His steps are even in the sand. Smooth, in the way only a man of the desert can master. You knew he was making his presence known on purpose, could tell by the occasional shuffling of his boots as he shoves aside sand. If he really wanted, he could remain undetected until it was already too late. Until there was a crysknife at your throat, held by his unwavering fist. Blue eyes meet yours when you turn your head. They look calm, now. Steady, locked on your face as he approaches. You've seen how they ignite in the presence of Paul, though. How they burn with the light of a fanatic, a believer, until the flame burns and consumes him whole. Until all he does is see prophecy and significance in every action of Paul, no matter how insignificant.

He's a devoted leader to his people, even now as he becomes more and more entrenched in a prophecy he desperately needs to be true. Patient, reasonable. Receptive, even when their ideas battle those he believes in. It's a trait he hasn't lost, most likely never would.

He stops beside you, sits at your side without being asked. Or invited. His eyes seem troubled, bearded jaw not quite set and thick prows pinched in thought. About his teachings for Paul, no doubt. It was what he seemed most occupied with these days. He'd hardly spend time with you anymore. Days by each other's side were quickly replaced with a few glimpses here and there, a warm body sliding in bed beside you when you're already on the brink of falling asleep.

He opens his mouth, as if to speak. Closes it again when he can't seem to come up with the right words. His stillsuit is dirty, grains of sand caught in the fabric of his head covering as he pushes it aside. "I have been looking for you." His voice finally breaks the silence, eyes set forward as he speaks.