It was only at the next sunset, that Sandhailer stopped.

Swordeater,- Prince Aintisar, had half-nodded off against the centre mast. He made sure to keep him on the sailer, firmly placing one leg behind the man’s back while he steered through the dunes. Every pull made him groan from the pain in his shoulder, but he was determined to escape. Until at long last he believed they had gone so far that nobody would ever be able to find them.

He shook the prince's shoulder, waking him up. The man startled for a moment, but then smiled as he saw it was him.

"We should get some rest." Sandhailer said, clinging to his shoulder. "Your Majesty, I guess?" He added, not sure how to deal with any of this.

"Don't call me that." Swordeater shook his head, and pushed himself up to help him sit down. "He died in the desert, and I’d rather not have anything to do with him anymore"

"I probably would kill him anyway." He joked with a grimace, although he was certain he would have.

"But not me…" Swordeater said with a hopeful smile. The exhaustion clearly caught up with him, but he still dug through the supplies.

"Not you." Sandhailer confirmed, as he began to strip his shoulder. He was met with a sickening reddish-purple colour spreading from popped veins underneath his pale skin. It made the distinct shape of half a hoof.

"You should have." The softly spoken words caught him off guard, and he glanced back to see Swordeater stare down at the sands.

"Maybe." He answered, brutally honest. "But then I wouldn't have a friend."

"It would have been a lot less trouble though." Swordeater said as he set out the supplies and salves.

"I live in the desert." He shot back. "I can handle a dead prince and a hurt shoulder."

Swordeater burst into genuine laughter – fatigued; worried, but true.

“Luckily not a dead Sandhailer,- but I think it is broken. One of my sisters had this happen once after she fell…” Swordeater ran his thumb along his collarbone. He groaned and pulled away from the white-hot pain. “You shouldn’t move it.”

“I have to sail.” He grunted, knowing they wouldn’t go anywhere otherwise.

“You can teach me.” Swordeater replied, as he began to cut a strip of cloth to fasten around his arm like a sling. He bit down on his lip just so he wouldn’t respond with anger.

“That takes a long time.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Swordeater looked up at him, the mahogany eyes filled with determination and confidence. He sighed, and realised there was no way around it.

Pleased with himself, Swordeater tied a knot in the fabric and then stood up.

“You should rest.” The man – the no-longer-prince, went and began to undo the sail so they had somewhere to sleep for the night. The last slivers of bright red sunlight extinguished. Cold soon followed.

"I'm sorry about what happened in the city." The voice in the dark caught him off guard. He shifted and glanced sideways at Swordeater.

"Don't be." He responded, as there was nothing he had done to cause this.

There was a faint headshake, and Swordeater rolled over onto his back as well. He looked at him. Even in the pitch black it appeared serious.

"I had wanted to ask my father to set you free." The man said softly. The idea stirred something in his chest, but then he shook his head.

"Your father doesn't get to set me free. I already am."

"Yes… that makes sense." Swordeater sighed, and nodded. "But then you need a name."

"A name?"

"I like Salim." – Safety.

On instinct he wanted to deny it, to push back and say he didn't need anyone else to give him his own name. And that was true. But he did like this one.

"Salim?" He repeated, smiling slightly as it felt good to say.

"Yes, I think it fits. But I didn't think about it much." Swordeater confessed, his voice trailing off towards sleep.

"It's okay." He conceded, which was practically the same as accepting. But he did want to return the favour. All it took was a glance at Swordeater, for a word to pop in his head.

"Izea." – nuisance.

A sudden, deep laugh escaped Swordeater.

"Nuisance? " He asked incredulously, but Sandhailer nodded.

"Izea." If he had to call him anything, then that would do.

"I love it…" Izea said softly, whilst glancing sideways at him. He glanced back, even if he wasn't sure why he was so compelled to. "Thank you Salim."

He nodded. For a moment there was quiet between them, even when their eyes spoke. He didn't know what they said, he'd never been good at talking.

A hand reached for his face, slowly and cautiously. He could stop it, but he didn't. Fingertips gently pried loose his mask, and although he felt the urge to hide and close himself off, the caress of Izea's thumb put him at ease.

He knew why he hadn't been able to kill him. Why he had put in so much effort and gone such distances for him. Perhaps he did long for a friend, for any sort of connection, and maybe he could pretend for the rest of his life that he wasn't actually deviant. And he trusted that Izea would let him say no, if he chose to.

That was why he let him kiss him.

The nights in the desert were cold,

so he wrapped his cloak around both of them.