My Dan-yel.

Those two words had always brought him from any dream into the startling reality of her face.

He loved her for that, that she laid claim to him so naturally, so possessively.

In a society where she was essentially passed as property from her father to her husband she was strong, fearless, commanding.

God, he loved her.

Even when she caught him cooking and teased him.

Even when she pulled him away from the hieroglyphs. She would look and tell him, "Rest, my Dan-yel," in a tone that he dared not argue with.

He was her Dan-yel. Always.