Okay, so this is technically a songfic, but it's much more story-orientated than it could be... Give it a chance? The song in question is 'Caravan', sung by Ella Fitzgerald (Like a true fangirl, desert = Gaara, however shamefully)

'Night, and stars above that shine so bright...'

The inky blue blanket of the sky hugged the world as pinholes of light blinked wearily into the darkness. Somehow the night seemed blacker here. It was colder, too.

I came away from the window to bundle myself up in a blanket. The gentle movement of my room attempted to lull me to sleep, but I clung stubbornly to my consciousness. My family's caravan was trundling slowly through the expanse of blank desert that was the Wind Country; we hadn't seen civilisation in days and I was getting pangs for the noise and bustle of crowds, market places and people. I was beginning to tire of sand too, and images kept pushing themselves behind my tired eyes; lush green forests, the mountains of the Fire Country. I missed the meditative calm of the Country of Tea, and the cool streams of the Waterfall country. In short, anything but this. Even the frozen wastelands of the Snow country, or the endless blue of an ocean voyage had more attraction to me.

Here, when I attempt to sleep surrounded by sand, it stifles me, I choke on sand in my sleep and wake up screaming.

I pulled myself back to the window.

My room is the second half of my parents' vehicle, the third caravan in this train of seven. We are a merchant family, travelling to wherever the trade winds blow us. I have three older brothers, each with his own family now, each with his own caravan, and my uncle owns the other vehicles. As the only unmarried girl among us, at an age where it matters, I am very fiercely guarded. In some respects, the desert is almost my only salvation; here, I am not expected hide my face with a well-placed fan, and I don't have to ignore the boys, because there are none to ignore. Somehow I prefer to know that they're there, even so.

'… the myst'ry of their fading light...'

The constellations are clear in this desert. The sky is always peppered with light. I suppose, as a traveller, the stars should be a map to me. But they're not. I guess I just like how they twinkle. Stars look the same no matter where I am. Sure, they might have moved around in the sky, even disappeared, reappeared, but they'll still always wink and smile to me, even here, even surrounded by sand.

'… that shines above our caravan...'

The place was silent, completely still. No insects, nothing. I wondered why. Only the rumble of our wheels echoed into the night, and I hardly counted that as a sound any more. Our caravan is decorated gaudily, inside and out, but the colours seemed to twist and remake themselves beneath the light of the moon outside, and for once they faded into the background. If it wasn't the desert,if it were anywhere but here, I would feel the darkness mesh with my own dark eyes and hair, and some sort of belonging stem from that. But this was the expanse of sand, and no kind of comfort was going to appear. At least the moon was light enough to see by. On the blackest nights, not even the stars can console me, and in the desert I lie with my eyes wide open for hours, in the pitch-darkness.

Suddenly I heard a shout that ripped through my room and my mind like a ninja's knife, and a wave of movement followed it along the caravan as those who had been driving the horses that pull our homes ground everything to a halt and jumped down, their loud footfalls shaking off the last of my drowsiness. I leaned out of my window to see my father rush to a pair of silhouetted figures, catching one who fell like a dead weight into his arms. The other man helped to support his unconscious companion and talked hurriedly, as my father nodded along. After only a few moments, they began to drag the man between them towards our caravan, with a flock of other men surrounding them. I tried to make sense of the snatches of conversation caught on the air, but rough hands pulled me back into my room, and my mother thrust a dress into my arms,

"Put this on and prepare a mat for the man. I'll boil some water."

I dressed as she shuffled around speaking, folding towels to be soaked.

"What's happening, Ma? Who are they?"

She didn't answer for a moment, so I repeated the question. Then she straightened and drew an arm across her perspiring forehead,

"The Kazekage of the Hidden Village, and his brother. Now hurry, child!" She scolded, and spun around, rushing back into her room for something as I set to work creating a bed for the man, racking my brains for information on him. The Kazekage of Sunakagure. He had been a junchuuriki, that much I knew, and now the demon was gone, although gossip and hearsay had twisted the story so much that I couldn't know what had really happened. I had heard on the wind that he was a ruthless monster, but the girls who I had spoken to in the last city practically melted at the sound of his name. He's young, they said, devastatingly handsome. I guess girls are into the whole steal-your-soul thing these days.

I felt the vibrations of heavy footsteps in my parents' room and then the door opened to reveal my father and a man in war paint and blood, panting heavily. Between them they carried a boy barely older than me, with a mess of red hair and slashes ripping through his clothes and tearing at his body, still dripping blood. They heaved him onto my freshly-prepared bed and stood, catching their breaths. My father's eyes met mine and I stood up demurely, hands folded across each other. The other man also looked at me for a second, in a brief acknowledgement, then turned to my father,

"There's still a lot more to discuss. Is there a place we can speak in private?"

My father nodded and gestured to me,

"My daughter will take care of your brother. We can talk next door. Marianne, this is the Kazekage. Give him your best medical care possible." He commanded, and I nodded slowly, my eyes flickering between the three faces.

"Thanks, kid." The Kazekage's brother said with an easier drawl and I bowed to him. Then they closed the door and I was left alone with the boy Kazekage.

For a second I just stared at his perfectly carved features. Muscles rippled through his exposed chest as he breathed, painfully, and a frown creased his porcelain features. I saw the tatoo the other girls had sighed over, 'Ai', love, strange... Then I noticed his blood beginning to drip to the floor and in a flash I set to work.

As I cleaned the cuts across his torso, I considered with one eye the open gourd his brother had left in the room. I knew this too, the Kazekage's sand, infused with the blood of his demon's victims. I shuddered and wrung a scarlet-soaked towel into a bowl.

I ripped his shirt to reach the rest of his wounds, my merchant's mind cringing as I wrote off the expensive silk fabric. Slowly, as I worked, I watched the creases of pain etched into the Kazekage's face subside, until they left a completely blank expression in their place. Having used the limited medical-jutsu knowledge that I had obtained on my travels, I dressed the wounds left over and spread a hot towel over his head and tattoo. His condition was no longer critical and I sat back to catch a breath.

I saw him take a sudden sharp gulp of air and then he let out a gasp of pain, his body convulsing. In a flash I was beside him, switching the towel over and murmuring soothingly, checking his dressings, and drawing out a little more energy to heal a little further. His pain seemed to ease again and I carefully pulled his head onto my lap, stroking his hair and trying not to shudder as the thought entered my mind that the blood on my hands might not actually be his.

'… Sleep upon my shoulder as we creep across the sand...'

Hushed voices travelled through the wall as my father and uncle talked with this boy's brother. I caught that there had been an ambush, that the Kazekage was tired already, that he had held back, left the assassins alive, if just barely. His brother seemed surprised as he recounted it.

My legs began to feel slightly numb, but I couldn't bare to move. Even his sleeping face was filled with a constant background of pain, I had begun to notice; even when his features seemed blank, you could see it was there. Maybe it wasn't even physical, but something deeper. I stroked his soft hair and then leant across to pull out a new towel. When I looked back down, his eyes were open, unblinking, a transparent blue that pulled me in until I felt that I was falling.

I opened my mouth to speak, but suddenly sand wrapped around my throat and threw me back, chaining my arms and legs to the floor. Seconds passed. He stared at me wide-eyed, as I met his surprised gaze. The the sand released me, all at once, and I fell to the floor, tears in my eyes, choking. The door behind me flew open, and the men rushed in.

"Marianne!" My father exclaimed, just as the Kazekage's brother gasped,

"Gaara!"

I picked my self up and dusted myself off, beginning to get a grip on myself, as my father glanced between me and the red-head. I looked swiftly at him and noticed the scarlet blooms appearing from beneath his bandages.

"You started bleeding again! Sit down!" I commanded unthinkingly, and to my surprise he complied, easing himself back onto the mat.

"... Is everything ok?" The painted man asked and I nodded without meeting his eyes,

"The Kazekage just woke up, is all. He was disorientated." I carefully picked my way across the floor the the Kazekage and bent down, replacing one of the bandages criss-crossing his chest with barely shaking hands. My father clicked his tongue, and turned back to the brother,

"So, we will give you transport to Suna, if that is acceptable to you." He said slowly, and the Kazekage's brother began to reply as they shut the door again, not before he had smiled to his brother, and not without my father giving me one last scrutinising glance.

I said nothing, and neither did the Kazekage, while I finished replacing the bandages that had become soaked because he had moved. My mind stupidly began to replay the feeling of the sand twisting itself around my neck and before I knew it, a cool tear had detached itself from my eye. His hand flew up and caught my wrist tightly, pulling me closer so that I had no choice but to look him in the eye.

"Do you fear me?" He asked in a strained voice that sent shivers down my spine. I shook my head slowly, my eyes never leaving his, and he scowled. Silently, I prayed both never to see that angry scowl again and for it to never leave my sight. He looked so much more human with that expression.

"I- I," I stuttered out of fear, but pressed on, "It's not- not you, it's the sand. I've always had dreams – nightmares- about the sand-" I looked down, but he forcefully pulled my chin back up and stared searchingly into my eyes for an eternity. Then he let go of my wrist and I stumbled up to my feet. Breathing in deeply, I pulled another warm towel out for him,

"You should probably lie down and try to rest. It's the only way for your wounds to heal." I advised, trying not to let my voice crack. A few seconds later, I heard the creak of the mat as he lay down.

"Did you... treat these wounds?" He asked hesitantly. I turned around and put the towel carefully on his head, nodding when I met his eyes for a brief moment. "Thank you." He murmured, and closed his eyes again.

'… so I may keep this memr'y of our caravan.'