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It has been three days now since they left Raraku, but Hedge’s voice continues to haunt Fiddler. Fiddler’s been listless, he knows, ever since they left that godsforsaken desert. The squad is getting worried, exchanging glances and whispers just outside his sight and hearing. If he wasn’t so sure they still felt damned grateful for Ranal’s end, he’d be worried about getting a knife in the back one of these nights. He stares into the crackling fire in front of him, the light casting ochre shadows onto the hands and faces of those who surround it; that Hood-damned colour haunts him, haunts everyone around him. It followed him out of the desert the first time, and it’s followed him a second, now, too. There’s no escaping Raraku and its ghosts. Fiddler knows that better than anyone, especially now.