Locke isn’t sure what he expected. The road between Maranda and the capitol is as fraught as that between Narshe and Figaro, though the Empire controls this forsaken continent. It’s disheartening, though wholly unsurprising, to find that Empire has decided to conquer, rather than protect what it has already taken by blood.
Their campfire burns, and Locke scrubs the darkness from his eyes. He hates second watch for how it breaks his sleep in two, but Sabin will relieve him soon enough. Locke props himself against a tree, legs stretched out in front of him. Now that they’ve left Maranda, the only path is that to the capitol. He glances over at where Celes sleeps heavily, even in sleep her brow written with anxiety. His hands twitch for the imagined silk of her hair. For some comfort, though whose, he can’t say. Likely his own: Celes does not strike him as the type to need whatever he could hope to offer her.
Her words then, direct, Do I remind you of her?
The answer he’d given, insufficient. But now, as she is silent, still uneasy from whatever upset her about Maranda, he can answer—“Not enough. But that’s the point.”
