Author's Note:

OK, I decided to have a bit of fun and fluffand some cheese after all; it's really the end! And before you read the second part of this, no, I've not suffered from concussion. I did choose that name and that book title deliberately.

Thank you, all who have reviewed, all who have read - and those who insisted on faithfully reading the story when the updates took so long in coming.

Epilogue

He was home - even though he knew it was temporary; the Medjai were constantly moving in any case, looking in wonder at the woman at his side who now took unfailing care of him. She ensured that he had no medicinal needs unmet, no awkward lack overlooked. Ardeth Bay could now walk for short periods even though certain areas of his memory still failed him; it would be a while longer before he regained his initial martial prowess, yet it would surely come, he knew.

Healing, a beautiful state that he finally entered into. Yet there was something else

It now frustrated him, that Evy believed she needed to earn her a certain measure of forgiveness from him; it was as if she did not want to understand that he had already freely given it.

He told her guilelessly, all that he was greatly troubled by, laying on his pallet, looking in to her face as she knelt before him.

"No, itis not like this at all. Your comfort, your company, is something that I have learnt to treasure, Evelyn. I was angry at first, but now, I cannot blame anyone for all that has happened. Not you. The widest of hearts will make the best of men. You are free to go - there is nothing to repay. But if you stay, let it be because you feel you wish to."

Suddenly, acutely slain by his own passions, he drew her close, closing a hand around her neck, and placed his mouth upon hers in dazzling brevity, raining on her ivory skin in that infinitesimal moment an extravagant measure of stupefying grace and forgiveness.

That feeling that Evy thought was aflame in that now so distant time away with Severige was not desire as she had thought - perhaps a miniscule of what threatened to overflow and consume now - never had it overwhelmed in this sunburst, that rushing, noisy breath of passion that fanned out of control.

It seemed only of late that he only received from the cards that fate dealt him after paying a large price for it. And if she came with a price, he did not think that he could pay it now; the rawness of passion that emanated from him, the repressed energy that he contained inside and the unyielding power that was his masculinity would most definitely swallow her whole, and he could never fault her for that awe and distance that she might now want to place between them.

The masculinity that had a severity etched into his face compelled her to look up again, to take her fill of his visage, a pagan aquiline look of devastating virile strength and power.

Now, it mattered not to her, that Egypt still fought, and burned with each sunset; she did not care that he remembered only partially at times - it was the comfort of her presence that she wished him to perpetually have and the strange need for the well of strength that he had within him which she longed to plumb - it sustained her as no one could, now that they had reach an understanding of sorts.

The imperfections, the flaws of him - porcelain cracks on the surface that threatened to widen - she loved them all, revelling still in his lingering physical weakness, learning anew the story of forgiveness, redemption and of loss.

"I wish to stay, Ardeth."

She took the water skin to his lips, watching him with the same hunger with which he deeply drank of the life-giving liquid, dimly wondering if he had done the same for Lena Shirin, from which they took their last draught of water together. That signature scent of his, raw and sensual, emanated strongly to warm her skin, worming its way into her store of dark memories and the zygote of something mysterious and yet sinister, twisted unerringly to life.

The figures were disappearing too fast - perhaps they only waved blindly - perhaps they had lost sight of himbut he still saw themthe party that yelled their goodbyes fondly. Jonathan Carnahan craned his neck and leaned over, whipping off his hat and waving with renewed vigour in farewell, a mirror of the same impulsiveness of the sudden wind that lifted the end of men's coats and the hems of the ladies' skirts, signalling the turn into the deep Mediterranean.

Pulling irritably at the stiff cotton shirt that already clung to his back, he reminded himself that it was merely a matter of time when he stepped into the welcoming comfort of the Carnahan house, into the cooler, albeit smoggier air of London. Egypt was out of bounds, for a long time for him.

His sister would know how to take care of herself, at least he hoped to high heaven. And perhaps she would return home when she felt ready, or perhaps Ardeth Bay would see to her well-being.

There was no use thinking too ahead into the future; it was tiring and brought him nowhere. He resolved to turn his attention to the present, wanting to breathe the cool, spring air and the tangy flavour of the perpetual rainy skies, wanting to welcome its dampness and chill on his skin.

Ah...the wonders of England, its glorious, smoky pubs and perhaps the fairer sex that came with it would not be too -

And then he saw her, an astoundingly striking woman who stood with only her profile to him, drinking in her upturned face that greeted the bright sun, the opened book that was held firmly within her fingers and the muslin shawl that took flight when the wind stirred again.

She dropped her book in surprise, belatedly stretching in vain for the shawl that billowed, and disappeared into the glittering waters.

"I'm afraid I can't retrieve that but this...yes," he dropped on a knee gallantly and retrieved her book, looking up at her, raising a brow and winking. "There you go, madam. I am sorry to say that getting your shawl however, might be somewhat out of reach by this time."

English-accented, silvery-lilac tones tickled his ears as she laughed, tapping the cover of the book lightly. "A shawl can always be replaced. A book like this? Never. I daresay you've saved the more important asset."

"Indeed?" He must have sounded sceptical, for she laughed once more.

"Yes!" She exclaimed with twinkling eyes, and he was her captive.

"What book is that, if you pardon my forwardness?"

"My name is Rahiq. Rahiq Savita," she turned its cover over, and what he saw bowled him over.

"The Exiled and Its Unrest, Miss Savita?" He queried, puzzled and awed by her presumed intellect.

"That's what it says, doesn't it?" She replied archly, caressing its pages gently. "But thank you, Mr -?"

"Carnahan," He interjected easily. "But people call me Jonathan and I believe you might wish to do so as well by the time we disembark."

He held out his arm and she took it without hesitation.

It is only what we have inherited from our fathers that exists again in us, but all sorts of old dead ideas and all kinds of old dead beliefs and things of that kind. They are not actually alive in us; but they are dormant, all the same, and we can never be rid of them.
-Henrik Ibsen, Ghosts

-Fini-