayed everything he considered holy but stood next to him in the time of the greatest need… but it simply wasn't true. There before him was a proof of Jean's loyalty to the cause and it was as clear as a day. Jean had to be on the island, otherwise he wouldn't have known about Queen's due date, about a name Historia chose for her child. What he saw before his eyes in the moment of his death was nothing but a familiar image his mind conjured to ease him. It was a perfect illusion of reality – so perfect he was fooled by it, so perfect he didn't even suspect it could be false. In the end he truly hallucinated it all.

He desperately looked at the Commander as if she'd reassure him that all is right with him, as if her words would convince him he is still perfectly sane, tell him he isn't losing his mind, tell him what he saw was true. But the woman was already leaving. He heard her exchange few words of excitement with Onyankopon and then, without sparing him a single glance, without giving him a single word, she simply left.

Floch smiled sourly and sighed. There was no need to feel melancholic, he thought. After all, everything was as it should be. Jean is in Paradis, the traitors were stopped and soon he'll be back in his homeland. All was well, all was as it should be. He gave his heart to the cause and survival of his people and in return his life was spared. To complain about anything would be a blasphemy.

"Onyankopon," a soft voice coming from corridor suddenly said, "Can I please look after him for now?"

In the corner of his eyes, Floch saw a shorter blonde man standing next to Onyankopon. He couldn't read the expression on his face but he clearly saw the look in his eyes. Always so calm and serene, no matter how Armin felt, his eyes always possessed a weird kind of strength. It seemed as if they could look man straight in his soul and read his deepest desires only to spit and laugh in his face after crushing his dreams. These eyes demanded respect, demanded the submission of others. Even if Armin himself didn't deserve it – the look in his eyes was the one of a victor – no matter what happens, no matter what wrongdoings Armin commits, no matter how many die and how many Floch loses, Armin will always be the one looking at him with a victorious look in his eyes.

"But…" the taller man protested.

"I'd like to talk to him," Armin quietly said and averted his gaze to the floor, "there is something we should've discussed a long time ago."

Onyankopon looked at him. He knew there were things he is never going to understand. Those people had relationships before they met him, served in a war together. He could only imagine what else they experienced together, all their fights, all their reconciliations. Putting his hand on Armin's shoulder, he simply smiled at him and made his way to command room. Hange is probably going to need him more than these two.

Armin's gaze was fixated on Onyankopon's back. He watched the man walk further and further away from him and with each step a desire to scream grew. More than anything, Armin wished for Onyankopon to turn back, to interrupt him, to stop him from committing a crime he was tasked to commit. He begged for anyone, it didn't matter who, he just wished for someone to come and stop him – interrupt him, take his knife away. But as soon as Onyankopon fully left his sight he knew his hopes were in vain. Shifting his gaze to a man who so defenselessly laid on the couch, Armin tightened his grip on the knife. Keeping it hidden, he leaned on the doorframe. His blue eyes observed the room. It was small – even if Floch was able to run, which Armin highly doubted, he wouldn't be able to get far. There was only one window – good – once the job is finished, he'll throw the knife through it – he couldn't wait to get rid of that thing. The deck isn't far from the room, either – just one hallway and staircase – carrying Floch's body isn't going to be too hard… Armin couldn't continue. With a look of pure terror he gazed a man before him. The realization of what he is tasked to do hit him harder than ever before. He is going to carry this man's dead body, he'll slit his throat and throw him off the deck…

His hands began trembling. He can't do this.

"May I come in?" he asked, doing his best to mask the terror he felt, to hide the fear in his voice and madness in his eyes. "You know," without even letting Floch speak, he continued, "I needed to talk to you."

Floch didn't say a word, he just watched Armin with visible disgust. The blond man didn't even notice the way Floch is looking at him, he just quietly walked into the room, making his way towards the couch while hiding Jean's dagger from Floch's sight. Finally sitting down, he managed to get enough strength to look a man before him in the eyes.

"What are you planning to do with us?" Armin asked, his voice barely audible.

Floch rolled his eyes but still answered, "I've already told Hange about it. Don't worry, you are all going to live." The irritation in his voice was hard to miss. He desperately wanted to avoid any unnecessary talk with Armin.

"Yeah, she told me, but… I can't help but doubt a man like you is going to let the enemies of the island live…"

Floch closed his eyes trying to calm himself down. Talking with Hange was already infuriating but talking with Armin had to be a thousand times worse experience. Where Hange, as dumb and naive as she was, at least gave an impression of a common person, Armin, no matter how hard he tried to seem humble, always had an air of arrogance around him. Truly, for all her intelligence and wit, life treated Hange harshly, he could see it in her eye, in the way she looked, in her frame and posture – she was a woman who wasn't spared of pain. But a man before him, he knew nothing about hardship yet always acted superior to others, acted as if he can understand their pain and suffering. Floch clenched his fists. Armin will never understand how common folk feel – their words aren't treated as ancient wisdom, their lives aren't of equal value as lives of military commanders.

"Eldia has no use of your corpses. You'd be much more helpful alive," he said trying to sound as calm as possible, though one could easily hear all hatred and irritation he felt.

"You aren't going to use us as an example of what happens to traitors? I thought…"

"No, I am not going to do that," Floch said, hissed almost, "even if I wanted it, I wouldn't be able."

"But…"

"Do you seriously think Eren will let me kill you or Mikasa?" Floch asked. He has long abandoned any pretense of civility, any wish to keep his voice calm. The tension was clearly audible in his voice and hatred clear in his eyes. "And what would killing the rest but not you do, huh?" he asked, "Will it show people what happens to traitors, what happens to those who wrong our homeland? Bullshit, it would only show that the new government is as corrupt as the old one. Be Eren's friend and you might as well put your entire country in mortal danger without consequence, be a nobody and you'll get a bullet in your brain for less."

"You still hate all of us for that, don't you?" Armin asked quietly, his sight focused on a dagger he twirled in his hands. Floch was right, there was no way Eren could ever put him or Mikasa in harm's way.

"I don't know," Floch said honestly, "I don't blame you for surviving, I blame Captain Levi. But I do hate you for what you've done with the life you were given."

"I tried to find a way…" Armin begun but didn't know how to finish. The world didn't deserve to die, but neither did Eldians of Paradis. There wasn't a good solution, not one a mortal could come up with. Their only hope was to talk to each other. To talk and have faith the other side is not going to attack them. He looked at the man before him and, without even realizing, tightened his grip on Jean's dagger. That is exactly what he and Floch are doing right now, just talking. Perhaps they will come up with mutual agreement, perhaps he is going to find out Floch's words truly are sincere – perhaps neither side will die.

"You know, when you survived," Floch begun, his voice calmer than it was before, his eyes content, as if he was recalling a pleasant memory, "Jean told me some things about you. We used to talk often during military training. He's a good guy. Anyway, once he told me about you, tried to convince me Captain's choice wasn't so terrible. He told me how you admired Erwin, how you admired his speeches, the sacrifices he was willing to make. If I remember Jean's words correctly, you said a man who wants to bring change has to be willing to throw everything he holds dear away, even his own humanity?"

"I did… but…"

"Jean told me that to ease me but, you know, that wasn't the only reason. He told me that to prove how you and I weren't so different. Good old Jean, he might be a materialistic coward but he has always looked after others. So Armin, what changed, when did you abandon that worldview?"

"What was your first kill like?" Armin spat the question out – he couldn't stand Floch's questioning any longer.

Floch looked at him slightly confused. The question seemed to come out of nowhere, still Floch decided to play along. "I was sixteen. One of the crewmembers on the Marleyan ship decided it would be a great idea to point his gun at our men. I shot him before he even had a chance to place his fingers properly on the trigger."

"Did you feel anything when it happened?" Armin asked looking desperately at Floch, as if he wanted to find a trace of regret or empathy on his face.

"Nothing really. He was an enemy soldier who came to the island to kill innocent Eldians. He didn't even want to listen to us even after we decided to spare his life and instead threatened us. He deserved everything he got," Floch said almost completely devoid of emotion.

He wasn't going to give Armin the satisfaction of knowing the truth, of knowing how the first kill affected him. He was still a child back then, a child who still believed there was a way to avoid war, a child who still believed his superiors knew what they were doing when they decided to go with Yelena's proposal. He remembered how sick he felt after pulling the trigger. His hands were stained with blood, there was no going back. Yet, there was a feeling of triumph in his heart as well, as if the death of that one officer was a sufficient revenge for all the people Marley had killed. He felt a sick sort of pleasure and a desire to kill even more of those bastards who, one way or another, were responsible for the suffering of his people. Yet, for the next few weeks, his hands would tremble each time he would hold a gun, his nightmares were more frequent as well as the times he'd beg Jean for help. Jean, Floch thought, how many times was he there for him, how many times did he run to his room in the middle of the night. Once again, he felt the familiar pain, the type feels when his most treasured memory turns into something bitter. Armin was now talking about his first kill, but Floch didn't care. His talks about a woman who couldn't pull the trigger, of discovering how she was more humane than him and becoming a pacifist didn't interest him at all. There was something of greater importance worrying him.

"In which shoulder was I hit by Mikasa's hook?" Floch asked, his voice slightly cracking.

Armin looked at him startled. He wasn't expecting a question, especially not of such sort. It was visible on his face that he would much prefer to continue his story. "I…" Armin started but didn't dare to continue. He knew what this was all about. Hange already told him of Floch's suspicion regarding Jean. "It all happened so fast, Floch," Armin finally continued, "I can't be certain, I think Mikasa hit you in your left shoulder but I can't be sure, both of them are wounded."

"I remember you trying to stop my bleeding," Floch tried to sound as emotionless as he could possibly be, "Didn't you help Hange carry me as well?"

"I did," Armin said, "but you don't have an idea how fast it all happened – the rush, the operation…"

"And in which room did Hange do the operation, and with what?" Floch asked, almost demanded. Before Armin could even answer, the red haired man simply continued, "and that dagger you hold in your hands, was it used in operation or did you bring it here just to show it to me?"

"Floch, I…" Armin sighed. There was no need for lying any more – he is going to show Floch his good will, spare his life, and in return, put not only his life but the lives of everyone on the ship in his hands. After a few moments of collecting himself, Armin continued, "Floch, if you were me, what would you do?"

Floch looked at him, try as he might, he did not understand Armin's question.

"Here we are," Armin continued, "far from the island, alone on the boat. Jean is currently the most powerful man in the entire nation and he is willing to spare our lives. But you have more power than him. If you declare we are to be executed, he wouldn't be able to stop you…"

"So, you came here to kill me?" Floch asked, his voice once again filled with hatred. He wasn't a fool, he knew he should've died long time ago. He didn't mind it anymore, he wasn't afraid of death and he already accomplished what he was tasked to do, he fulfilled his function, he was free to go. Despite that, the hatred grew in his heart, a strong desire to harm Armin. No, he didn't care who killed him, he didn't care if it was a Marleyan officer or a traitor of Paradis, if death came to him in his sleep once he is old or if he dies by his own hand, but to be killed by Armin without even a chance of defending himself, he couldn't stand the very idea of it. His entire body hurt and his temperature was still high. He could hardly sit, let alone fight a man before him. If the man desires to attack him with his knife, all Floch could do was lay down defenselessly.

"Yes, I did," Armin confessed. "But," he stood up an continued, "I am not going to do it."

Floch looked at him. Perhaps being shown mercy by Armin felt worse than being killed by him.

"I believe you when you say you aren't going to kill us. I can't be sure and I'll never forgive myself if you don't keep your part of the promise but," Armin's voice became even quieter, "we are done with killing each other."

All that was heard in a small room was the sound of metal falling to the ground. Jean's dagger, so expensive and beautifully decorated, lied on the ground between the two men. The one who threw it now had his hands in the air, he surrendered. Floch looked at Armin, still feeling nothing but disgust. He was nothing but a traitor, the one who endangered the lives of all innocent Eldians on Paradis, all Eldian children, he betrayed his motherland for the very people who wanted her destroyed, her citizens dead. And now the same man is preaching about pacifism, is prostrating himself before him while giving speeches about the futility of bloodshed. Floch truly wished he could reach the knife that was lying on the floor, wished he had enough strength to grab it and hammer it in Armin's chest. The desire became almost unbearable. Still, those feelings won't contribute to anything, he reminded himself. Armin is needed alive, his death won't bring the dead back, his death isn't going to help him either. With a dose of sadness he looked at the dagger, and before he fully realized it, was reminded of a sweet memory. The hunting trip with Jean, the smell of pine trees and grass after the rain, the feeling of wind in his hair and fresh air in the lungs. Floch closed his eyes.

"I've already told you, I am not going to kill any of you. Now please, give me that dagger."

"Why do you…"

"Man gets attached to weapons that were supposed to kill him," Floch replied nonchalantly.

With a dose of hesitation and suspicion, Armin took a dagger from the floor and gave it to red-haired man. Only when the weapon left his hands did he realize he cut his hand with it. Not a serious injury in any way, but for some reason it hurt more than it should've. Armin was happy Floch didn't look at him, didn't see his painful expression. Instead, the red-headed man was fully concentrated on the dagger. Floch's fingers gently traced carved handle, caressed it with a great care.

"Did Hange sent you to kill me?" Floch asked, his voice now calmer, almost timid.

"No! She had no idea about this!" Armin replied desperately. The fear was audible in his voice, he truly didn't want to put the blame on an innocent person.

"So, back when she asked you to remove Jean's weapons, why did you decide to keep this dagger to yourself?"

"I… I don't know," Armin replied, fear now clearly visible in his eyes. He didn't think about this, didn't think Floch could recognize Jean's dagger, didn't realize he would even care about the weapon. What if he finds out Jean was the one who gave him a weapon in the first place? No, he can't – their story holds and Jean is on the island, there is nothing that could even suggest Jean could be a traitor.

"Call Hange," Floch said without emotion, "she said she was going to bring me dinner. I haven't eaten all day, I am starving."

Armin stared at Floch completely dumbfounded. The quick change of topic to something so mundane and unimportant felt almost surreal. Still, it was better not to argue, better not to point out the meal Hange had already put on the table, better not to question the logic of a red-haired man. Quietly, he left the room. His hand was in no better shape than it was before. Weird, he thought, such a small cut should've already healed. With each step Armin's pain grew stronger and stronger. His vision was getting blurrier and his head felt heavy. Without much thought he entered the nearest cabin and laid on the bed, only to fall asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.

Far away from the ship, far away from the world, there was a place where skies were clear, where one could see all the stars and their clusters, the Milky Way and its meteors, the thousands of small lights that illuminated the great dark void with all their colors. The lights of stars and heavenly bodies reflected on the surface of the sea and the sea shone as bright as the sky, its dark waters illuminated by the thousands of colors from the lights above. Green nebulas whose edges were burning in yellowish flames, red stardust and heavenly blue sights of faraway galaxies. Truly, no matter in which direction one looked, all that could be seen was a great beauty of a divine origin. Beauty no artist could replicate on his canvas, no writer could describe with words.

The sea full of stars moved slightly, letting its waves touch the rocky surface. The reflection of stars was perfectly still, the waves and the movement of the sea didn't wrinkle their perfect image. The cold water let its waves touch the rocks one more time and then, it once again stood perfectly still. Its waves did not make a sound when they touched the rocks, when they touched the feet of a man who sat there, did not make a sound when their water, as cold as ice, touched man's skin. All was silent and the man did not dare to change it.

There, on dark rocks, a young man stared at the sea of stars. Cold, soundless wind played with his long hair, cooled his hands and feet and dried his eyes. The air was so cold every breath felt like a stab of the knife, but the man kept on breathing as if it didn't hurt, the temperature was so low he should've already been frozen to death, but the man didn't tremble. His pale green eyes stared at the surface of the water as if they tried to make sense of thousand stars in it. But the man wasn't looking at the stars, wasn't looking at the water or at the skies above. No, he perhaps stared at the water, but he certainly didn't see its beauty.

He didn't know for how long he stood there, was it for seconds, days or years. He didn't know if time itself even existed in such place. The eternal numbness was finally interrupted by a gentle touch. A little girl, as silent as the place around them, gently took his hand and stepped into the dark and cold sea. Her steps didn't wrinkle the sea, didn't make a wave. Her grip on his hand was loose but he felt bonded to her by a force stronger than the one of physical strength. Something of otherworldly origin, something akin to magic forced him to follow her, to step in the dark, cold sea himself. The dark waters were as cold as ice, the sea floor full of pebbles as sharp as knives. Each step hurt as ten strikes of a whip. Every part of his body the water touched hurt as if it was stabbed by a dagger. Yet, he had to follow her, he had to comply. A girl walked through a sea with a man, floated almost in its dark waters, only rarely touching the ground. She walked him through magnificent places, the fields of seaweed, the rocky mountains full of corals, kelp forests and ocean beds with the wreckage of old ships. Who can say how long they've been laying down there, full of riches and goods of kings and queens of old, full of dead bodies in uniforms of nations long gone. He saw their crowns and mirrors, their necklaces and rings, their armor and weaponry. Long ago the pride of their owners, now entangled in seaweed and corals. Once belonging to the great and mighty, now the treasure of the sea. Even if he wanted to stop and observe the treasure before him, put on the armor of great knights of old and wield their swords, the girl wouldn't let him. She continued her march towards the unknown place, not stopping to observe the forests of kelp, the corals, the broken mirrors or the crowns of Marleyan princesses. She simply kept on going, and a man followed her in a step.

The darkness of the sea was illuminated only by the stars of the above and after some time the man realized the lights became brighter, the water above his head receded and he, once again, felt the warmth. The stars became brighter with each new step until, finally, his head reached above the water. His lungs got filled with air once more, his hands felt the rocks of the shore and his eyes finally saw the line separating the sea from the sky. But the girl didn't stop. There was no time to marvel, he needed to follow her. The forest she walked him through was familiar, he knew every tree, every rock and path. He knew the old houses, some destroyed, some still intact. He knew the field they walked through, even though the last time he saw it the wheat was still unharvested. He knew the city gate she entered the city, he remembered each time those gates opened, each time they rode their horses through them, each time they came back with less men than they left with. He knew the town they walked through, its streets and houses, its animals and its citizens. And even though it was the middle of the night, even though the sky was as dark as the depth of the sea, the city was as bright as if it was the noon. Men and women of all classes and occupations, of all ages and worldviews were outside. The singing and the sound of shoes hitting the ground in the rhythm of the song, the melody mixed with the joyful sound of laughter rang through the streets. Drunk soldiers sleeping on the ground and their peers betting their fortune in a game of dice. Women wearing their best dresses, not caring if they get stained by the wine or food. All those people celebrating their victory, their right to live, so in trance and ecstasy. The man and the girl walked past through them. No one had seen them, no one had heard them. They walk past all the happy people, all couples in their embraces, all singers and dancers, all soldiers and barmen until, finally, they left the city.

The girl and the man found themselves before a simple cottage. All guards before the door were asleep, all doors were open to them. Before reaching for doorknob the girl, finally, stopped. She looked at the man, her blue eyes finally meeting his. Her face was grim, the look in her cold eyes held the power of a thunder. For the first time, the girl spoke. The man couldn't tell what she was saying, her words spoken in a language unknown to him, yet he felt the power of her words. Each letter, so powerfully spoken was an omen of the things to come, each word, spoken so sublimely was a prophecy of his doom. Her voice, so powerful, for a moment, or so he felt, transported him to a place full of sand, made him feel the pain so aching he wished for the cold waters of the sea, wished to be stabbed by thousand daggers, her voice made him lose his mind, made him see the visions he knew were false, made him feel as if that moment lasts eternally.

And then, it all stopped. There wasn't a girl before him, there wasn't a place filled with sand or the sea of stars, the skies were filled with clouds and he didn't hear a divine voice talking to him. No, he was alone in a field with only the small cottage before him, the only noises were the sounds of old trees being shaken by the wind and the hoots of owls. He was alone. The man stepped towards the house and grabbed onto the doorknob. For the first time in what seemed like ages he felt the weight of his own body, felt the pain in his knees and back, felt his head falling from fatigue. As he pushed the door with all his strength his gaze met the one of a blonde woman. Not recognizing him at first the woman froze in place, softening her posture only after the light from her oil-lamp finally illuminated the man's face. Still, the fear in her eyes did not go away.

"You came back?" she asked quietly.

"Yes," the man replied.

"So, they are dead?"

"Yes."

"The entire world? Everyone?"

"Yes."

The pair stared at the floor, neither of them had enough strength to look each other in the eye. Finally, a woman stepped towards the man and took his hand inviting him in. She was weak, her body still weary from the labor and he wasn't in any better shape himself.

"Come in," she said, now with a soft smile, "I am sure you want to see her."

Her voice had a sense of relief in it. Her eyes didn't only reflect the fear but peace as well. Perhaps the woman was finally content with everything. Perhaps now, when all was done, when all threats were eliminated, is she going to find permanent peace.

The man listened to his wife's request and followed her towards the crib. There, covered with blankets, a small girl slept – an infant no older than few days.

"I named her Ymir," the woman said as she shifted her gaze towards the man, pride clearly audible in her voice.

"She is beautiful," the man replied though his voice lacked emotion.

"She is."

The man didn't have strength to comment the baby, did not have the strength to hold his daughter in his arms or even to feel her hand in his. The girl was a reminder of all his sins, and, at least for now, he could not bear to see her. So, he turned his gaze towards the floor one more time, not daring to face the girl or her mother. Like that, the pair stood in silence for what seemed like a lifetime. Perhaps it would've continued like that if the man didn't finally break it, his voice filled with regret, cracking with every word spoken.

"I killed millions of people, I killed children and their mothers, I killed…"

The man begun crying, tears streaming down his face. He fell on his knees and lowered his head to the ground. A woman looked at him, the first look of resentment in her eyes. Gently yet firmly, she helped him stand up and led him towards the bed. As they sat, she took his hands and looked him deeply in the eyes.

"We chose this, Eren, there is no coming back. We did it to save the island, to save ourselves. If you were to go back in time, would you choose to sacrifice your people, your daughter, me?"

Eren looked at her with a look full of fear. Gaining confidence he begun, "Historia, you don't know the feeling – I felt it all, children's bones under my feet…"

"I felt the same, Eren, don't think I chose this easily. Still, what's done is done. If there was a better way we'd go with it, but there wasn't," she sighed deeply and continued, "let's go to sleep. Both of us are tired. We are both selfish people, Eren, aren't we? So I thank you for saving me, thank you for choosing me and our daughter over the world, just like you thanked me that one time for choosing you over the world."

Eren looked at the woman before him, her gaze was gentle, but there was more strength in it than he could ever expect. She was stronger than him, she has always been. There was no arguing with such woman, her points were perfectly clear, her views rational. He can't bring the dead back by crying, he doesn't want to bring them back if it means sacrificing his desires. Looking at her, so tired from childbirth yet so strong in spirit he couldn't help but admire her. And so, he gave in, let her embrace him and kiss his head, let her pull his body towards her own and put his head on her chest, let her play with his hair, until finally, they were both asleep.