Some mistakes, are not forgiven by the gods.

The words came to Djari again as water rushed into her mouth, her lungs. Only this time, there was no witness, no hand to hold her through it, no promise that any pain or suffering would be shared. This time, her sworn sword had stood there and watched the river drag her forward. This time, the last thing she saw was his back as he turned toward the cliff, to walk away.

And it was all right. Everyone left her behind at some point. Her mother, her father, her horses. Nazir would too––she knew he'd been given that vision of death that would precede hers. It meant she would survive long after, and that she would have to do it alone.

Then he came into her life and had said what he said, had given her a promise that she wouldn't have to.

Have I, she thought as she struggled to surface, to breathe, been clinging to him for someone to hold? Someone who wouldn't leave me behind?

The rapid wrapped around her as if to confirm that thought, pulling her under once more. It was a mistake to have gone to Al-Sana, just as it was a mistake to have left camp for Hasheem that day. There were consequences for every mistake, and this was to be her punishment for her thoughtlessness, just like that night. It was all right. She would survive this too, only this time she would have to do it alone.

She thought of the prince then, and tried to remember his instructions on how to kick her legs, to swing her arms. The effort brought her to the surface, gave her only enough time to take half a breath before the rapid pulled her down and forward. It flung her against a rock, knocked the air out of her lungs, and in rushed the water that would make it her last fight against the current. From the corner of her eye she saw another boulder to hold on to, thought of kicking her way toward it, but none of her limbs responded. And then she realized it must have been what her mind conjured. It was too dark to see anything under that black water. She must be drowning, and hope was making her see things that weren't there.

Somewhere in the receding light of her vision, as the water dragged her away, hope also gave her a vision of the prince swimming toward her, to get her to safety. It came with a memory of him that night, when he was lying next to her in the cavern, and made her an offer she felt the need to decline.

'I'm not your Sparrow,' he had said, 'and I may never come close to giving you the comfort you need, Djari. But my shoulder is free, and it would flatter me if you were to use it to ease your pain.'

She wondered then, before that memory, too, faded, if anything would have turned out differently had she made a different decision, if her sworn sword wasn't the only one she had to hold.

***

By the time Lasura managed to get them both to shore, she was no longer breathing. He raided his mind for a certain lesson Deo had taught him, something from an old text they found in some healer's tomb. He remembered having to press down on the chest repeatedly...but where exactly? How quickly? How many times? Why did you not pay attention? Why couldn't you try a little harder, or care a little more?

No time for that now. He scrambled up into position, followed every instruction he could recall, praying to every god and monsters who might answer. The rain kept on pouring as if to say, 'stop, it doesn't matter.' The cold numbed his fingers, made it harder for him to feel the heat or the heartbeat. Breathe, Djari. Breathe. Make a sound. Give me something.

If he'd said those things out loud, he wasn't sure. There was a pressure behind his ribs that made it difficult to concentrate, a fist around his heart that tightened as he pressed repeatedly down on her chest. And it grew in size, in weight, it squeezed harder the longer she lay on the ground, unmoving. It didn't feel like saving someone. It felt like running with a noose around your neck, like racing with time, like trying to save himself from being eaten alive while his worst fear tried to catch up with him.

And it hurt. It hurt like his mother's fist, like the disappointment in her eyes, like hearing the cries of someone you knew you couldn't save, like chewing on every decision he hadn't made, every path he hadn't taken, every word left unspoken, and realizing too late that time could never be turned back when you ran out of it.

He curled his hands into fists, beating them down on her chest when the pain became unbearable, yelling something incomprehensible his mind didn't catch or register. Djari's body jerked off the ground at that moment, went into a series of coughing spasm to empty the water in stomach, and suddenly all the pressure in his chest vanished, leaving him with a void he wasn't prepared to deal with.

His body felt light, drained completely of energy to move from the spot. Somewhere in the middle of it he'd scooted back and away from her, his back pressed against a boulder as he slumped on it. He realized he was panting, gasping for air at the same speed she was, as if he'd been the one who drowned and was being given his first chance to breathe, to come back to life.

Then it hit him all at once, it barged in late and uninvited. The back of his throat closed up as new waves of pressure filled his chest, pushing and pushing against his ribcage, banging for a way out.

And it burst. It rushed out of him in the form of tears that mixed badly with the cold, unforgiving rain. It broke something so long-held, so well-hidden he hadn't known existed or had forgotten it did somewhere, some time, in his life.

Does it feel like this, Lasura wondered, when babies take their first breath? When they cry the first time? Had he ever felt so alive, so clear-minded on what he wanted, who he wanted to be, and where he wanted to go as he did now? He realized then, that for the first time in his life his choices had been simple and easy to make, that all it took for him to let go of the slab, to let himself fall from the cliff, to take control and shape his own destiny with his own hands, was to allow himself to love something, to care for someone, if he could not come to love his own existence.

It was love, wasn't it, Father? The love of your land, of your vision for it, of a future you wish to change, that made you fight the bear and every battle in your life?

The revelation held him to the ground trembling as he stared at Djari, unable to move or say a word. He ought to get up and help her. He couldn't. It wasn't easy, or simple, to accept the sudden discovery of something that gave his life direction, especially when that something was so strictly forbidden and out of reach.

Djari rolled on her side, still coughing, trying to get the last gulp of water out of her chest. She turned to him when she could breathe freely again, and for a moment, after the initial surprise on her face faded, she looked like she was going to cry.

But Djari was Djari, and he was not––that much had always been clear––the man on whose shoulder she would allow herself to cry.

It didn't last long, that moment of vulnerability. Djari turned away and pushed herself off the ground without a word. She tucked away the wet strands of her hair, wiped the ice-cold water from her face, and straightened her torn clothes to cover her bruised skin. "We have to find somewhere dry," she said. He could see the thick, white smoke of her breaths from where he was sitting, could hear her voice trembling from the cold. Then she went looking for shelter, arms wrapped tight around her body as she stepped from rock to rock on wobbling legs and strained ankle. The rapid must have flung her against something, somewhere. She was bleeding too, from the side of her head. She didn't seem aware of it.

Women, Lasura thought in disbelief, in admiration, in awe, can be so indestructible, so resilient, so strong when she decides to be.

***

They found a small cave not so far from where they came out of the river. Djari built a small fire from the dung cake and flint Saya had made him carry in a sealed leather pouch. There weren't many plants they could use as fuel in the part of desert they were heading, Saya had said, and they must always carry some kind of back up fuel. He didn't think there would be the day when he was thankful for being made to carry shit, but life often humbles you by forcing you to carry shit and making you feel thankful for it that way.

He was also grateful that the leather and wool cloak he'd put away for the climb wasn't soaking wet. Out of court manner, upbringing, and gentlemanly conduct he was certain wouldn't measure up to the pile of dung they were being saved by, he'd offered it to Djari, who, of course, insisted that they shared it while they waited for their clothes to dry. She had no use for him dead, she'd said, not to mention it was still her duty to keep him alive. He complied. It made sense to comply.

And so she'd stripped down to the last layer of her garments for survival, and demanded that he did the same down to his breeches. He obeyed said instruction (he did want to survive), and then they sat shivering shoulder to shoulder by the fire, covered by the one cloak not nearly big enough for two.

It was a set up to take advantage of, to be sure. A golden moment of intimacy every romance writer would throw at young lovers given the slightest opportunity, only this was no romance novel for miserable, sex-deprived, lonely humans in search of a perfect love interest equipped with undying abilities to read minds when the plot calls for it. This was Fate knocking you out with a fist, and with the nearest possible love interest being, well, Djari, the closest thing to intimacy you were going to get was the one in a thriller novel just before said love interest hacked you to pieces and ate you for dinner, mind-reading capabilities not needed.

That, and he was too fucking cold. Too cold to even feel the heat from the fire, and was in no condition anytime in the foreseeable future to get his cock up for anything except to take a piss (and even that required an effort). Staying out in the desert at night felt like an attempt at suicide even when you hadn't decided to take a swim in an icy river to save a damsel in distress. He'd never been able to stand it even in Rasharwi. His chamber in the Tower had two fires going in winter and enough blankets to hide a few corpses successfully for two weeks.

Which was why, despite their proximity and the opportunity it offered, he was too out of his elements, too distracted by the cold and how hard he was shivering to notice the strange atmosphere that might have settled upon Djari before she brought up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. He turned to look, and saw her staring into the fire, but didn't seem to see at anything that lay in front of her.

"Do you think," she asked after some time, "that he's still in there, somewhere?"

It took him a moment to realize who she was referring to––his head was too heavy, too disoriented to grasp anything quickly. But, with Djari, once you really put your mind to it, you'd know everything was about the Sparrow. It was always about the Sparrow. Even here, now, huddled together with someone who'd nearly killed himself to save her. "What do I think?" He snorted. "I think it's going to take a lot more to get rid of that prick."

It was half a jest, half the need to dump his own frustration. He'd expected her to scowl, to chastise him for it, to chuckle, maybe, if she had already gotten used to his charming mouth. She did none of those things. She sat, in silence, arms still wrapped tightly around her knees, to keep something out, or to hold something in, he wasn't sure. Perhaps she was simply cold.

"I thought so too," she said. She looked like she wanted to smile at the jest, but the smile never came.

The fire crackled, threw up a few sparks that hovered in the air. Djari stared at them until they disappeared, her face that of someone trying to chase the light she knew was never meant to last for long.

He rubbed both his hands on his arms, trying to hold down the shivers, along with something else he couldn't focus enough to name. There were too many distractions––the cold air in the cave, the fire trying to fight it, the warmth of her skin he was beginning to feel, the unnerving stillness of Djari...

The vulnerability of two people who failed miserably to be what they wished they were: him, a support too weak to do its job, her, a rock made of something fragile and brittle.

"He wasn't there, was he?" Lasura heard himself say. "When he watched you fall?"

It must have hit a nerve. Djari heaved in a breath, a long one that sounded like it had to go through an obstacle. Her whole body tightened, became something so stiff, so rigid, you could almost see the cracks forming as it shook in restraint.

It must have hurt like hell, Lasura thought, especially if you knew how much she trusted her sworn sword. He could still recall the image of her in the Sparrow's arms––how violently she had cried, how obvious it was that it had been a while since she'd allowed herself to.

How obvious it was, that she needed to cry now, and had been needing to, for some time.

He reached out to touch her on the shoulder, something he'd wanted to do back then, in the Prayer Room of Eli, before the Sparrow took her into his arms.

Djari stiffened at the touch, drew another forceful breath and brought that trembling down as she exhaled. She blinked a few times, then shook her head like he had just shaken her awake and told her to pack up her shit. No tears. No more vulnerability left out in the open. Those cracks, too, had been sealed shut, and smoothed out to make sure no trace of it could be seen.

It would have been different, wouldn't it, Lasura thought, an untimely anger rising in his chest, had he been here instead of me? He knew then, knew without needing it proven, that there would be no tears falling tonight no matter what he did. His was the wrong shoulder, the wrong arms.

But there was, he also thought, something he could still do, something perhaps only he could do, given who he was to her.

"You have no idea," he said, surprised at his own ability to keep it together at this point, "how much I wanted him dead on that cliff, how many times I wished it when you were lying there, when you didn't breathe no matter what I did. It felt like dying. Like I was about to lose something that held me together...something that made me whole."

She turned to him then, a different light in her eyes now, a distraction from pain, for a time.

"When you started moving again...it felt like..." He searched his memory for better words, for something prettier or less sappy than the ones he had in mind, and couldn't find them. "...like it was me who had drowned...and you were the one who had saved me."

He reached for her hands, wasn't thinking straight or at all when he brought them to his lips. She stirred a little at the contact but didn't try to stop him. They were so hard and cold, he realized as he blew on them. He wondered if they'd always been that way. His mother, too, had cold hands.

"Twice now, you've saved my life." That much was true, and something she might not have realized. "If you ever need a hand, a sword...or a distraction from whatever you're going through ..." A distraction was good. Good enough, for him, for them both. "...ask, and know that you need not give me something in return. I will not demand it. I owe you that much. That is a promise, Djari."

It would have to be enough. There was no point in asking for what she could not give. There was, however, a point to being where he wanted to be, in doing what he wanted to do, whether or not it gave him the ending he wished for. You couldn't ask life to always give you want you want, but you could take what is given, and call it a blessing no matter how trivial, how small.

Silence hovered lightly between them, flickering in and out like sparks from the dying fire. She seemed to be thinking about something on her own, drifting in thoughts he wasn't allowed to be a part of. It was all right. He would have to get used to being kept behind a door. He imagined most people would have to with Djari.

It felt warmer now under the cloak they shared. There was heat from her body, on his skin, from her hands. He was glad she hadn't pulled away. It gave him comfort to have something to hold, enough to make him want to close his eyes and drift off to sleep.

"I don't want another promise, another oath," she said before he slipped out of consciousness. He opened his eyes again, and on her face, among the damages and injuries caused by that man, was a faint image of resolution seeking a place to stay.

'Another promise, another oath,' she'd said. A bitterness there, seeping between the words like the unpleasant aftertaste of something she'd swallowed by mistake. He should have been glad to hear it, somehow, he wasn't.

"I will accept all those things from you, if and when you are willing, not as a debt to be paid." A familiar firmness drifting in her voice now, a sound he'd gotten used to and had come to like. "You saved me from the river tonight. There is only one debt left between us to be paid. How do I pay you in return?"

Fucking Bharavis, the thought came to him again, only this time, with a measure of relief. Indecision didn't suit her, and he realized lately that he liked her better that way. There was also no point to fighting Djari even when he had the energy to try. But he might have been able to find a more respectable answer than the first one that popped into mind had he not been so tired and cold. He chuckled at the stupidity and the bad timing of the jest, tossed it out in any case just so he could go back to sleep. "A kiss would be nice."

"A kiss," she said inquisitively, seemed to be turning the word in her mind like an object she'd never seen before, "to call it even?"

The moment fluttered around them like a lost butterfly looking for a place to land, wrapped around them like a breeze, bringing with it the scent of a new discovery, of dawn. It clouded his mind, made him forget bad memories and their consequences for a moment, convinced him that everything was going to be all right.

"To call it even," he said and leaned over to kiss her.

He didn't remember that kiss. He remembered that she was so warm, or he was, or they were, and that he found himself falling, collapsing into that comfort like a man drunk past the point of not knowing when and where he landed. Some time during the night, when the fire had died down and the cold returned, he had a dream of his mother cradling him in her arms, running her hand through his hair, and realized he wasn't so cold anymore. 

***

A/N: I'm on a roll this month, and back to being able to produce a chapter in a week (or so). I hope this will stay. Thanks again for being on this journey with me still.