But preparation, and a little luck, turns out to be on their side. At least for the moment. In the heat, and with the careful paths they have to take to avoid slipping along the dunes or into pit traps, the walk takes just over two hours. Hera's careful to measure out the sips of water she takes from her canteen, but the heat alone doesn't bother her much, even as the suns climb higher, and the sky turns from pale to deep blue.
It's the way the air feels dusty, even when there's no wind. Hera has to stop herself from drinking when she's not really thirsty, but just wants to wash down what feels like a thin layer of sand prickling her throat. And there's the sunlight itself, bright in their eyes and reflecting off the desert landscape, until it feels as though there's nowhere to look, even when her hood shades her eyes.
But they slip into any pits, aren't waylaid by Tuskens or bandits. Hera doesn't speak much, as she doesn't want to open her mouth for too long, and so for most of the hours they walk, there's just the sound of their footsteps shifting through the sand.
That is until there's the whine of speeders, call of banthas and dewbacks, and the woosh of ships above them, as they creep closer to the city. The shadows of Mos Elrey's gates slink along the sand toward them, the short mudbrick towers no longer black but baked brown, with flags and empty clotheslines cluttering among their sculpted windows.
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There's not much more they can do.
But preparation, and a little luck, turns out to be on their side. At least for the moment. In the heat, and with the careful paths they have to take to avoid slipping along the dunes or into pit traps, the walk takes just over two hours. Hera's careful to measure out the sips of water she takes from her canteen, but the heat alone doesn't bother her much, even as the suns climb higher, and the sky turns from pale to deep blue.
It's the way the air feels dusty, even when there's no wind. Hera has to stop herself from drinking when she's not really thirsty, but just wants to wash down what feels like a thin layer of sand prickling her throat. And there's the sunlight itself, bright in their eyes and reflecting off the desert landscape, until it feels as though there's nowhere to look, even when her hood shades her eyes.
But they slip into any pits, aren't waylaid by Tuskens or bandits. Hera doesn't speak much, as she doesn't want to open her mouth for too long, and so for most of the hours they walk, there's just the sound of their footsteps shifting through the sand.
That is until there's the whine of speeders, call of banthas and dewbacks, and the woosh of ships above them, as they creep closer to the city. The shadows of Mos Elrey's gates slink along the sand toward them, the short mudbrick towers no longer black but baked brown, with flags and empty clotheslines cluttering among their sculpted windows.