She snaps into consciousness and total, disorienting darkness. Instinctively, she reaches for her rifle, fighting off panic when her fingers encounter nothing. Even her sidearm is missing. Her armor is gone, too; and, she discovers as she runs her hands experimentally over her body, so are her injuries.

She's been in such crushing pain for so long she's startled by the lack of it. She can't remember what it felt like not to hurt.

Her limbs are feather-light without the weight of her armor. She can move her broken toes again. Her nose, smashed by a rifle butt, is intact. Her battered ribs don't ache, the rainbow of bruises no longer tender.

Her eyes are adjusting to the dark. It isn't black anymore; the light is dim, but it's there, and if she squints she can make out the outline of her hands. The bloodstains are gone.

Every instinct she has is screaming for her to go. Get up. Get moving. Find a weapon, find out where the hell you are. You have work to do.

Faint streaks of pink and gold paint the sky.

Footsteps crunch behind her and she turns toward them, nerves jumping. A low voice echoes in her ears, a voice she'd never thought to hear again.

Siha.

The urgency drains away. She knows what this is. Her body seems suddenly too heavy, unable to support itself.

Her mouth is dry. "Did we do it?" she whispers, voice cracked.

Yes.

"Are they safe?"

Yes.

Her smile is rusty. Mostly, she's relieved she hasn't forgotten how. There's no energy left to move. Once, she'd have felt trapped. Now, she's calm. Serene.

Maybe this is what peace feels like.

Strong arms wrap around her and she relaxes into them. It's achingly familiar, warm lips on her skin, breath ruffling her hair.

Beyond the horizon, the sun is rising.