She was so different from his lost love, his first, and his sworn only. Locke pulled his eyes from the dying embers of their campfire to the woman huddled in a blanket in a hollow shaped by tree roots. Celes Chere, the former Imperial general. She was gaunt from her imprisonment, but he had a feeling that sharp features were natural for her. Sharp, hard, as if carved from stone or ice and then colored to lifelike. The night sapped all the color from her, but she was pale to begin with, wheaten hair she'd bound at her nape or hidden beneath a hood as soon as they had escaped the city. He'd heard the stories about the general with the golden hair blowing free in the wind like a banner. It seemed damned foolish to him, a liability, and that's why his own sandy, near-colorless hair was roughly cut short with a bandanna keeping it free of his eyes. But the Empire had a finely-tuned propaganda machine, and the thought of seeing this woman on the battlefield, her hair loose and her presence implacable, was an surprisingly intimidating one.
All that was behind her now. What remained of her former life was the sword laying next to her, and with approval he noted that it was positioned so that she could be armed in a heartbeat if need be. As they'd made their way out of the twisting passageways and sewers beneath South Figaro, he'd found a few caches of supplies, likely smugglers' stores, and he was reasonably certain they could make their way to Narshe on what they'd found and what they could barter along the way.
They. Already thinking in terms of working together. Well, what other option was there? He'd freed her from imprisonment and execution, but where could she go but with him? Of course he had to think in terms of what she would need and what she could offer. She wasn't in good shape, but hopefully that would improve swiftly. They'd need to cover a lot of ground in the next few days before the hairs on the back of his neck stopped standing up to sense Imperial patrols.
There was always the question of whether she would want to join the cause of the Returners, but he knew she wasn't long on other options. But would they accept her? Banon was level-headed, he was able to think in black and white when those tough decisions had to be made, but emotions ran high in any resistance group, and given her rank, there was a high likelihood that Celes was personally responsible for some of their losses. It would be hard to argue with people who had lost their homes, seen family and friends killed, and tell them that their former enemy was now their ally. He hoped Banon would have some means of talking them down. He was already suspecting that when it came to Celes, he was growing a bit too biased to make rational decisions.
A high-pitched squeak sounded above him, and he ducked instinctively; years of "treasure hunting" in caves had taught him to get out of the way of bats. That it was just a bat was comforting. Some said the tales of strange beasts in the wilds were exaggerations, but he'd had close encounters with them personally, and knew that in some places it was far more than wolves or bears to be feared in the dark. He'd also noted that in places where these monsters were found, the more usual fauna was scarce. A normal bat in a normal forest was a good sign that they wouldn't have to deal with any bogeys. Funny how they'd started appearing not long after the war began. Oh, tales went back, any grandfather had plenty to tell, but he and everyone else had believed them to be just scary stories, until it wasn't just the elders telling them, but merchants and farmers and couriers. Likely the Empire was responsible for this, as well. It was quite effective at keeping the villagers frightened and locked in their homes at night, rather than sneaking out to clandestine resistance movements.
Yes. He hoped Celes would recover soon. He was good, but he doubted he'd be able to do more than briefly delay a monster if it chose to hunt them.
He eyed the faintly glowing embers. He didn't like leaving such an obvious sign to be tracked, but the smoke could be driving away any unwelcome guests of the nonhuman variety. And being able to warm some of these road-rations before they set out again would be welcome. In her condition, Celes would likely need to take care with her food to make sure it stayed down.
Locke returned his consideration to his companion. Yes, so very different from Rachel. Rachel had hated camping. It had taken him much pleading to get her to try it, and only after time did she take to it without complaint about how she'd prefer to be in her bed than beneath the stars. Celes, by contrast, had taken immediately to the tasks of making camp when they stopped in the last light of the day. He'd found the root hollow of this tree for their shelter, and she built the fire after clearing the dry leaf litter, and had refilled their canteens from the nearby stream. A general likely had full staff to attend to such details, so the fact that she knew what to do and did it without hesitation gave her a few more marks in his mind.
Granted, there were many differences between taking your lover stargazing to steal some time alone, and finding shelter in the forest after fleeing an occupied city with a fugitive. But the differences didn't end there. Rachel had always been so vivacious, filling the silences with gentle questions or quiet observations. It hadn't been mindless chatter, and he'd loved the way they could banter back and forth so easily. Celes had been nearly silent since they'd left her makeshift prison, speaking only when necessary, and then only in short, clipped words and a distant voice. Again, he had to admit that the circumstances were night and day. Yet there'd been a coldness around her, as if she was gathering ice around her and using it to wall off the rest of the world. Trauma, oh, he was familiar with trauma, and the way it almost required dissociation to endure with sanity held together, but her coldness felt different, as if there was more to it than just the silence of a suffering soul trying to recognize their situation as one now free of immediate peril.
Rachel always knew what to say. She'd been a bit of a peacemaker in her village, especially when her father had objected to her courtship by a shiftless vagabond. A mediator with a mind of her own, headstrong and pushing back when someone tried to change her mind. He could still picture her in that blue woolen dress, tending her herb garden, her warm dark hair plaited and tied with a gingham bow. Warm. She had always been so warm. Smiles came readily to her lips, and laughter too. Her hands, so deft with needle and thread, so gentle with sprouting plants. Celes, well, he imagined her hands would be free of the calluses of hard work, but would most certainly bear those of wielding a blade. She was so precise, so exact, he doubted she'd spare a word when it was unnecessary, either.
Perhaps he was being unfair, making his judgments of her based on what were certainly not her finest hours. Though it wasn't like he had any other evidence to examine, and he had to constantly assess the situation if they were to make it out of this. Still, he hoped that she was not as severe and distant as she'd so far seemed. It would be a hard sell to the resistance if she was unlikeable as well as a former enemy. Ultimately that was her problem, not his, but he did feel responsible, since he had freed her. And he had promised.
Yes, he had promised. There things weren't so different.
Locke sighed, shaking his head at himself. Why was he so intent on comparing her to Rachel? He'd spent far more time with Terra without this sort of introspection. Maybe because things had felt less desperate back then. It felt like months, a lifetime ago, but it was just weeks since he'd been called to Narshe, after a small Imperial strikeforce had attacked and then vanished just as swiftly. And he'd promised to help Terra as well, but he had discharged that obligation when he'd delivered her safely to the resistance, and let her choose for herself whether she'd join their cause. Terra's acceptance into their fold might offer a smoother way in for Celes, now that he thought of it. Yes, Celes was a general, not a- a magic-wielding weapon, but maybe their sympathies toward her could be stirred in Celes' favor. It felt cold to calculate this way, but war wasn't allowing much room for more pleasant methods of winning hearts.
The coals of the fire had dimmed now, and pallid moonlight was painted in dappled patterns through the canopy of leaves above. It was getting late, and he needed to get some rest. He could only push himself so far, and it wasn't like his spare frame offered him much in the way of reserves. By now it should be safe to doze. His nerves were as tightly wound as harpstrings, and he trusted himself to be on his feet with daggers in hand at the slightest sign of danger. Moving quietly, to keep from disturbing Celes, he settled himself against one of the arching exposed roots of the tree, a position that gave him the best line of sight he could get. He shouldered himself out of his overshirt, turning it around to lay over his chest as a makeshift blanket, then leaned back. The last thing he saw before closing his eyes was the still form of Celes, sleeping her first peaceful sleep in days.
Please don't let me regret this.