The message was short, and direct to the point.

She Died.

Molbiz was different... quieter. The children played, solemn, in sparse groups amidst the tall grass, and Katarin was nowhere to be found. Duane appeared to welcome him; perhaps the only reason he bothered was because no one else would. …could.

"Why didn’t you contact Celes?" Locke asked, and Duane’s expression fell. He did; he contacted everyone, every last one of those who would listen. The man’s bitter words echoed in his memory, "You’re never far enough away."

Except instead of being bitter or even politely curt, Duane was a broken, dispirited shadow of a man. All that was left was grief. He didn’t say anything more, merely fidgeted, glassy-eyed, and bit his lip. Oh please, don’t. Don’t cry, please…

The young man sobbed, eliciting a half-sympathetic wince as he began to slump under the pain of it all. Locke caught him, and glanced about still-disheveled houses; picking one in particular, he half-carried the bereaved father to the doorstep.

"Look, are you gonna be alright?"

"Yes, but..."

"Fine," Locke excused himself, slipping past and into the darkness of the house.
 

He found her curled in a corner, clutching at Illumina, cradling the old sword for all the comfort it was worth. Because there’s comfort in destruction, he rationalized, because it’s easier to fail.

Dropping to one knee beside her, he wanted to say something meaningful. The best he could come up with was a quiet, "Hey."

She didn’t answer… didn’t even move. Dust smudged her hands, her nightgown... or maybe that was just the light and shadow of the burned down candle. Gently, he brushed back the loose hair from her face, and was startled to see her flinch away.

"What good is a world without magic?" she asked, quiet and beaten. Only months ago, she could have healed the fever. Or she could have kept it, fought it, until they had a different means. What good is a world where a child can die?

He didn’t know what to say, and so he didn’t say anything. It was the best he could do to be there, and it didn’t feel like enough.

And when the crest finally broke; when the candle flickered out and the sword clattered to the floor; when she screamed for all the frustration and pain, he gathered her up in his arms and prayed because he just didn’t know what else to do...
 

"It’s not fair!"

It was the moment she finally let go. It hurt, because, no, it wasn’t fair at all.

"It never is."