It turned out that she had the strength left to cry after all.

She curled up beside him like she had so many times before. She wiped her tears on her sand-stained sleeve. She nestled herself against the crook of his shoulder and took hold of his hand again, taking comfort in the warmth of his skin, the roughness of his knuckles, the familiar softness of his palms. In a voice hoarse from all she’d been through, she sang to him. She sang the lullaby she’d sung to him that night when the pain had consumed him, when there had been no hope left inside either of them. She sang him the lullaby she’d sung on the night when they had made their own hope.

Eventually, her voice began to fade. Her eyes began to close, exhaustion claiming her.

When she felt him move, she thought she was dreaming.

Then his hand curled tight around her own.

She shot upright. Heart in her throat, she looked down at his face. His eyes were unfocused, pained by the light. Blinking hard, he slowly began to focus.

“Mehr,” he rasped. “Mehr.”

“Amun.” She clasped his hand tighter in return. She was trembling. “I’m here.”

“Mehr. The Maha. Can’t—feel. Him.”

“I know, Amun.” Now that she was looking at him in the clear light of day, she could see that the scars of his vows had lost their color, had faded to thin white traceries on his skin. Their master was gone, and the power of the vows scarred onto his skin had gone with him.

“The Maha …”

“He’s gone,” Mehr said, her heart so full, so very full. “He’s dead, Amun. We’re free.”

There would be time enough to tell him everything later. For now it was enough to see the smile that dawned on his face and the light that grew in his eyes. For now it was enough to have his hand reach up to touch her tangled hair and feel his mouth against hers, the vow between them humming with life, golden and strong.

They rested and ate first. Then, much later, Mehr told Amun all she could. Amun listened silently, asking no questions until Mehr’s voice faded, until she shook her head and told him that she had explained everything she knew.

“The daiva protect you now?” he asked. “They won’t allow anyone to harm you?”

“I made no vows to them,” Mehr said. “But they made vows to me, and I think they’ve decided to keep them, bargain or no bargain.”

Amun looked unbearably relieved.

“You could go home,” he told her. “You could see your family. Your sister.”