It was an ugly wound, raised red and angry against the prince’s pale skin. The unmistakeable X of one branded a pirate by the king’s police force. His own son. There was a certain irony in it, Das was sure. He couldn’t get it out of his mind, though, and that irritated him some. On a good day, he liked to think he’d grown used to the more unpleasant aspects of the job. He hadn’t been flying as long as the captain, or even Grip if it came to that, but he’d definitely seen his fair share of things that kept him awake at night.

Never had he wasted time tossing and turning over a silly, spoilt brat before. If Éten – if the prince – was too stupid to look after himself, then that was his own problem. Then Das turned so violently that he rolled himself out of bed, and with a stream of curses, gave into fate. If he wasn’t going to be sleeping, then the cross-dressing, life-ruining spawn of the Thieveshammer sure as hell wouldn’t be either.

The prince was still sitting up when Das entered his quarters without knocking; he sat at the tiny desk in the corner of his room, doing something with a pen in irritatingly fluid movements. He didn’t deserve to look anything like serene, Das thought, and closed the door behind him as loudly as he dared. Éten flinched visibly at the sudden sound, but made no motion to cover his face, or pull over a nearby dress for cover. Of course, there was little point in that now. His arm - Das noticed despite his vested interest in continuing not to - rested woodenly against the desk, as though he were afraid to move it too much.

"We’re going to be leaving early,” Das said, when it became evident that Éten was not going to speak first. “Not sure where we’re headed yet, but the captain’ll think of something. He always does."

Slowly, the pen ceased its movement. "Are you going to kill me?"

"What, right this moment?"

The prince’s thin shoulders tensed under his plain cotton shirt. He hadn’t bothered changing from that afternoon.

"I could, you know," Das went on, anger making him careless. "No one would care. At least, no one on this ship, and anyone who does care is probably coming to kill us very shortly anyways, so."  He paused to take a calming breath. "Let me see your wrist."

"What?"

It was still difficult getting used to Éten’s voice, lower and less sure of itself than it had been when Das had thought he was a princess. He wondered a little whether he had just come to yell at the other man, and if having done so, he would now be able to get to sleep. Somehow, Das doubted it. Things in his life were never that easy.

If he was going to be here, though, it seemed rude for the prince not even to be looking at him. Das crossed the room noiselessly and held out a hand. Sharply, as though startled, Éten twitched his arm in close against his chest. He didn’t sound as though he’d been crying, though there were clean tracks running through the grime rubbed into the prince’s perfect complexion. More likely his eyes had been watering from the pain, Das thought, and he sat on the edge of the desk. A slight frown crossed the prince’s face, and he felt a small sense of selfish gladness. Perhaps he’d smudged out an entire city-state.

"Here," said Das, in the tone Grip had used to corral wild camels in the desert once. Slow. Coaxing. "It’s going to blister if you just leave it like that."

Quick brown eyes found his, and for the second time that day, Das wondered how he’d ever mistaken Éten for a girl. "Is it going to scar?"

"Yes," Das nodded slowly. He had to remind himself that the prince had probably seen very little state punishments carried out.

A flicker of something heavy and sad passed across Éten’s face, plain so that for a moment that Das almost felt guilty for having hit him. Almost. Then the expression passed, and he acquiescently held out his wrist.

Das grimaced before he could help himself. Up close it looked even worse than it had in his memory, a sharp and permanent mark across skin practically untouched by the light of day. He himself was reluctant to touch the prince, he noticed with some surprise. As though Éten were a white page that could somehow be marred with smudgy fingerprints.

The prince looked at him curiously, though there was a resigned air about him still. Perhaps he was not entirely convinced that Das hadn’t come there to kill him. Good, he thought, seizing the moment and Éten’s wrist at once. It would keep the haughty comments to a minimum. The prince emitted a soft hissing sound, like a kettle in the city teahouses. It took Das a moment to realise that it was his breathing, shallowly, in and out.

"God," he said, cautiously loosening his grip. 'You’re not going to cry are you?"

"It hurts." Éten shot back through clenched teeth.

"I’m aware." Das turned his wrist over with careful fingers. There was no doctor aboard the ship, and it was unlikely they’d be able to go strolling into another city right at the moment. He thought for a moment.  "Stay here."

Without waiting for a response, and although it was probably a redundant command in the first place, Das left the prince’s quarters. He walked back to his own, as quickly as he could trust himself in the dark, not wanting to bang into anything and wake up a crew that would have questions.

It was a moment’s work to find leftover linen strips he’d cut up as bandages, and the comfrey and aloe salve Grip’s wife had made him for sun- and wind-burns. It was going to be pretty weak tea against the brand seared into the prince’s wrist, but it might at least allow him to get to sleep.

Heading back, Das realised he wasn’t even sure whether that sleep he craved was for himself, anymore.

When he re-entered the room, Éten hadn’t moved but the desk had been cleared of its various maps and curling bits of parchment. In their place was an enormous cushion upon which his dark head lay pillowed and still. Das looked around for another chair. Seeing none, he crossed the room and knelt next to the prince on his stool.

"I can do this just as easily with you in bed, you know."

Éten’s eyes snapped open with surprising alertness, though it took a minute for them to focus. Once properly awake, he reached his arm over to Das without coercion.

"It’s all right, I’m not tired."

"Hm," said Das, not agreeing or disagreeing but taking the prince’s small pale hand in his. He unscrewed the lid of the salve pot, and examined the wound once more with distaste. "All right, this may – well, I’m not going to lie, this will hurt. But only while I’m doing it, and ultimately it’ll help."

Éten regarded him sleepily and seriously. After a moment he nodded. "All right."

With his free hand, Das scooped out a liberal amount of the green and gooey mixture. He tightened his hold on Éten’s hand marginally, to keep him from having a change of heart midaction, and then slowly covered the glaring X.  The prince’s face tightened in pain, and he made a noise like something small and squeaky being stepped on, but he did not try to pull away. Using a care he normally reserved for dismantling the merchants’ shrapnel traps, Das smoothed a thumb down the lines of the burn. He paused where they met in the middle.

"Do you have one?" Éten asked. His eyes were open again, and on Das’s face.

"No," Das obliged, knowing the conversation was probably a welcome distraction from the pain. He moved his hand awkwardly up to hold the base of Éten’s wrist so that he could bandage it. "No, I was never stupid enough to get caught."

Éten exhaled in a short burst that could have been a laugh.

"You’ll just have to get used to long sleeves," Das nodded, wrapping the strips of cloth with decent surety. "Know where to show it off, assuming we survive that long. Immensely dashing. Women will love it."

"Will they," Éten said. His mouth twisted up a little at the corner, but he didn’t cry out again.

"You doubt my word?" Das fussed with the knot for a moment, and then finished with a satisfied smile. It was late. Later than he'd ventured to stay up in a long while, at least. From far off, the distant howl of wind creaked against the ship, mingling in the empty silence with the prince's quiet breathing.

"You are a pirate," Éten pointed out, eyelids already drooping once more.

"Technically," Das tapped the back of his bandaged wrist with one finger, “so are you."