The knight floats.

All around her, there is splashing, sputtering, laughter. So she smiles. She floats in the center of them all, still tied together to her. She made it through. She made it up. She didn't lose anyone. (Well. She didn't lose anyone who was hers to lose. The Praetor made her own choice.)

Slowly, she smiles. It's not a beautiful smile, particularly. It's big, goofy, toothy. Her ankles bob up and down in the water as she kicks, not enough to propel her along, just enough to join in the splashing. She is warm for the first time in her life, the warmth of a cat, the warmth of not needing to move at all. Is this what she was always chasing, down behind? The throb of warmth in her aching muscles, the comfortable ache, the "you can take a nap" ache? The sun beats cheerfully down on her, and the heat is congealing inside of her body, and all she can find the strength to do is to squeeze the hand, still in hers, and then let her Mosaic go.

She made it. To be fair, she doesn't [i]particularly[/i] know where "it" is, or the fine details of why it's so important that she's made it, beyond the warmth that flowed through her like a brushfire. Beyond the need for life itself. Beyond the laughter, the splashing, the crying with relief.

The knight floats, and doesn't even notice when she falls asleep, held by the sun-kissed sea in the gentlest embrace that can be imagined.