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As a Medjai, Ardeth knew many things not obvious to a commoner's eye. As the leader, he knew even more, and the knowledge could on some days be a burden of the most wearisome kind.
The battle of Ahm Shere was one of those days. They had won, but—as always—at a cost; he knew without a head count how many men had been there with him at sunrise, and how many had not lived to see the sunset after. He had no doubt that each one of them would stand before the court of Osiris with a light heart, but his own one was made heavier with every life lost. There was no getting used to it.
He knew each one of the souls in his care, in any of the twelve tribes. They were all parts of the constellation, part of the light that kept their world warm and safe like they were rows upon rows of candles, some burning with a steady fire, some empty of light and life now that the flame had flickered out into the darkness of the night eternal.
And among them, there was one that—
Evelyn had never taken up a sword to fight as his side among the black-clad crowd, but she was just as important to the cause as any of them, and maybe even more so, fighting like none other in the immeasurable and invaluable battle to stop Imhotep. Because without her, the success would have still been achieved—Ardeth had no doubt of it—but the price could have been so much more cruel.
That, but not only that, was the reason that his blood had turned to ice when he had seen that particular light go out, the flame snatched away by a merciless hand with no one to stop it. Just because he knew that life was full of mortifying surprises, didn't always help him face the like of them.
However, the surprise was bigger yet when mere hours later the flame came alive again—an occurrence unheard-of since the legendary times when his gods had been the sovereign rulers of this land.
And so at night, when the world was once again safe and calm, he lit a small lamp in his tent to pray, not for himself.
At least so was the intention. Yet instead of the formulae that had been taught to him, instead of all the actual prayers he had recited so many times in his life, addressing himself to the gods and giving gratitude and asking questions, his mind refused to lift up any higher than a 'dirigible' could fly. It strived not towards heaven but towards her, wherever she was, and soon his inner eye could see her as if he was standing on the unsteady deck next to her, wrapping his arms around her in a hug—safe, calm and warm, and much needed.
Of course he wasn't the only one to do so. She had a family that he wasn't part of, two men and a boy who wouldn't hesitate to protect her against dangers physical and spiritual, who would soothe the wounds and bruises of her body and her soul. That was the way of things; he wasn't about to challenge it. All he wanted was to reach out and let his soul touch hers.
Because never since the legendary times had there been anyone who would have to live with the knowledge that they had died and had been brought back. And one's soul could only bear so much.
This will pass, sister, he thought or maybe said quietly, his lips moving just so in his meditation. Storms travel over the desert and bury oases under heavy sands, breaking the trees and ripping away the flowers. And then new trees grow and new grasses blossom, and the waters find new ways through. You have survived a storm, by nothing other than a miracle, and miracles are sometimes no easier to bear than horrors; worry not if you do feel like a survivor. Wounds take time to heal. Water takes time to break through the sands, and trees take their time to grow again. Take your time with what your soul needs, and may the winds be gentle overhead and the sands firm underfoot while you do.
So that both protect your joy when your soul once again feels like dancing.