At last, the night placed its peaceful blanket of darkness over Aqabah.

The cries of the Turks which had filled the hot air all day long were drowned out by the waves, cooling and cleansing the blood of both Arab rebels and enemy troops from the streets.

Lawrence rode to the edge of the water, longing for a moment of peace. The Arab revolt had achieved their objective - taking Aqabah from the Turks. There had been more violence and loss of good men than he had hoped, but what was done was done. It was time to celebrate.

The night once again struck him with its intoxicating beauty. A beauty no place but Arabia could claim its own. When Lawrence had spent his first night in the desert, he had fallen in love with it. Nowhere else were the stars as clear and bright, the sky as deep blue and mysterious and the moon more luminous - like the most precious jewel.

All that loveliness was almost enough to blot out the stains of blood marring the young Englishman's white Harith robes. Almost. He rubbed at his sleeve ineffectually, but the stains were not so easy to banish.

Then, like a gift from the heavens, a bundle of flowers woven together soared past Lawrence. It landed on the water and enticingly swayed back and forth before his eyes. He turned to determine the origin of the flowers.

Sherif Ali sat on his camel, regal and imposing as ever, smiling at him. "The miracle is accomplished. Garlands for the Conqueror!" he declared.

"Ah..." Lawrence said, bemused. But he couldn't help being swept up in Ali's enthusiasm. Dismounting from his camel, he set off after the flowers, chasing them through the rapidly moving waters of the Gulf of Aqaba.

Ali laughed. "Tribute for the Prince. Flowers for the Man."

Lawrence looked up at his friend, holding the flowers clutched against his chest. "I'm none of those things, Ali."

"What then?"

"Don't know." Lawrence suddenly found himself suffused by a wave of gratitude and friendship. "Thanks," he said, from his heart. And trying to put his feelings into words that would suffice, he exclaimed, "My god, I love this country!"

Ali climbed down from his camel to join his friend. The warm waters played around their bare ankles.

"And the Arabs love you, El Lawrence!" Ali declared, a smile still playing around his lips; it was a sincere smile, not one of mockery.

Lawrence returned it, moved. It was true, he had finally gained the trust and unquestioning devotion of his Arab troops, of both the Harith and the Howeitat tribes. And it felt good to be admired like this. To be loved.

Ali opened his mouth, as if he was going to add something to his statement, but he changed his mind. He began to walk, leading his camel through the shallow water along the beach. Lawrence followed.

They kept walking in silence for several minutes. It felt good to just listen to the sea and breathe the moist air, free of desert dust and the stench of death.

When Ali finally spoke, Lawrence felt as if being woken from a dream. "I have underestimated you, my friend."

Lawrence smiled. "You were wise to be cautious. After all, I might have been wrong."

"So you do not consider yourself perfect, then?" Ali laughed.

"No, by no means. To think that I was perfect would mean that I am in fact insane. And I truly hope that I am not, Ali."

The Arab stopped and turned to look at his companion. "You are not, El Lawrence. I would tell you if it were otherwise."

They laughed.

"I don't doubt that you would." Lawrence held the flowers to his face and took a deep breath. "Do you suppose Prince Feisal thinks me a madman?"

Ali considered this for a moment. "No. I think he had more faith in you than I did. He is a wise and brilliant man."

"Yes, he is indeed." Lawrence thought about his first encounter with the Prince and how well they had understood each other. After all, Feisal had entrusted him with 50 of his men, against impossible odds. He would have to remember this and make very sure never to betray that trust. The safety of the Arabs was his concern now. Even more so because they had such a high opinion of him.

"What are you thinking, Lawrence?" Ali said in his customary directness.

The Englishman smiled. "I was just thinking about Feisal and how well his men have fought. As have you, Ali."

The Arab turned away and cast his eyes into the distance. "I am sorry that I doubted you."

"Ali, you had every right. I don't want you to concern yourself with that."

"I know you hated me when we first met, Lawrence. Do you think you will ever think of me as your friend?" Ali asked with uncharacteristic hesitancy.

Lawrence stepped closer and placed his hands firmly on the Arab's shoulders, looking him straight in the eyes - fiery, almost liquid dark eyes. "What do you think, Ali?" he said softly, his gaze holding that of his companion in open sincerity.

"I think, maybe... yes." Ali smiled.

Laughing, Lawrence pulled him against his chest in a firm embrace. "Yes, Ali. Yes," he murmured against the side of his face as his hands smoothed over the straight back of the man he had come to admire - for his courage, his honesty and his ability to admit when he has made a mistake.

Ali took a deep breath, almost as if he was inhaling Lawrence's scent. "I am sorry. About your friend, the Hasimi."

Lawrence took Ali's face in his hands and looked at him. His intense eyes, more blue and beautiful than the sea in the moonlight, looked deep into Ali's soul - the soul of a good man.

When he had shot Lawrence's guide by the Harith well he had merely done what life in this land demanded. In the desert, water could be more precious than a life. And Tafas had aimed at the Harith first. There had been little choice and Lawrence understood that now. It wasn't barbarism but the need for self-preservation. As beautiful as Arabia was, it was also a hard, demanding land and its people had to be equally so.

Despite all that, Ali's regret touched Lawrence deeply. It confirmed that the seemingly cold and harsh Arab had a deep respect for life and knew very well right from wrong.

"Thank you, my friend." Lawrence briefly touched his fingertips to his friend's cheek before pressing his lips against Ali's, overwhelmed by affection.

Ali's arms closed around the Englishman's narrow back. This beautiful creature sent by the heavens to challenge Allah himself for his title felt so fragile to him, so thin. And yet he had proven himself to be as resilient and strong as if he had been born in the desert. Such willpower and determination filled the Arab with awe.

For only one more breath, Ali feared the wrath of his god for the blasphemy of comparing a mere mortal to him. Then, all thought fled from the Arab's mind.

The brotherly, chaste kiss had become more. It had swept them up like the breeze coming in from the sea, carrying them to a far-away place on a magic carpet.

The winds of Aqabah, the sounds of victorious Arab warriors and the scent of the sea mixed with the unique flowers and spices of Arabia enclosed the two men.

Ali yielded to Lawrence's embrace so willingly. His hands lifted the white head dress back over his mass of golden curls. He had been longing to touch that silky hair - so different from his own.

Lawrence was so different in many ways. Yet, they were so very much alike in all the ways that mattered. Even in those neither of them would want to admit.

The gentle touch of Ali's fingers against his scalp made Lawrence shiver. He had expected anything but such tenderness from Ali. Aggressiveness - yes. Passion - certainly. But not this...

Yet in those long days in the Nefud, he had thought about it. There had been so much time to think and dream and he had thought about Ali. About how he would love and what his touch would feel like.

Ali didn't remember much about the Nefud desert. It was as if he only had memories since after Lawrence had returned with Gasim. Foolish as this rescue had been, it had melted the Arab's cold heart. A man with such compassion deserved the utmost worship and devotion.

And devoted to him he had become, from the moment he had seen him riding out of that inferno with the half-dead Gasim clutching onto him. Lawrence had been in desperate need of water and sleep, yet he was still defiant and obstinate enough to refuse both drink and blankets offered to him by the men. He had only accepted Ali's water and Ali's bed.

And now, Ali hoped it may have meant more than that. More than the need to have him admit that Lawrence had been right to go back. Maybe more than even friendship.

When their lips finally parted, Lawrence whispered, "Ali..."

"Yes."

"When you said before that the Arabs love me, did you include yourself?"

Ali smiled but his smile was hidden against Lawrence's face. "I am very much an Arab, El Lawrence."