The sun impaled itself upon the jagged horizon.

The man in crimson at his feet was still alive. The weight had slowed down his pace, but he prepared well for long journeys. His sandsailer slid to a halt atop one of the dunes. If he was not careful, the winds would bury him forever throughout the impending night – entire cities had been devoured by the sands.

When he was confident that the desert would not become his tomb, he untied himself. With deft motions he took down the sail. He secured the cloth to the craft, as he had done the night before, to create a low tent of sorts.

He returned to check upon his newfound nuisance. The soldier's breaths had slowed down, but appeared steady. As he plucked loose the bindings that secured him to the sailer, the man's eyes opened. Apparently he had been asleep, or perhaps he finally woke from unconsciousness. Either way, he was not sure if he could call his current state an improvement.

The man's gaze was glassy, drifting as if constantly lured to the back of his sockets. Soft, miserable moans escaped him. The one cheek that had not been burnt was a blotched, bright pink hue from fever.

He lifted the man's garb, and began to undo the bandages. A sticky mixture of honey and yellow pus greeted him. Although he had a strong stomach, he still pressed his fist to his veiled mouth. Not wanting his gloves to stain more than they already had, he took them off. 

His own skin was even paler than the soldier's, as he always kept his body covered from the sun – and hidden from curious eyes in town. Using a bit of water, he cleared the worst mess from the man's stomach. With firm squeezes he tried to get as much of the pus out. The man moaned loudly. A stream of yellowish liquid dripped from the wound.

With a deep sigh he let go, and unsheathed his khinjar. He sat down on one of the skids of the sandsailer, tapping the side of his hand with the flat end of the blade. Is your wound clearing itself out… or am I prolonging your death?

It would be quick. A clean end – if he did it. He wouldn't falter in the act, he was certain of that. But he was not certain whether the man stood no chance at all. He looked at him; the unfocussed eyes, the pained groans, the feverish heat that radiated off of him; none of it bode well.

One more night.

The knife silently slid back into its sheath, as if never drawn. He put his arms underneath the man's armpits and sat him down against the sailer. Like before he cleaned and dressed the wound, keeping him still and silent by force.

This time however, he fed the man sips of water. Despite the fever the soldier still recognised the cool liquid. Sandhailer paced the sips, using his thumbs to trickle it in at a slow rate. He'd done so a few times during the day, as much as he disliked wasting water. The man kept drinking – a good sign, as far as he was aware.

The blue sapphires along the rim of the waterskin had dulled somewhat when he pulled away. He frowned at the sight, knowing that his magic provided plenty for him on his own, but not endlessly so. He took several sips himself regardless, as risking dehydration was worse.

Now the man had drank the water, he took up the jar of honey. With a small eating spoon, he dripped some of the honey into the man's mouth. It was difficult, and time consuming to get him to swallow the honey, but he hoped that having some sort of food would help heal the wound. He ate whatever was stuck to the spoon himself in-between. The rations he had scavenged made the rest of his meal.

As time went on, the temperature dropped significantly. The moment the sun's fury ceased, the desert ran cold. Stars, and a waxing moon rose in the sky. He whispered a soft prayer – little more than a plea for guidance to those silent watchers, in the old tongue of the tribes. A language forgotten and dismissed by kingdoms and empires. He did not believe, but the words soothed him.

He glanced at the man resting limply against the wood of the sailer. His heavy breaths had begun to billow out in the frigid air. Before he pulled him into the makeshift tent, he laid down a wet cloth, hoping to use it in the morning to cool the fever. If he lived.

The space below the sail was small, only meant for him alone. A rug atop the sands kept the worst of the cold out, and his cloak and layers of clothes would suffice. The soft sands shifted to accommodate him.

But this night it was not just him and the desert. He was no stranger to sharing his sailer for a journey, whether for travel or transport, but never for long stretches, and certainly not in these circumstances.

He laid the soldier on his back, and made sure his cloak covered him. For what it was worth, he would not be cold, and he could tune out the whimpering and groaning.

A sliver of pale dawn slid past the tarp. He stirred, turning to crawl out of the shelter and prepare for another day of travel. A hand weakly grasped his shoulder. Whispered words rose up from behind him.

"Why did you save me?"

"Because I am not like your kind." He answered, never bothering to turn around

"That's why you shouldn't have saved me…"

He didn't answer.

The soldier remained quiet for a while, but anticipation kept him there.

"What's your name?" The voice was dull – fading.

"Sandhailer." He stated.

"That is no name." Despite the weakness, he managed to sound incredulous.

"Speak for yourself, swordeater." He scoffed.

A soft chuckle rose up.

"Swordeater, I like that." The man's words drifted away, and his hand went slack. "Thank you, Sandhailer..."

He did not respond. With a swift push he moved the sail aside and left to prepare.