The man who arrived back upon the *Rapier* was not her Elder. He never was. Not at first, anyway.
He certainly looked like her Elder, tall and pale and battle worn, and he was wearing her Elder’s power armor. But his eyes were empty, distant, and cold — not at all the warm and laughing eyes with which she was familiar.
But they had a routine now, this Stranger and her. He would stumble in through the ship’s atmo-membrane, dazed and distant as the blue light crackled over the exposed chitin of his face. Keir would take his hand and lead him gently towards the galley table, sit him down and check him over for any damage he may have sustained. Often, he returned splattered with drying blood. Sometimes, it was even his own.
He would listen to her as she spoke. Oddly and silently obedient as she ordered him to turn this way and that, to remove his gloves and to help her stow her Elder’s power armor back away into its charging station. He would sit quiet and unflinching as she cleaned up his wounds, bandaged what damage she could reach, what she could see. If she pressed a ration bar into his hands he would eat sometimes — mechanically and without any hint of enjoyment or disgust. He would even smile sometimes, if she joked with him, but the amusement never reached his eyes.
The Stranger’s eyes were always distant and cold.
Sometimes it took only hours. Sometimes, it would take days — long afternoons of skirting around the Stranger, trying to care for him and yet avoid him at the same time. The Stranger was not her Elder, but he did wear his shell and it made her uncomfortable to look at.
Eventually, finally, the Stranger would blink and there would be something warm in his eyes again, like the lights flickering back on after a power surge. Like the sun coming out from behind the clouds.
“Elder?” Keir would call, stepping forward towards him, hope warming in her chest. “Are you in there?”