Arvis had something else in mind, although Locke doubted that even the old man knew precisely what. He wasn’t conniving like Banon – if he had known, he most certainly would have said.... There were a number of possibilities, of course. It was clear along the gradient that the Empire wanted the girl... or maybe they wanted her dead in attacking Narshe, but he doubted that, too. She might have been privy to secrets, or they simply might not have wanted to train a new Magitek knight if she had been disloyal in some way. But then again, if she didn’t remember, neither was he going to stumble across the answer just thinking about it.

Not to mention, he was dwelling on it too much. It didn’t really matter, either; any ally was a good ally, and an imperial was better than most.

The sun was setting, casting the forest in dusky, pinkish reds. Pausing for the dark, cloudy view through the canopy, he solemnly measured the distance. They might have been able to make it to the other side before the end of the night, but... the pace was hurting, and it worried him. Almost to the thought, he felt his shoulder twinge in sympathy; and rather than the familiar, dull ache, the pain felt new. He’d been out of the game, and it was annoying him that it showed.

Glancing back to say, he glanced again, and blinked, thunderstruck to see nothing but the empty forest behind him. He could have sworn, but he settled for a short, cynical sigh.

It wasn’t the first time she had fallen behind; he was far too used to traveling alone. I’m sorry, he’d have to say... and he supposed he still owed Banon an apology, too. No change, there.

Following his own path, he found the girl standing very much alone, reaching uncertainly to brace herself against a tree. She startled, pulling away when he tapped at her shoulder; hugging herself, she mouthed words he couldn’t decipher, and kept glancing down and aside. He knew by now that she got antsy around dusk, and he had left her to it alone, however inadvertently.

Apology it is, he winced, until he noticed the thing she was so intently interested in. Imperial, by the looks of her... blistered, mangled... and very much dead.

Damn. He wasn’t sure what kind of monster could have done that, but unless they happened to run into it, he was going to count the happenstance as a blessing. They didn’t need imperials, he didn’t like imperials – present company excluded – and the absolute last thing on his list of things they needed was a reconnaissance patrol.

"Come on," he herded the girl away from the corpse, and led her in the direction where he thought was the river. They couldn’t leave the forest tonight, and that much was obvious. In the morning, he would have to do some scouting of his own...

"Halt!"

Damn! He’d lost himself again; on the spur of that particular moment, Locke decided that he was better off not worrying at all, given that everything he was worrying about seemed to be coming true in rather swift succession.

Three Imperials, and the dead fourth made for the average out-party. Two Narshe millitiamen – Neutral. Right. – flanked the officer opposite the enlistees, their tactless rifles cradled at ready. The officer stared, first at him, then at the girl... He almost seemed surprised to see her – he recognized her, surely – and snapped, gesturing to his men

"You must leave the woman with us."

Oh, it could have been that easy – he could have let them have her, trailed them, and taken them down later, and likely before the dawn broke. Certainly before they regrouped with whatever patrol they belonged to. And then they could have been on their way, none the worse for wear.

But, glimpsing her huddled at his arm, he knew that it wasn’t that easy. Even had it been anyone else.... Even if she knew beforehand, she was terrified. Most importantly she didn’t want to – not that he blamed her – and she was staring at him in that heartrending way as if he would let them have her, promise or no.

Which he had to prove wrong. Naturally. He pried her fingers from his arm, leaving her where she stood, and closed the distance to parlay, staring up at the imperial pointman.

"Hey," he greeted, forcing the friendliest smile he could manage. "I think you’ve made a mistake. How about you go badger some other poor mark?"

"No mistake," the officer said, "Leave, but leave her here."

"Oh, come on, I’m sure there are countless women in Vector that would be far more impressed by things like rank and shiny buttons. Look at her," he stepped aside, as if the man couldn’t see over his shoulder, "She isn’t of a mind to go anywhere."

"You don’t know what you’re dealing with." It sounded like a warning, which it most certainly was. But, then, Locke couldn’t be bothered to care.

"You are scaring her," he spoke slowly and deliberately, so that the man would be sure to understand. Anything further, such as, yes, I am insulting your intelligence, was strictly a perk. "Go away."

"Just who do you think you are?" His discipline cracked, and his entourage shifted uncomfortably, murmuring betwixt themselves. If it weren’t for the circumstance, this might have been fun.

"Does Daesuun mean anything to you?" he asked, casual. There was a glimmer of recognition, there, but it was faint, if not his imagination. Glancing across the other men, he found only blank expressions. Whatever, it wasn’t like it mattered here and now anyway, Live and let die. "No? How about, Returner?"

The two grunts scrambled back, drawing their swords, and he bit back a grin. The commander scowled deeply at his men’s reactions, or possibly at the revelation. The gunmen... he didn’t care much about them; the one on his right froze up, and the one on his left, well... Edgar had shown him an old musket once, and it didn’t intimidate him in the least. He waited for one – or all – of the lot to make the first move, and was almost disappointed when the commander growled at him.

"Then you’re both coming with us." The man grabbed at his arm; in retaliation, he lashed out, slashing at his assailant’s face. Leaping back, he watched the officer crumple, and only realized in afterthought that he had effectively blinded him.

Locke could have laughed; now he could hear the forest quiet for miles around, he could hear the girl speaking softly behind him, and he was acutely aware of the sound of blood rushing through his ears. Maybe it would be that easy, after all.

"Some free advice: you’re going to need a brain if you want to enslave the worl-"

Perhaps he had errantly worried, but regardless he was cut short, and pained, again, as one of the soldiers burst into flames. He didn’t have time to wonder; the shrewd Narshean leveled his rifle, and Locke lunged forward to catch it. It reverberated in his hand, and the sound was deafening so close, but he managed to cut the man’s hand away, and hurled the accursed thing out of reach. Two left... and it could have been worthwhile to simply escape; he glanced back to see the girl had dropped to the ground, and his mind leapt to the worst possible scenario.

That changed the rules, entirely.

The final imperial took his opportune chance, much to Locke’s chagrin. He wanted away, now, but the man was insistent, and for the moment it was enough to simply not be skewered. Grappling in the dark could have advantages, but he was thankful enough when he managed to gut the weasel on his own sword. Scrambling away, he gathered up his ward and stopped. Adjusting her weight in his arms, he eyed the hesitant shadow he deduced to be the last Narshean.

"If you’re going to shoot me," he pointed out, "You should’ve done it by now."

Stalking past, he didn’t bother looking back. The carnage disappeared into the darkened forest behind them, and he worried – there was no getting far enough away and tending their wounds, it was going to be one or the other.

Finding the river easily enough, he followed it upstream to the ridge, hiding in the open, protected by the tiny, would-be waterfall. Setting her aside, he mentally kicked himself as she instantly curled up as soon as he got her to stop clinging.

"Try not to move," he insisted, setting to the task of digging a firepit. It was an agonizingly slow process for such a meager fire, but there was no giving up. Not ever.

His arms were covered in blood – he hoped it wasn’t his, hurting as he was, but he preferred that to it being hers. She struggled to sit up, throwing him into a panic.

"Hey!" he urged, a bit louder than he intended. "I said ‘don’t move,’ let me-"

She held out the nasty little chunk of metal, and he stumbled and swallowed hard. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he had thought...? No, she had been hurt, but... she.... He wasn’t satisfied, even after he’d checked her over; it didn’t make much sense. But letting it rest, he checked the fire, came back, and retreated again to examine the extent of his own injuries. She followed, sitting quietly beside him. He busied himself, although the worst of it seemed to be his hand, and he could feel slick down the back of his wrist. It probably wouldn’t cost him, in the long run – he still had all his fingers – but it meant being more cautious in avoiding their pursuit. And Figaro was still a hop over the grasslands and a skip over the desert, and bloody hell.

Hesitant, careful, the girl took his hand, examining the matted mesh of torn leather and flesh. It was the first time she reached out – along the way, she hadn’t asked many questions, and if he wanted conversation he had to start one himself, and often wound up finishing it as well. If he weren’t here now because of her, he would have found it easy to forget that she existed. Figuring she would satisfy her curiosity and withdraw, he didn’t move, not wanting to scare her off.

Barely touching, she traced gently along his hand, and where she did felt strange – fuzzy and detached – and the pain receded. She glanced to him, and glanced away, but emboldened, now... her hands wandered, seeking out smaller hurts and discomforts. The sensation was odd, warm somehow; but beyond the cool of the forest night, and the burning of her fingers, it was something of a spiritual warmth, conjuring distant memories of home... of old words and soft songs. Simply, it was astonishing, but he remembered having seen its like before – certain beasts were biomechanically re...fabricated, or whatever other impressive term the Figaroan scholars liked to hit him with when he wasn’t paying attention. And if that were what the Empire was now breeding into their soldiers, it would make a kind of sense...

He hissed, suddenly, surprised. Instead of soothing, it hurt, worse than he remembered. Startled, stunned, she drew back and hid within herself again.

"It’s okay," he smiled weakly, attempting to reassure her, "It’s old, I don’t think you can..."

It hit him then – the foxfire, at most – it hit him that he knew her. If even for a moment. And he could barely stop staring, even when it made her uncomfortable; instead, he turned his back to the fire. He tried to think about staying here, and how it wasn’t safe, but he knew now that they wouldn’t be safe until they made Figaro. Maybe not even then, given.... He hoped for the best. Bouncing from thought to thought, he fought to evade the awkward recollection.

"Who were they?"

"Doesn’t matter," or, as the truth was, he preferred not to dwell on it too much.

"I didn’t mean to hurt them."

Peeling off his ruined glove was more difficult than he imagined, and, biting down, he tasted copper. With the leather between his tongue and his teeth, and seeking a distraction for them both, he managed an impressive string of near-comprehensive syllables. She watched him, confused and worried, until he had to let go and tried again. "So. What’s your name?"

"Terra," she said softly, "I don’t remember-"

"Yeah, you said."

Thinking back over the weeks... there were times she could almost be sweet, when she forgot to be mouse-anxious. It kinda hurt that he couldn’t up and say, I know you....